by Laura Alden
“Who’s the jealous husband?” I asked.
“Who? You ask who?” She sounded like an owl. “How would I know? That’s for the police to figure out.”
I was getting a headache. “Marina, you can’t honestly expect me to go to the police with—”
“Oopy,” she said. “Hear those children screeching? Got to go play referee. See ya!”
In a very adult manner I stuck my tongue out at the phone. I’d see Marina soon enough, and in very certain terms I’d tell her there was no way on God’s green earth that I’d take her harebrained theory to the police. I could just see the pitying look on Gus’s face. “Did Marina put you up to this?” he’d ask.
No. I would not do it.
“You’ll do it.” Marina pushed a stack of cellophane bags across her kitchen table. “This is what investigating is all about. Pushing at things that don’t want to be pushed, pulling at things that won’t be pulled.”
“Why am I always the one who’s getting pulled and pushed?” From the piles in front of me, I chose six Tootsie Rolls, two sets of stickers, a small sack of candy corn, and a miniature plastic turkey wrapped in clear plastic, then, frowning, put it all into one of the bags. The whole concept of goody bags irritated me. “Tell me again why we’re giving candy and cheap gifts to kids who already eat too much sugar and have too many toys?”
“Ours not to reason why, my dear,” Marina said sadly. “It is the will of the PTA’s dance committee. We are mere minions to do their bidding.”
“How can you be a minion if you’re part of the committee?”
“Alas, I am only one vote.”
True enough, but how had the whole goody bag thing gotten started? I hadn’t received them when I was a kid, so when—
“You’re thinking again.” Marina tossed a Tootsie Roll at me. “Keep it up and those frown lines will become permanent fixtures. Then where will you be?”
“Same place I am now, only with frown lines on my face.”
“And Evan won’t be too pleased about that, now will he?”
She sounded a little snippy, which was completely un-Marina-like. I looked at her.
“What?”
Still snippy. “Are you feeling okay?” She did look a little flushed. Maybe she was coming down with something.
“I feel fine,” she said. “What, can’t I make a joke about Evan without you getting all defensive?”
She swallowed and I saw her throat bobble a little. Scratchy throat, for sure. Now came the tricky part: how to take care of Marina without her knowing I was taking care of her.
I stood up. “Do you still have that box of chamomile tea? A mug sounds good right now. And I was thinking, your theory about Sam being killed by a nutso jealous husband is a good one. Let’s make a list.” Not that I’d take it anywhere near the police station, but I’d find a way around that.
While I bustled about, doing tea-type things, Marina started naming the men who might be considered candidates. This included the husbands of every woman who had a child at Tarver, the husband of every woman who attended the Helmstetters’ church, the husband of every woman who shopped downtown, because Sam’s business was on the last block to the west, and the husband of every woman who shopped at the mall, because Sam often took the kids to the mall on rainy Saturday afternoons.
If Marina had run through the names alphabetically, she could have used the Rynwood phone book.
I placed two steaming mugs on the table and we both wrapped our hands around them, letting the warmth seep into our bones.
“Do you really think one of those men killed Sam?” I asked.
Marina put her face to the tea and breathed deep and long. “No. But we have to start somewhere.”
And, of course, she was right.
Chapter 10
The day of the Father-Daughter Dance dawned like a lot of days in November, overcast with a spatter of rain. This time every year I was reminded of the vacation conclusion I’d come to years ago: November was the month I’d love to travel.
“It’s raining,” Jenna said morosely. She was kneeling on the family room couch, her arms hanging long over the back, chin propped up by the tweedy brown upholstery. Raindrops trailed down and wind gusts buffeted the glass.
She heaved a huge sigh. Either she was spending too much time with Marina or she was about to enter the eye-rolling stage. Since I couldn’t do anything about either possibility, I opted for the next best thing. Distraction. “I saw a woman with green hair the other day.”
No response. She didn’t even turn around. I wasn’t sure she’d even heard me, because the next thing she said was as thorough a non sequitur as I’d ever heard.
“Do I have to go to the dance?”
