Foul Play at the PTA bk-2

by Laura Alden

  “Oh, no.” Violet looked stricken. “It’s been a week since I’ve left the house. I had no idea.” She turned to look at Yvonne, wincing at the motion. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Help us put Sam Helmstetter’s killer in jail,” I said. “Once he’s put away, the boycott will disappear.” The memories would linger, but I wasn’t going to think about that.

  “But I don’t know anything about Sam’s death.” She was clearly bewildered.

  I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “You might know more than you think. I spent some time at Stull Systems. The temp, Devon, was very helpful.” I lifted my eyebrows. “It’s interesting that none of the phone calls are logged into a computer. Did you work out that system, or did Eric Stull set it up that way?”

  “Ooohh, nooo.” Violet’s face went a shade paler. I helped her up to a kneeling position. She grabbed the porcelain rim and hauled herself close. “I hate this I hate this I will never have another child why did I ever want a baby why”—she paused to take a heaving, gasping breath—“why does this happen why does anything happen? Ooooo . . .”

  The three of us averted our eyes and tried not to hear the next event.

  Wordlessly, Marina scooped the lukewarm dishcloths off the floor and rinsed them with cool water. I took them from her, went down on my knees next to Violet, and held them against her forehead. “What’s going on at Stull?” I asked. “There’s something wrong there, and I want to know what it is.”

  She shook her head, then went even paler. “I’m going to be sick again.” She leaned over the toilet bowl and retched.

  No morning sickness should be this bad. Holding her hair back, I looked up at my co-Musketeers, who were edging away. “I don’t suppose either one of you knows the name of her doctor?” Marina and Yvonne shook their heads. “Go find it,” I ordered. “Look for appointment cards. Kitchen calendar. The refrigerator. A desk. Look in her purse if you have to.”

  They shot out the door, leaving me to wipe Violet’s forehead and murmur words of kind sympathy. “It’ll be all right,” I said. “We’ll take care of you.”

  “No,” she moaned. “It’s a secret. Can’t tell, promised I’d never tell. Ten years and I haven’t told. It’s Eric’s secret, I can’t tell, I can’t—”

  “Shhh,” I whispered, stroking her hair. “I know you can’t tell. A secret is a secret.”

  She moaned again. “So sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  “I know.” I put my arms around her quivering shoulders, and the two of us rocked back and forth. “I know you’re sorry. It’s okay.”

  “Got it!” Yvonne appeared in the doorway, waving a business card. “Marina’s on the phone right now.”

  Ten minutes later we were buckling Violet into the backseat of Marina’s van and I was calling Violet’s husband, reassuring him that his wife was fine, telling him that he should meet us at the doctor’s office. I clicked off my cell phone and clambered into the front passenger seat.

  “You did it again,” Marina said.

  “Did what?”

  But she only chuckled and drove us away.

  Chapter 17

  “Mom? Earth to Mom. Hello?”

  It was bad enough when Jenna said that, but now Oliver was picking it up. I’d long ago decided that forbidding them from using the phrase wasn’t a battle worth fighting, so I wrenched myself away from the theory that Violet became an Innocent Behind Bars volunteer to compensate for the secret she was keeping and smiled at my son. “Yes, dear?”

  He looked at the waiter, who was poised, pen in hand. “He asked what you want.”

  “Twice,” Jenna said.

  I glanced at Evan, who was trying not to smile. “Sorry,” I said to the waiter.

  “No problem, ma’am. Would you like me to repeat tonight’s specials?”

  Evan chuckled and I repressed an urge to kick him under the table. The linen tablecloth would hide most of the movement, but Jenna’s legs were getting long enough to be anywhere at any given moment, and I didn’t want to hit the wrong person. “No, thank you,” I told the waiter. “The trout will be fine. Rice instead of potato, please, and low-fat Italian dressing on the salad. Thank you.”

  I watched as Jenna ordered a steak, baked potato with sour cream, salad with ranch dressing, and nodded approvingly when she ended her order with a please and thank you. Oliver stumbled over the almandine part of his trout request, but sailed easily into a switch from potato to French fries and got a smile from the waiter when he requested “bluey cheese crumbles” on his salad. After Evan ordered his meal and we handed over the menus, the kids leaned toward me.

