“And it was run by Mrs. Porter and Mrs. Ick?”
“Yes. You want to know more about them, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I knew Paula the best, I guess. She had four kids and her husband is a pediatrician, but you know that, don’t you? Well, she was a real hard worker, but not very creative. The inspiration for Bubble Day must have come from Jan, but I’m sure a lot of the work was done by Paula. Jan was different. She was an art student when she met her husband. He’s some sort of headhunter, but he almost doesn’t count, if you know what I mean. I mean,” she tried to explain, “that when you meet the two of them, it’s Jan who you remember. Their house is full of abstract and pop and all kinds of art and I think everyone knows more about her years in the past as an art student than about what her husband does now. She was very dramatic and very flashy and …” She stopped talking, embarrassed.
“One of the biggest problems we have in a murder case, Mrs. Henshaw, is that no one likes to say anything bad about the deceased, and what we don’t know about the deceased can keep us from finding the motive in the killing,” he said, ignoring the times that he had walked into a room containing both a dead body and the killer and had immediately heard more than enough from the killer about the personality and attributes of the one he had murdered.
“I understand. It’s not just that they’re dead. I’m afraid I don’t like to say bad things about anyone. I suppose it’s the way I was brought up or something.” She wondered briefly if she was raising her own children in the same way, but decided that if she was, it wasn’t working. They seemed to have no trouble condemning others, especially each other.
“Mrs. Henshaw?”
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking of something else. Well,” she continued, “we kidded around when Jan died that Paula had done it. Because, if I’m going to be honest, it’s more than likely that Jan had all the ideas for the fair—wonderful, creative ideas, of course—and then Paula did all the work carrying them out. Jan could be very hard to work with. Mainly, I think, because she really didn’t work with anybody. She expected people to work for her. Not that we ever heard Paula complaining. And, of course, Paula would never kill anybody.”
“But you thought that she might resent doing all the leg work for the more creative half of the pair?”
The doorbell’s ring gave her an excuse not to answer that question. “I’ll just get that,” she murmured and went into the hall. But the person who had rung was already inside and talking.
“It’s a tragedy. Another tragedy. Poor little children left motherless. Another husband grieving. I don’t know what to do. Of course, I made a coffee cake and took it over to the Porter house this morning. Jack was devastated. He looked like he hadn’t slept for weeks. I didn’t see Eric or Brad or Heather, but Samantha looked okay—a little dazed, but okay. A two-year-old can’t possibly understand what’s going on. I offered to take the kids, but Paula’s mother and father are flying in from Phoenix and Jack thought all four kids should be at the airport to greet them. I’ll make a big pot of chicken salad this afternoon and take it over to them. And, of course, everyone will help out. Could you?”
“I’ll bake some cookies or a cake or something and get it over as soon as possible,” Susan interrupted. “I should have thought of it before. Everyone’s upset, but the boys at least will be hungry.”
“I’ll call Nancy Dobbs and some others. We’ll see that the family is taken care of for the next few weeks. Jack said the funeral is probably going to be Tuesday or Wednesday. It depends on when the coroner releases the body.”
“I’m pretty sure that the … uh … that your friend’s family will be able to go ahead with their plans for an early funeral. The autopsy should be completed now and the coroner’s office will probably be informing the family later this morning so that they can claim the body.”
Susan was surprised that Brett had followed her into the hall. Ellen Cooper took his presence in her stride.
“Oh, I hope they let Jack know soon. It’s so horrible that this happened to Paula; I’m sure the questions about her death are going to make it doubly hard on Jack and the kids,” Ellen continued. “You’re the police officer from Hartford, aren’t you? Are you investigating Paula’s death?”
“Yes …”
“Do you know when you’re going to have some answers? And you’re looking into Jan’s death too, aren’t you? You think the murders are related?”
“How did you know that?” Brett asked.
Susan smiled. He wouldn’t be asking those questions if he knew how efficient Ellen was.
“I called one of my friends about helping out the Porters—her name is Carol Mann.”
“Ah yes, the one who has to work,” Brett mumbled.
“What?” Ellen gave him an inquisitive look before continuing. “Well, her husband is the Hancock police sergeant and he told her last night that detectives from Hartford had been checking into the files on the PTA luncheon and Jan’s death.”
Susan made quick introductions and Brett started the conversation. “I’ve been talking about that time with Mrs. Henshaw, too. If you’re not too busy, maybe I could ask you some questions?”
“Of course, anything. Anything I can do to help find out who did this horrible thing, officer.”
Susan looked at Ellen, a small woman with a clear complexion, brown eyes that were usually fixed in the same earnest expression they were in now, hair pulled back in a headband in a style that had probably been popular her freshman year of college, and wondered what Brett Fortesque thought of her.
“How many people were at the PTA luncheon and the Field Club yesterday?” was Ellen’s next question. And Susan knew that the policeman, if he had been dismissing Ellen as merely another upset woman, would change that opinion. Leave it to Ellen to get to the heart of the situation immediately. If one person was responsible for both deaths, then that person must have been in both places. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
“Maybe, if you’ll help us, we can figure that out, Mrs. Cooper.”