I blinked. A week ago she’d wanted me to teach her how to waltz. Two days ago I’d come into my room and found her holding up one of my dresses, swishing the black chiffon around her legs and humming. She hadn’t noticed my approach, and I’d backed away with a smile of bittersweet happiness on my face.
Now I frowned at the back of her head. What didn’t I know about? Trouble at school? Had something happened between her and her father?
Thousands upon thousands of my synapses were firing simultaneously, but even so, it was going to take some time to come to a conclusion. Luckily, Oliver was up in his bedroom reading The Velveteen Rabbit to Spot, and after that he was scheduled for a sleepover with a friend, so there was mother-daughter time aplenty.
“Mom?” Jenna turned halfway around, and I saw her profile against the gray morning light. For an instant, I saw the woman she would become. Her little girl nose lengthened, her cheekbones grew gracefully, and her chin—repositioned through the clever use of orthodontic appliances—accented her full lips. The sight took my breath away, and for a moment I couldn’t speak.
“Mom?”
I shook myself out of the future. Which was too bad, because the future had been wonderful, and the here and now was a little troublesome. I still wasn’t sure why Jenna didn’t want to go to the dance, and guessing was always bad. Calm and cool, as if I didn’t care about her answer, I asked, “Why don’t you want to go?”
She sighed again, tipped her head back and forth, then flopped around and sat on the couch like a human being. “I don’t know.”
Which wasn’t the answer I’d hoped for, though it was the answer I expected. Now I needed to probe mildly enough to make her want to talk, but hard enough to get an honest answer. Every mother is a master negotiator. “Did you want to try on the dress one more time?”
Last week we’d trekked to the mall and bought a dress for the occasion. Jenna had, at first, resisted the idea with all her stubborn might, but she looked interested when the salesclerk brought out a simple royal blue dress, no lace, no bows, no Peter Pan collar. She tried it on, and once she’d seen herself in the mirror, twirling around in a circle, the full skirt billowing out about her, just like in the movies, she’d caved instantly.
“You look very pretty in that dress,” I said. “Your father will hardly recognize you.”
My tomboy smiled a little. “I like it. A lot.”
Cross dress off the list. Next item, please.
“Do you want to practice dancing? We could try that swing step again.” Once I’d convinced Jenna that dancing improved agility and coordination, she was easily persuaded to learn a few basic steps. She’d learned fast and I’d had to borrow a dance DVD from the library to keep up.
“Noo.” She slid a little lower. “I’m good.”
“Have you talked to your friends? Alexis and Bailey are both going tonight, aren’t they?”
“Yeah. They are.”
Hmm. Jenna’s concern couldn’t be . . . couldn’t possibly be . . . a boy, could it? She was barely eleven years old, for heaven’s sake! She’d talked about Blake Helmstetter, but not as if she like liked him, not my little Jenna, not my little girl who—
“I think maybe I’m getting sick.”
Of all the possibiliti
es, that was one I hadn’t considered. Bad mother. Jenna rarely got sick, but since Marina was coming down with a cold, the idea should have crossed my mind at least once.
I hurried to the couch and felt Jenna’s forehead. Normal. “Does your throat hurt?”
“No . . . it’s my stomach.”
She held her hand to her lower abdomen, and I had the sudden and horrifying thought that she might be entering the first phases of Becoming a Woman. In spite of the admonishments of Marina, my mother, my sisters, and every other female who’d raised girls, Jenna and I hadn’t yet had The Talk. Not completely, anyway. I’d told her that her body was going to change as she got older, that a baby was created when a man and a woman loved each other very much, and that a woman’s body was designed for carrying children.
That’s where the conversation either went vague or very technical. The morning after I told Jenna about how eggs travel down the fallopian tubes, her eyes went wide at the sight of two of them staring her in the face, sunnyside up. That had been a few months ago, and I wasn’t sure she’d recovered.
I sat down on the couch and pulled her close. She was much too big to fit into my lap, but we made it work. What did I care if her elbow jabbed into my solar plexus? I could breathe. Mostly.