  “Did I do it right?” Oliver whispered.

  “You did fine.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked for sour cream,” Jenna said in a low voice. “I don’t want to get fat.”

  Evan opened his mouth, but I jumped in first. “Honey, do you trust me?”

  She gave me a look. “Most of the time.”

  “No, way down in your stomach”—I pointed at my own—“do you trust me? Do you believe that I want you to grow up strong and smart and fast? Do you believe that I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you’re the best goalie ever?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Then believe me when I say you can have all the sour cream you want.”

  Her smile wiped all anxiety from her face. “Okay. Thanks, Mom.”

  I wanted to pull her close and give her a hard mothering hug, but the restaurant’s ambiance didn’t encourage such behavior. Instead I gave her a warm mom smile. “You’re very welcome.”

  The waiter came by with crayons and heavy pieces of blank white paper for the kids. Jenna curled her lip briefly at such childish things, but when Oliver called for the blue crayon, she called for the red, and they were off.

  “So I hear you took Violet Demps to the doctor the other day,” Evan said.

  “Um . . . that’s right. We did.” There were two reasons I hadn’t told Evan about the incident. Number one, he’d have asked why I was there in the first place. Number two, he’d ask why I was there in the first place. “Beth,” he’d say in that serious voice. “Remember what happened last time you got yourself involved in a murder investigation.” I couldn’t stand the serious voice; it reminded me of Richard.

  “We?” Evan asked. “You and who else?” His mouth quirked up. “Let me guess. Marina.”

  “And Yvonne,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “The woman from California? The one who—”

  I cut in. “Yes. She knows Violet and . . . and wanted to introduce us to her.” Not a complete lie, but I could feel my earlobes warming up. Maybe Evan wouldn’t notice. But if the speculative look on his face was any indication, he already had and was in the process of formulating his next question.

  “Hey, Beth.”

  I looked at the stranger standing next to the table, then something went click. “Hey, Pete.”

  Pete Peterson, almost unrecognizable in suit and tie, smiled at me and nodded at Evan. “Last time I saw you, you were in a tux.”

  I introduced the two men and started to ask Pete a vague social question about the weather, but Oliver started squabbling with Jenna over the crayons. “Let me have the brown.”

  “I’m using it.”

  “You are not!”

  “I will in a second. Leave it alone.”

  Oliver’s hand snaked out and I reached over to tap his knuckles. “What did we talk about at home?” I asked quietly.

  “No fighting in the restaurant,” he said to the tablecloth.

  “And are you?”

  “All I want is—”

  “Oliver,” I said, “no fighting means no fighting. Okay?”

  He nodded. I gave Jenna a stern warning look, and turned back to Pete. “Sorry. What are—” But I was talking to air. Pete was on the other side of the room, escorting a woman to a quiet table in a dark corner.

  I watched him wave away the waiter and pull out a chair for
his date. Though I couldn’t see her face, she was slim and tanned. From here I couldn’t tell if it was from a tanning booth or from an extended visit to sunny climates. Marina would be able to analyze such a thing at half a mile, but all I could tell was that I felt sickly white by comparison.

  “How do you know him?” Evan was watching me watch Pete.

  “What? Who?” A thought that was only half a thought flew away and was free, gone forever. “Pete? He runs Cleaner-Than-Pete’s. I hired him last year.”

  “Before we met?” Evan smiled and reached for my hand.

  As his warm skin touched mine, my cell phone started chirping. “Sorry.” I reached for my purse. “Forgot. I’ll turn it off.” But I couldn’t help looking at the display. I stood up. “Be right back. Kids, be good.”

  I hurried to the women’s restroom and punched number 5 on my speed dial.

  “Hey, sis,” Darlene said. “Took you long enough.”

  “What’s the matter?” She’d texted me with a call-soon-urgent message. “Are you all right? Is Mom okay?”

  She laughed. “Why do you always assume the worst?”