“Let’s go into the den,” Susan suggested quickly, as she saw Ellen heading in that direction.
“We’ll need some paper and pencils, Susan. But this shouldn’t be hard to figure out. We know who was at the luncheon and we’ll have to find a way to discover who was at the Club yesterday. Maybe we could look at the bar tabs? Can you get access to that?” She was talking to Brett, and Susan wondered just what he thought about her.
“I have someone looking into that, but I’d like your impressions, Mrs. Cooper. Yours and Mrs. Henshaw’s,” he added with a quick glance at Susan.
Susan smiled at him and assured herself that there was no reason to be jealous. She was acting like a child!
“Actually, we’ve been making a rather complete list of the members of the PTA who were at the luncheon,” Brett continued. “I understand that officers, committee chairpeople, and representatives were the ones who attended.”
“Yes. It’s the same every year. Where is the paper in this desk, Susan?” Ellen was busily rummaging through Jed’s antique partner’s desk drawers.
“Let me.” Susan gently displaced the other woman and went quickly to the place where supplies were kept. She knew how Jed would hate to think of others going through his things. “Here are the pencils, too.” She handed them out, but when everything was sorted and distributed, she found herself sitting on the couch, while Brett and Ellen were sharing the large mahogany surface, papers and pens spread efficiently between them.
To put it bluntly, she felt left out.
In her search, Ellen had even found a duplicate copy of the PTA’s information sheet and, ignoring her, the two others reviewed the list Susan had thought she and Brett had finished.
“Let’s see,” Ellen began, “Julia Ames and Charline Voos, and Susan, of course. Susan always shows up where she’s supposed to be.”
Susan knew that, coming from someone who held Ellen’s values, that
was a compliment, so why did it sound so very, very dull?
“… and Patsy Webber …”
“But she wasn’t there,” Susan interrupted.
“Of course, her father’s surgery. I’d forgotten. Well, I think everyone else was. Fanny Berman, Nancy Dobbs, Paula Porter and Jan Ick—do you think being on the same committee was something more than a coincidence, Detective Fortesque?—and Martha Hallard, Susan again, Carol Mann, myself, Angie Leachman, and”—she paused—“… of course, we said Martha before. That’s eleven people. Do we know who was at the pool yesterday afternoon, besides Paula and Susan and myself, that is?”
“I didn’t see you,” Susan cried.
“I was on the far courts practicing my backhand. I thought if I spent all day on it, it would improve. It didn’t, of course, but hope springs eternal.”
Susan got up again from the couch and leaned across the desk to look at the notes they were writing on the list.
“I saw both Julia and Charline there. They were together leaving the bar when I went in for my tea. And Fanny and I sat and talked for a while inside. In fact, she was with me when I choked …”
“Choked?” Brett was immediately interested.
“Just a small piece of ice caught in my throat.” She suspected that he was disappointed that the accident had been so minimal.
“Who else?” Ellen prompted.
“Let me think. Nancy was there. And Kevin was wonderful getting the kids out of the way after Paula’s death, you know …”
“Kevin’s her husband?” Brett asked, making a mark on the list.
“No, Kevin is her son …”
“The son of her husband by his first marriage,” Ellen elaborated. “He’s working as a pool boy at the Club this summer.”
“Yes, Mrs. Henshaw told me about the family’s rather old-fashioned values,” Brett acknowledged.
“They may be old-fashioned, but they work,” Ellen responded, a touch of asperity in her voice. She had similar values and preferred to think of them as standards, and high ones at that.
“Of course,” Susan continued, “Paula was there …” She hurried on with the list. “Martha Hallard was there; she stopped by to tell me about the dinner party she’s having tonight. The mayor’s coming and she wants a promise of financial support from the town for the school’s participation in the centennial celebration—or something like that. I wasn’t paying much attention. Although, come to think of it, it’s surprising that she’s sleeping late the day she’s giving a party.
“Anyway, Carol Mann stopped in later in the afternoon. The shop has shorter hours in the summer and she’s been getting the kids to the pool around one every afternoon. I didn’t see Angie Leachman, though,” Susan finished.
“I can help you there,” Ellen interjected. “She was in the clubhouse changing when I was getting on my shorts. That was around noon. She was putting on her swimsuit.”
“She probably stayed next to the kiddy pool watching her younger ones,” Susan suggested. “I didn’t get over there.”
“So everyone on the board who was at the luncheon was also at the pool yesterday?” Brett summed up.
Ellen and Susan looked at each other before answering. Ellen spoke first. “But there must be some other suspects: teachers, or administrators, or someone from outside the group.”
“Well, let’s think about that.” He yawned. “Could you get us some coffee or tea, Mrs. Henshaw?”
Susan leapt up. “Of course. Do you want some, Ellen?”
“I shouldn’t, but I will. I didn’t sleep very well last night and I was up baking early this morning. Do you need any help getting it?”
