Murder at the PTA Luncheon

by Valerie Wolzien

  “Charlie, he’s fine, I tell you.” He paused and looked at his upset wife. “Okay, I’ll go pick him up. He’s at the Henshaws’ with Chad. You look after your guests.”

  “Oh, I forgot …”

  “There’s no reason to look after us, Charline. We were done anyway. I’m Brett Fortesque, Mr. Voos, Detective Fortesque from the state police. This is Officer Somerville.”

  “Then it’s your car that I saw out front. Do you think it’s a good idea to keep police vehicles parked in front of the homes you’re visiting? Who knows what people will think?”

  “Lars, please.” The worry was obvious in her voice. “I think we’d better call right away and let the Henshaws know we’re coming to pick up—”

  “No need, honey. You look after Kristen here and I’ll go get him. They live over on Mackie Place, right? Stay with your mother, Kristen. Daddy will be right back.”

  Charline Voos put her arms around her daughter as her husband turned and left the room.

  “I’m sure he’s just fine, Mrs. Voos.” Kathleen offered these comforting words.

  “Are you a policewoman?” the child asked, untangling herself from her mother’s arms. “Like on TV? Do you shoot people and kill them?”

  As the child’s mother stood staring at the door, Kathleen allowed the wet child to plop onto her lap and insist on an answer. “Do you have a gun? Do you have a gun?”

  “No, honey, I’m not carrying a gun. Your name is Kristen, right?” She tried to rearrange the child so that the towel was placed between the two of them, but the little girl lost interest in her lap at this answer.

  “No gun? Even my daddy has a gun. Mommy, the policewoman doesn’t have a gun. And my daddy has a gun, doesn’t he, Mommy?”

  Charline, who had still been staring after her husband, seemed to pull herself back to the present. “Don’t be foolish, honey. Of course your father doesn’t have a gun. Now you march up to your room and get dressed. Not another word,” she added as the child seemed likely to protest. “You do just as I say. Mommy’s not happy with you for scaring her like that about your brother.”

  “But, Mommy!” Her voice rose an octave for authenticity. “He did bleed. I was telling you the truth.”

  “Kristen. Go!”

  The little girl reluctantly left the room, dragging her soggy towel along behind her and, Kathleen thought, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “shit” under her breath.

  “Does your husband have a permit for a gun?” Brett asked, as Charline came back and sat down on the sofa, pouring herself a drink.

  “Of course not. I mean, he doesn’t even have a gun. Why would he need a gun? You know how children talk. Kristen just likes to get attention. She’s at that age, I’m afraid.”

  “We’d better leave. I’m sure you’ll want to take care of your son when he gets home.” Brett stood and Kathleen quickly joined him.

  “Thank you so much for the tea. Oh, and one other thing. How long were you and Julia at the pool yesterday?”

  “The pool? Oh, you mean the Club. I don’t remember. Julia is better at those things. What did she tell you?”

  Kathleen looked at Brett, wondering what he would say in answer to that. His comment disappointed her. “Something about the time of the kids’ swim practice. It probably doesn’t matter. You’ve been a big help. We do want to thank you for your time.”

  The three of them headed out the door and into the monumental hallway. As they left the room, Lars Voos and his son entered the house. Even with the white bandage around his head, the boy could be mistaken as no one else’s child, the resemblance to his father was so great.

  “Peer!” Charline Voos rushed to her child and wrapped him in her arms. “How did you get home so quickly?”

  “I’m fine, Mother.” Peer drew himself up to his full height and flung up his arm to ward off her caresses.

  “I told you, Charlie. The kid is okay. I met Jed Henshaw in the driveway—he was bringing Peer home. There’s no reason to worry. You know mothers,” he added for the benefit of his guests.

  “Let me look at your head, then you can lie down and watch a videotape, sweetheart,” Charline persisted.

  “Rambo. Yeah, I want to see Rambo!”