“Shall I get the pink stuff?” I stroked her hair.
“It’s not that kind of stomachache.”
I kissed her cheek. “What kind of stomachache do you think it is?”
“Um . . .” She snuggled in closer. “The kind I sometimes get before a big game.”
Ah. The lightbulb went on. My Jenna was nervous, and it wasn’t about a hockey game. Wonders, indeed, never ceased. “But your game this afternoon isn’t a big one.” I knew full well that it wasn’t; I was using a common mom ploy. Pretend ignorance, and the kid will be compelled to enlighten you.
“Not real big,” Jenna said. “I mean you never know what’s going to happen, but this other team’s only won once this whole year.”
“Then why the funny tummy? You’re all caught up with your homework, right?”
“Almost.” She squirmed, and I smiled. Jenna was the worst liar on the planet, except for her mother. But while my ears turned red when fibbing, her skin went itchy all over. The bigger the lie, the itchier her skin.
“Don’t you have some math homework?”
“A little, but it’s easy.”
For her, it probably was. “How’s that social studies report going?” When I’d checked it on the computer last night it looked as if she was at the midpoint.
“Half done,” she said. “I’ll finish tomorrow.”
So why, then, the stomachache?
“Mom?”
“What, honey?”
Could she be worried about Evan? Though the pizza parlor incident had troubled me, Evan had laughed it off, saying she just needed time. I’d figured he was right, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I—
“Mom, are you and Mrs. Neff going to figure out who killed Mr. Helmstetter?”
Once upon a time I’d known with a ninety-five percent accuracy rate what was going on in my children’s heads, but the older they got, the more difficult it was becoming. With Oliver it was still above seventy percent, but Jenna? Fifty, if I was lucky.
I kissed her hairline. “What makes you ask?”
“Well, last year you figured out who killed Mrs. Mephisto, so I was just wondering, you know, if you were going to do it again.” Her question carried the casual tone of someone who was extremely interested in the answer.
I debated her question, trying to decide which path to take. The most attractive choice was the one of distraction. It wasn’t the best path, but that hadn’t ever stopped me before. For if I didn’t use distraction, what was left was the truth, and it wasn’t pretty.
Last year a killer had threatened my children. The only thing that had saved us was my unthinking animal instincts to get my children out of danger. How I’d managed that I still didn’t know, and I didn’t care to think about it too much. It had been my fault they’d come into danger in the first place, and my mother rarely let me forget the fact.
“It won’t happen like that again,” I promised Jenna.
“You mean you and Mrs. Neff aren’t finding the killer?”
She didn’t sound relieved; she sounded disappointed. I bobbled her ponytail around. “It sounds as if you want us to.”
“Well, yeah,” she said. As in, “Duh, Mom.”
“Shouldn’t we let the police do their job?” I asked.
“You’ll be faster,” she said seriously. “Real life isn’t like a TV show, where they solve everything in half an hour.”
I smothered a laugh in her hair. The wisdom of an eleven-year-old. “You’re right, sweetie. Life isn’t like television.”
“Police need the help of everyday citizens,” she said. “Chief Eiseley told us that when school started. He said we need to keep our eyes and ears open and to let a law enforcement officer know if you see something bad happen.”
Bless Gus. Could a town have a better police chief?
“So Oliver wanted to know,” Jenna went on, “if the bad guy was still around, and I told him you and Mrs. Neff were taking care of it. And you are, right?” She leaned back to look into my face. Her own was filled with hope and expectation and confidence.
There was no choice here, none at all.
“You bet your britches,” I said, and hugged her hard. “Mrs. Neff and I will take care of everything.”
“Cool!” She slid off my lap. “Can I try on the dress again? I want to show Oliver.”
Obviously, I’d worked a miracle cure on her stomachache. She ran upstairs, her feet barely touching the treads, flying up as if she weighed nothing at all.
With love in my heart and anxiety everywhere else, I watched her go. Marina and I would take care of everything, I’d told her. Don’t worry about a thing, I’d said.