  “Because then I’ll be prepared when it happens. What’s so urgent that I had to leave my children alone with Evan in a restaurant with white tablecloths?”

  Darlene whistled. “Is he going to propose?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Don’t be so sure. You’re smart, funny, still relatively young, and almost pretty. I’m surprised he hasn’t proposed already. Let’s plan for a June wedding. I’ll drive Mom down after Christmas and we can go to Chicago for your dress.”

  I raised my eyes heavenward. Sisters. “Darlene, I’m kind of busy. What do you want?”

  She sighed. “I can’t make it to Thanksgiving.”

  “You . . . what?” She couldn’t have said what I thought she said. No way could every single member of my family have backed out on Thanksgiving dinner. It wasn’t possible.

  “Sorry, kiddo. I really am. But I just brought Roger home from the med center. He’s got that horrible flu and they say it runs for at least a week. He’s a mess.” She paused. “Beth, are you there?”

  I wanted to understand, and most of me did. But there was also a part of me that was hurt very badly. Words I wanted to say crowded into my mouth, and I put my hand over my lips to keep them inside, because saying them would burn wounds that might take years to heal.

  How can you do this to me?

  Why are you abandoning me?

  Why is my happiness so easily traded away?

  It was then that my half-formed thought circled around and came home to roost.

  “No,” I said slowly. “I’m not mad. Much.”

  She blew a big sigh into the phone. “Look, I want to be there, you know I do. And maybe we can get together for Christmas. I’ll make a big batch of Grandma Emmerling’s cookies; those were always your favorites.” She talked on and on, but I wasn’t listening.

  Because I had an idea. And I was making a plan.

  Monday morning I made up busywork tasks for Yvonne and Lois. Ten minutes later I was breezing through the intricate door of Stull Systems.

  “Hi, Mrs. Kennedy!” Devon’s smile was wide. “I hear your Jenna had an awesome game Saturday afternoon. Four to zero, that’s so great.”

  “Shutout,” I said proudly. “Her first ever.” At dinner, Evan had proposed a toast to Jenna, and she’d blushed a brighter red than I’d thought possible. “The other day she asked if I thought she could get a college scholarship.”

  “Bet she could,” Devon said.

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I’ve seen her in action. She’s got natural instincts. Anticipates like crazy. She could go a long way.”

  Visions of Olympic medals danced in my head. “Are you sure?”

  She grinned. “I’m assistant coach for the Madison Skippers. Believe me, I know Jenna’s good.”

  I clutched the edge of the counter and fake gasped. “The enemy!”

  Her laughter filled the lobby. “No, you’re the enemy. Didn’t you know?”

  Her next question would be what could she do for me. Time to put the Plan into action. “When I stopped by the other day,” I said, “I didn’t tell you I own the Children’s Bookshelf. I was wondering if Stull Systems would consider writing children’s bookstore software. What we use is geared to full-range bookstores and we could use a new product.”

  Not a complete lie; we could use something different than the fifteen-year-old software running on rapidly aging computers. Of course, I didn’t see how specialized software would help the store in any way, shape, or form, but it was a reason to talk to Devon.

  “Oh, wow. I don’t know.” She opened a three-ring binder and started flipping pages. “This is the catalog. Everything Stull does is medical. Wait. Here’s a . . . No, that’s for veterinarians.” She hummed as she turned pages. “No, nothing like that. Tell you what—”

  The phone rang and she excused herself to answer. After she’d written a message, she put the slip atop a pile of similar slips, which was next to a towering pile of papers, which was next to another stack of papers. “There. Now, I was saying—” The phone rang again. She rolled her eyes, picked up the phone, and wrote down a message.

  During my phone call with Darlene, the tiny lightbulb that occasionally blinked on in my brain had gone bright white. Devon had hockey knowledge that Jenna could use. Devon needed help with organization, help that I could provide, and in providing such, could gain knowledge that I could use.

  Ostentatiously, I looked left and right, then leaned over the counter and beckoned her close. “Devon,” I said softly. “How about a trade?”