  “Anything. Just lie down in the family room. You’ll understand if I leave you here?” she asked, suddenly remembering the others.

  “I’ll show them out, honey,” her husband offered, but she had already left, still trying to comfort her unwilling son. “That Charlie. She overprotects the kids, but she’s a good mother. You can tell she is by the time she puts in at that PTA of hers.” He led them out the front door and to their car. “Did she tell you about that PTA group? She’s co-president of it, you know, along with Julia Ames. And those two do a lot for that PTA.”

  “I’m sure they do,” Kathleen agreed politely, getting into the passenger’s seat, since that was the door Lars Voos was holding open for her.

  “Yeah. And they love doing it.”

  “Of course,” Kathleen said, pulling her legs quickly out of the path of the car door as he was slamming it shut.

  “Sure they love it. Why else would they want to be co-presidents for two years in a row?”

  “Why else indeed?” Brett asked rhetorically, starting the engine.

  EIGHT

  “Write us a note, Kathy. We need to find out if, in fact, Lars Voos has a permit for a gun.” He easily maneuvered the car out of the wide driveway.

  “Kathleen,” she corrected. “You think that the kid was telling the truth?”

  “What reason would a little kid like that have to lie?”

  “I don’t know. To get attention?”

  “Well, maybe, but I’ll bet Lars does have a gun around and I’ll bet we don’t find any record of a permit for one.”

  “So where do we go next?”

  He stared through the windshield at the street signs. “Do you have any idea where this Field Club might be?”

  “None at all, but maybe we should go back to the municipal building and get a map, check on the gun, and, while we’re at it, see if the autopsy report on Mrs. Porter has come in.”

  “Good thinking.”

  They had planned to dash into the building and right back out, but it turned out to be bicycle registration day in Hancock. A line of kids, mixed with a few adults, stretched around the police department. They stood beside expensive BMXs and ten-speeds waiting to have the serial numbers registered and identification numbers etched onto the frames. Brett and Kathleen had to wade through this line to get inside and, once there, they couldn’t find anyone to help them.

  “I know that Sergeant Mann left an envelope for you, but I don’t know where he put it,” explained the harried receptionist in the hallway.

  “We can see that you’re busy. Could we just make a few calls to our headquarters? And, if you could take a moment, could you find us a map of Hancock and the surrounding area?”

  “No problem,” she lied, and excusing herself from two eleven-year-old boys who were busy ramming their bikes into each other’s, she rushed into the main office behind her. “There are the phones, help yourself. I think we have a map. Here it is.” She held up a sheet of paper. “This is a small town, you won’t have any trouble finding your way around. I’d better get back outside now …” She looked out the door at the boys who, no longer satisfied with bike combat, were kicking each other’s shins.

  “Fine. We’ll just make our calls and leave. You’ve been very helpful,” Kathleen assured her.

  Brett got his information quickly, despite its being a weekend, and then relayed it to Kathleen. “There’s no record of Lars Voos ever having had a permit to own a gun, nor his wife, nor Miles Ames. Julia Ames does have a permit for a pistol, however. She got it three years ago. July of eighty-four, to be more exact.”

  “That’s interesting. I wonder if it means anything. And the results of the autopsy on Mrs. Porter?”

  “They haven’t finished t
he procedure, but they’ve done enough to know what killed her. Cyanide again. A huge dose in her stomach.”

  “And in her glass of iced tea, I assume.”

  “Yes, so all we have to know is how someone placed it in her glass and when and—”

  “And we have our killer. You think that’s going to be easy?”

  “It depends on who was paying attention to what was going on at the Club yesterday. Did you look at the map? Is the Field Club marked?”

  “Sure is. Shall we go?”

  “I can’t think of a more logical next step.”

  If their police car had looked out of place near the Ames and Voos homes, it was even more so here. The parking lot of the Field Club was directly adjacent to the clubhouse, an imposing Colonial structure of white-painted brick, dripping ivy from its walls and surrounded by beds of white flowers.