I blew out a sigh and got to my feet. If I was going to be mom, PTA secretary, bookstore owner, and caped crusader, I’d better get busy.
Jenna and I stood side by side in the entrance to Tarver’s gym, both of us wide-eyed with astonishment. What had been an everyday, ordinary, run-of-the-mill elementary school gymnasium had been transformed overnight to a barn stuffed full of a summer’s harvest.
The metal joists overhead were wrapped with Styrofoam timbers. Brown canvas hung from fake timber to fake timber, mimicking a barn roof. On the stage, straw bales were stacked high to hide the slightly tattered curtain. Pumpkins, squash, and little teepees of corn were distributed all about, and tables made of barn wood held the punch bowl and cookies. It was a far cry from the brown and orange crepe and construction paper I’d been expecting.
“This is amazing.” I wondered if the money for the decorations had fallen from the sky, or if someone had won the lottery.
“It’s cool!” Jenna twirled, sending her dress out in a small circle. “I can’t wait until Dad sees.”
Since I was a volunteer minion for the dance committee, last week I’d told Richard I would bring Jenna to the school. “Not the most appropriate way for a man to pick up his date,” he’d said, and I was glad this man was the father of my children. The next thing he’d said reminded me of why we’d divorced. “But efficient. You’re learning, aren’t you?”
“There she is.” Jenna was waving at a girl in a pink dress that would have fit in nicely at a cocktail party. She was accompanied by a man who wore a pair of dress slacks, a dress shirt, and a hideously patterned tie. “That’s Bailey and her dad,” Jenna said. And she was off.
A year ago I’d almost worried myself to ulcers over Jenna and Bailey’s exclusionary friendship. I’d gently encouraged Jenna away from being best friends with Bailey, and had been relieved when she started calling Alexis again.
“What do you think?” Marina dug her elbow into my ribs. “Not bad for a bunch of amateurs, eh?”
“It’s gorgeous, but—” I stopped, not wanting to cast a stone into the
still pond.
Marina winked. “But how—and more to the point why—are we spending money to decorate a gym for an elementary school dance?”
“Exactly.”
She raised her right hand. “The committee members know nothing, I swear it. We got an unsigned letter in the mail with a list of conditions, if you can believe it. Change the name of the dance, put in all these decorations, spike the punch—you know.”
I stared at her in amazement.
“We didn’t really spike the punch,” she whispered. “That was a joke.”
“You kept a secret from me,” I said. “You never keep secrets from me. You told me when Oliver lied for Jenna about who broke the lamp. You tell me what Claudia Wolff says about me. You tell me what you’re getting me for my birthday two months ahead of time.”
She gave me a pitying look. “There’s a first time for everything, mah dear. Surely, y’all know that.”
A return to the Southern belle, one of her favorites. I couldn’t speak with a good Southern drawl if my life depended on it. The only accent I could manage was a bad Canadian one, eh?
“So what do you think of the sign?” Marina waved her arms, conductor style.
I turned. “Oh . . .”
“Yeah.” Marina made a fist and thumped her chest. “Gets you right here, doesn’t it?”
It certainly did. Hanging high over the stage was a wide banner. Painted on the beige canvas were red and orange and yellow leaves with a scattering of brown leaves and acorns. The words, bold black and two feet tall, proclaimed this dance to be “The First Annual Sam Helmstetter Scholarship Fund Dance.”
“Beats our little Father-Daughter Dance sign all hollow, doesn’t it?” Marina nodded at a stenciled poster board.
“But . . . who?” I gestured at the sign, at the ceiling, at the whole kit and kaboodle. “This must have cost hundreds. Thousands.”
Marina shrugged. “Dunno. The letter was anonymous and the money came straight from the bank.”
“Anonymous? Do you think—”
“Nope. The Tarver Foundation didn’t have thing one to do with it. You should have heard that snotty-nosed lawyer when I called and asked. ‘The Ezekiel G. Tarver Foundation funds important, truly educational projects. A dance does not come close to the scope of the foundation’s mission statement.’ You’d have thought I was asking if they’d contributed money for a field trip to an AC/ DC concert.”