  Fifteen minutes later, I’d ensconced myself in Eric Stull’s office with a foot-high pile of papers. When Devon had led me to a small conference room, I’d hesitated in the doorway. “I have an idea. What do you think about sorting these in Mr. Stull’s office?”

  She made a face. “I’m not supposed to touch anything in there.”

  “You wouldn’t,” I said soothingly. “And I won’t. But that way I could see how he files things, and he made up the filing system, right?” Without waiting for an answer, I headed back down the hallway. “This is his office, isn’t it?” I set the pile down carefully on the corner of Eric’s empty desk and pulled up the guest chair. “All I’ll do is peek into his files.”

  “Well, I suppose it might be okay.”

  “It’ll be fine.” I put on the special mom smile that was guaranteed to comfort and console. There’s nothing less threatening than a mom in calming mode. The knowledge is one of our secret weapons. “What harm can I do?”

  “That’s true.” Devon nodded. “Thanks a zillion for helping me out. I’ll ask around for someone who’ll give goalie lessons.”

  I smiled. The barter system was alive and well.

  The phone rang. “Oh, rats,” Devon said. “Got to go.”

  As soon as I saw the light on Eric’s phone turn from blinking white to solid red, I jumped out of the chair and hurried around the large expanse of desktop. Eric’s chair was tall-backed and leather and I felt like an imposter in it. Which I was, but I didn’t like feeling that way.

  I opened the large file drawer on the lower right side of the desk and rifled through its contents. Everything I could read had to do with clients or conferences or shareholders. Everything I couldn’t read was in Spanish.

  “Oh, dear.” The only time I came close to using my three years of high school Spanish was at an ATM when I accidentally pressed the ESPAÑOL button instead of the ENGLISH one.

  I opened the rest of the drawers and found office supplies, a pile of coins, and some empty candy wrappers. “Now what, smarty-pants?” I glanced at the phone. The light was still red, and there was another light winking away, so I ventured deeper into Eric territory.

  The wall behind his desk was lined with bookshelves and cabinetry. The bookshelves were full of textbooks, software documentation, and thr
ee-ring binders filled with software coding. Behind the door of cabinet number one were stacks of paper much like the stack I’d put on his desk. Behind door number two was more paper, but also a framed photo of a man and two young girls.

  I looked at the telephone—one red light, two white—and picked up the picture. It was taken on a lakeshore and all three were in swimsuits and life jackets. The man had his arms around the girls and they were all grinning hugely.

  “So that’s Eric Stull,” I said quietly. It was the man at the dance who’d been in line in front of Jenna and me. The man who’d slapped down a hundred-dollar bill and then another fifty. His dark blond hair was cut short and his stomach was flatter than most men’s his age. I studied the photo, trying to look into his head, read his thoughts, and analyze his personality, but all I saw was a father and his daughters after an afternoon of inner tubing.

  As I put the photo back from whence it came, I realized there weren’t any pictures of Rosie, his wife. Strange. Or not?

  “What are you doing?” Devon stood in the doorway. “I thought you weren’t going to touch anything.” There was a note of censure in her voice.

  I put on a reassuring smile and shut the cabinet door. “Just looking for some paper clips. It’ll make sorting those papers easier if I have a way to keep similar topics together. Unless you want me to use a stapler.”

  “No staples. Mr. Stull says so. Paper clips are good, though. I’ll be right back.”

  Mr. Stull had a lot of rules. I sat myself back in the guest chair. To meet my end of the bargain, I had to sort these papers into some semblance of order. I’d convinced Devon of my capabilities when I’d mentioned how much lists helped me organize my life.

  “Mr. Stull loves lists,” she’d said eagerly. “You must think like him. Let’s give this a try.”

  Her confidence in me was heartening, and probably misplaced. But I couldn’t tell her that, so I settled down and was busy sorting papers when she came back with a box of paper clips. She hovered, then went back out front when the phone rang.

  Anything with a lot of numbers went into one pile. Anything in Spanish went into another. Phone notes here, mail there. Junk faxes I tossed into a recycling pile. No possible way could Mr. Stull want to know about a $99 cruise to the Bahamas. Order now for four days and three nights!