“No, of course not. It’ll just take a second.” Susan hurried from the room. She was in the kitchen filling the teapot with water and examining the not-too-careful job of cleaning that Chrissy had done on the floor when she began asking herself some serious questions.
So whom do I suspect? She put the pot on the stove, turned off the water, sat down at the table, and thought. All this time, she hadn’t seriously considered the identity of the murderer. Oh, she had thought about the deaths, and the loss of her friends, but she hadn’t considered the murderer. And that it must be someone she knew: one of the names she and Brett and Ellen had just been discussing.
But there was no one on that list of eleven people who could have killed twice. Okay, so she had been rather a Pollyanna when describing them and their families to Brett Fortesque; it was true, and everyone knew it, that Nancy Dobbs drank more than was good for her, but the other thing everyone knew was that her husband had never really gotten over the death of his first wife. Competing with a tragically dead young woman would drive anyone to drink. And if Carol Mann was less than a bright young person, well, she didn’t come from the same background as the rest of us. She hadn’t even gone to college; had married her husband (then an MP on an army base somewhere in the South) right out of high school and had gotten pregnant immediately or sooner. If even adding up figures on the sales slips in the shop would have been impossible for her without a calculator, well, everyone understood, and knew, that it was very difficult to be an outsider in a town as homogeneous as Hancock. Certainly no one would mention that the Manns could never have belonged to the Club if John Mann hadn’t acted as security guard at all club functions. And everyone did feel more secure with an armed and trained person around, even if he was socializing in the clubhouse at the same time as he was “keeping his eyes peeled.” (His words.)
And, of course, to suggest that Martha Hallard was pushy would be an understatement to the point of absurdity, but she did get things done. And, when you think of pushy, wouldn’t Julia and Charline come to mind more quickly than anyone else in their group? She wondered if she or Ellen should mention that election for the presidency of the PTA a few months ago. That had been back before the luncheon, and Paula, if not Jan, had been a part of the nominating committee that had made such a fiasco out of the whole thing, besides picking the wrong people to run the PTA. It wasn’t as if Julia and Charline had done such a great job this past year that they deserved a repeat performance. But the whole story was petty and bitchy, if true. And she and Ellen had agreed that the best thing to do would be just to avoid the subject if it ever came up. Surely it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with murder. After all, if Carol had gotten over the hurt of being rejected, she and Ellen could do it, too.
So just what was Ellen telling … ?
Loud sizzling sounds and steam rising from the top of her range informed her of the overflow of the teapot and she rushed to get the mess cleaned up and the coffee, filter, and water mixed together in the top of a small Melitta. She had always wondered why she had two coffeepots; the theory was that she could brew decaf and regular for dinner parties, but she never had that she could remember. Anyway, the spare would be handy now, if she could find it. She knew it was somewhere in the back of one of the—
“Susan, what are you doing up on that stool? You look like a cartoon of a housewife who just saw a mouse. You didn’t, did you?” Ellen asked, entering the kitchen.
“Of course not. I was just looking for my extra coffeepot. This morning I broke the one I usually use and—”
“Instant will do. Get down from there and get out the mugs,” Ellen ordered, going to the cupboard where Susan kept coffee and tea.
Susan was relieved, and not a little irritated. Why did she always make such a big fuss when, of course, instant would be fine? And why did Ellen always seem to know what to do?
“Did you tell the officer about the PTA elections this spring?” Ellen’s voice was a semiwhisper and she looked toward the door while speaking. “It’s not, of course, that I want to keep any secrets from the police, but I don’t think that’s part of this and—”
“I didn’t say anything. Don’t worry. I agree with you. That couldn’t have anything to do with the murders. Although Paula was on the nominating committee—the chairman of it, actually, and—”
Susan stopped in the middle of putting her best cups and saucers on a tray and turned to her friend. “You don’t think it was me, do you?”
“Of course not. Just kidding. But as long as you didn’t mention it …”
“I said I didn’t …”
“Can I help with anything in here?”
Susan wondered if they both had guilty expressions on their faces when Brett Fortesque entered the kitchen. She didn’t dare look at Ellen’s face, but she knew that her own left something to be desired.
“We were just getting the coffee. Do you take cream or sugar, Detective Fortesque?” She quickly turned to the refrigerator for supplies, without waiting for an answer.
“Black, thank you. Could we get on with this, though? I have to meet one of my colleagues for lunch and …”
“Of course. Just sit down at the table and Susan will finish getting the coffee. You don’t mind talking in the kitchen, do you? I feel more comfortable in here myself, and—”
“Anyplace is fine with me,” he assured Ellen. “Now, about the rest of the people who were at the luncheon as well as at the pool yesterday. Did either of you remember anyone else who was in both places?”
So they hadn’t been discussing that while she was getting the coffee. So what had they been talking about? Susan asked herself. “Let me think,” she said aloud.
“Well, there’s Mr. Johnson, the gym teacher,” Ellen began. “He might have been there.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Susan said. “He was out of town at a convention or meeting in the City. I heard two of the lifeguards talking about it.”
“He’s a member of the Field Club?” Brett wanted to know.
Murder at the PTA Luncheon Page 6