  “Somehow I had envisioned a more casual atmosphere than this,” Kathleen commented as they got out of their car. “You’re not locking it?”

  “I can’t imagine that there is any need to here. Let’s go to the clubhouse and see what we find, shall we?”

  They headed up the brick path, also painted white and kept that way, no doubt, with no little effort on someone’s part, and walked in through the front doors. They found themselves in a large reception room, the muraled walls showing Revolutionary War battle scenes.

  “May I help you?” The man who greeted them was well over six feet tall and had an air of authority, even though he was dressed in the madras slacks and polo shirt that seemed to be the uniform of the day.

  “I’m Detective Fortesque, and this is Officer Somerville. We’re from—”

  “The state police,” he finished for them. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. No need to show your identification. I figured you’d be around here today.”

  “And you are?”

  “Sorry. No reason you should know who I am. I’m Jack Mann.”

  “Of course. Sergeant Mann, we’ve been wanting to meet you.” They shook hands. “Are you on duty here, or can we go and talk someplace where we won’t be overheard?”

  “No problem. I have an office here. Right this way.” And he guided them through a door discreetly hidden right in the mural. “Do you want anything? I can call the bar or the clubhouse coffee shop from here.” He motioned to a system of buttons on his desk. “Nothing? You’re sure? Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just sit here and keep an eye on the monitors while we talk.” He flipped a switch and a wall covered with TV screens lit up. There were views of four or five indoor rooms, as well as shots of tennis courts, the pool, an unused skating rink, and four different views of the greens of the golf course. There were also two screens with pictures of the entrance drive. The three of them watched a Rolls glide by one of the cameras.

  “Very, very impressive,” Kathleen said.

  “Does the local police department do all the security for the Club, Sergeant Mann?” Brett wanted to know.

  “Call me John. Nope, this is a private club. The local police get called in if there’s a problem, but the security is private. I’m off duty now. I work here when I’m off duty.”

  “Did you set this up?” Brett continued questioning.

  “Sure did. Nothing like having unlimited funds, is there? We spent two hundred thousand dollars on this project. The Club even paid for me to go to New York City and check out the security setup of the various apartments and the clubs there. We’ve got the best of everything. Well, almost,” he added with a smile. “They wouldn’t let me have a camera in the women’s dressing rooms. Not that I didn’t try hard … oh, excuse me, ma’am. No offense meant.”

  “None taken,” Kathleen said sincerely. “Do you have a camera in the men’s dressing room? I don’t see one.”

  “Sure do. I just didn’t turn it on in honor of your presence.” He waved at the blank screen on the bottom of the tiers of pictures. “And we do have a microphone in the women’s dressing room.” He pressed a button and some loud giggling and a muffled comment about George’s something filled the room. He pressed it again and the noise went off. “The ladies know that it’s in there, but they don’t seem to care. You should hear some of the things they say …” He stopped talking and seemed to remember something. “Some of it is a little private,” he explained, “but everyone knows I’m discreet. And a lot of the Club’s problems take place in the locker rooms …”

  “Like what, John?”

  “Oh, mostly petty thievery. We had a lawyer here a few years ago who was stealing watches and sweatbands. That’s it—just watches and sweatbands. But some of those watches were pretty expensive and no one likes to think of a stranger meddling around in their stuff. He left town, though. It didn’t go to court or anything, seems a shrink was already treating him for kleptomania or something.”

  “What other problems have you had?”

  “Nothing like the murder of Paula Porter, if that’s what you’re asking, Officer Somerville. I suppose you got the information on the autopsy from the coroner?”

  “We know the preliminary results,” Brett said. “You didn’t happen to be here watching what was going on, did you?”

  “Yeah, that would be a help … for me to have watched someone put the poison in her tea, but no such luck. I was here part of the day, but I didn’t see anything. I’m not a fulltime employee, of course. I work weekends here, eight hours a day, but they’re flexible. I’m here for the day today because the kids’ swim team had a meet—that brings in kids and their parents and coaches from other clubs and we always worry about who else might come in with them, if you know what I mean. It would be a good chance for someone to just wander in and start stealing things or causing trouble—”

  “Aren’t things kept pretty well locked up here?” Kathleen asked.

  “No way. The members like to think of this as an extension of their homes. You should see the stuff they leave around. After one big party, one of the clean-up crew came to me with a diamond necklace—he had found it hanging out of one of the lockers in the dressing rooms—seems someone had found it was too hot and had stashed it there instead of bothering to bring it to me for safekeeping. I do have a safe here for valuables.”

  “So you have to keep track of strangers at all times,” Kathleen said.

  “Well, we’re pretty lax except for special events. I change my schedule according to what’s going on—like next week I won’t be here during the day on Saturday because there’s a big dance at night—a club-sponsored dance—and I’ll be working from about two in the afternoon when the caterers usually start to set up and bring in their supplies until anytime: one, two, even four o’clock in the morning—when the last people leave and all of the clean-up people are finished.”

  “That’s just for club-centered events?” Brett asked.

  “Yup. The clubhouse is rented out for parties, but only to members, of course, and they’re required to hire their own security people and post a bond to keep the Club from being liable for any problems.”

  “It sounds like a pretty good arrangement for you, John.”

  “It sure is. I get paid for this work. And the wife and kids get club membership free, too. And they’re treated just like everyone else, no matter what Carol thinks.”

  “What does Carol think?”

  “Aw. She thinks some of the other women look down on her because I’m a cop and we don’t have the money of the other members, but I think she’s just oversensitive. Everyone treats me real well, and without the money from this job we couldn’t live in Hancock—not on a cop’s salary. And the schools here are great. Both Janie and John Junior are straight-A students. They’ll go to good colleges and they’ll be doctors or lawyers or anything else they want, and they’ll be able to live in this town without doing all the extra work!” He smiled with pride.

  Kathleen found herself smiling back. What a nice man, she thought.

  “I’ve got to make my rounds. And we’ve got a new pool cre
w coming in later this afternoon. The kiddy pool is cracking and I like to be on hand to meet new workers. Helps prevent problems if they know someone is watching them. I’ll be back in half an hour, if that’s okay with you both.” He checked his watch. “At about five?”

  “No problem. We may not even need to talk to you again today. Don’t want to interrupt your work. Do you mind if we wander around?”

  “Fine. I do keep my office locked, however …”

  “Then we’ll leave with you so you can lock up behind us,” Brett offered. “Just one more thing. Do you have a printed layout of the Club so that we can figure out where we are and where we’re going?”

  “I have some brochures here in my desk that’ll help you.” He took two thick color pamphlets out of the top drawer and handed one to each of them. “These are given to prospective members. In the middle of each you’ll find a fold-out map of the whole Club. Keep them. You’re going to want to refer to them, I’m sure.” He stopped with his hand on the door. “We’re not used to murders here in Hancock. We really don’t know how to handle them.”

  “You’ve been a big help, John. And I’m sure we’ll be getting back to you soon.” Brett followed Kathleen and the policeman out of the office.

  “Well, good luck to you with your investigation. Oh, wait one second, there’s someone you should meet.” He waved to an elderly man on the other side of the room and urged the two of them over to him.

  “This is Dr. Grayson; he’s president of the Field Club. Dr. Grayson, these are the detectives from Hartford. They’re here to find out who killed Mrs. Porter, sir.”

  “Well, I’m very glad to meet both of you. Does this mean that they’re sure it’s murder, Mann?”

  “It looks like it, sir. But they’ll tell you about that. I’ll be off, if you don’t have anything for me to do.”

  “What? No, nothing.” The elderly man was directing all his attention at Brett and Kathleen. “So when are you going to find out who did it?”

  “Just as soon as we can,” Brett answered politely.