Murder at the PTA Luncheon

by Valerie Wolzien

  “Didn’t you know? I thought everyone knew about it. It’s been going on all summer. That’s why no one used the shed for the tennis equipment in the afternoons—everyone knew they were likely to be in there wrapped in each other’s arms. Don’t tell me you didn’t know!”

  “I don’t play tennis.”

  “Oh? Well, you can see how this is going to affect the town when it all gets out, can’t you? I hate to think what it will do for property values. Oh, there are the Bermans. Fanny called and said they were going to be late. Some sort of sitter problem. I had better go greet them. You’ll think about that committee, won’t you? We’re going to need a lot of workers if we’re going to help Hancock.”

  Martha rushed off and left Susan standing in the middle of the floor, no longer sipping, but now gulping her drink. Did everyone know about Paula and Kevin? Well, not everyone, certainly, she assured herself, thinking of the conversation she had had with his stepmother earlier. She wondered if Ellen had known. Ellen! My God! Was she still waiting in the bathroom? She put down her empty glass on a table and hurried off to find out.

  “They’ll be going in the bushes if we don’t get out of here,” Ellen greeted Susan when she returned to the bathroom. “And there’s probably a rumor going around the party right now that I’m lying dead drunk on the floor in here after locking myself in. Come to think of it, you might have brought me another drink. You must have had time to stop at the bar, you’ve been gone long enough.”

  “Sorry. But listen, Ellen, did you know that Kevin Dobbs and Paula Porter were having an affair at the Field Club?”

  “Of course. Didn’t everyone? Everyone except his parents, of course. I was just telling Bob the other night that Kevin’s had to work too hard for everything and he deserves a little pleasure. I believe in raising independent children, but poor Kevin has been pushed too hard. I could kill that Doug Dobbs sometimes. He’s such a male chauvinist. He sits and does some sort of esoteric surgery and gets paid millions, probably—or close enough, anyway—and then his kids have to work and he doesn’t think that Nancy needs household help or even an au pair.

  “I don’t know about Paula. If I were a sixteen-year-old boy, I don’t think I would choose a milquetoast like that to sleep with. She never struck me as sexy, but then what would I know? I guess I’ve had a hard time seeing her clearly ever since the PTA elections. I still have the feeling that they were rigged by Charline in some way. And Paula must have been in on it, don’t you think?”

  “I wonder if the police know about Kevin and Paula?” Susan said.

  “The police!” Ellen hit her forehead with her palm. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do the police know about the elections?”

  “The PTA elections? What difference would it make if they did? You keep asking me the same thing. They can’t think that we killed Paula because she didn’t nominate us for co-presidents.” I hope, she added silently. “And anyway, they think the same person killed Paula who killed Jan, and Jan had nothing to do with the nominating committee. I really think you’re letting this presidency thing get to you. What I want to know is what did you and Detective Fortesque talk about while I was in the kitchen? What’s that noise?”

  Both of them stared at the door, which was being slowly lifted up and into the room, apparently on its own power. Then appeared a hand holding a screwdriver, and a face peered through the opening.

  “Ellen? Susan? We don’t mean to interrupt, but, well, I couldn’t imagine what was going on. If you’re okay …” Martha Hallard asked, looking confused. Dan Hallard put down the door, dropping the screwdriver he had used to release it from its hinges.

  “We were just looking for a quiet place to talk. Nothing serious,” Ellen insisted, getting up from her perch on the john. “Sorry to cause so much trouble.”

  “Well, I guess you can put the door back, Dan,” Martha said. “I think that there must be better places to talk, Ellen. This is a big house.”

  “Yes. But what I want now is another drink.” Ellen walked past Dan and the door as though this happened every day.

  “I guess I’ll get something to drink, too,” Susan said, smiling uncertainly as she squeezed out of the room, past Martha Hallard and the group that had gathered to see what was going on. What had they expected to see? Two bodies writhing on the floor? Everyone knew that type of thing didn’t happen in Hancock. Except, she reminded herself, choosing seltzer over something alcoholic, it had been happening at the Club all summer long and it seemed she was the only one who didn’t know about it. Boy, Detective Fortesque had sure come to the wrong person for information.

  She stopped, glass in hand, to repeat the question: Why had he come to her?

  At that moment, Detective Fortesque, in room 214 at the local Holiday Inn, wouldn’t have appreciated more information. He was having a very difficult time handling what he had. He took a sip of watered-down Scotch. No room service here; luckily he’d brought his own supplies. The room had come equipped with its own small refrigerator, hidden under the bathroom sink, but the ice cubes must have been in it since the day it was installed, he decided. They gave his good Scotch a soapy aftertaste.

  He had come to his room without stopping for a nightcap in the bar, thinking that a few hours spent alone with a pad and pencil might help sort the facts into a pattern. He didn’t know what Kathleen was doing. She had also returned to her room: next door, number 216. Was she also sitting and thinking about the murders? What else could she be doing? Rinsing out her stockings?

  Well, those thoughts were going to get him nowhere. He picked up his pen and started making lists: lists of people at the PTA lunch; lists of people at the Field Club the day Paula was killed; lists of suspects they had questioned; lists of those they hadn’t. Lists of motives.

  Because, he thought, that was what he was looking for here: a motive. Or two motives?

  He threw down his pen and picked up his drink, thinking how he’d felt two days ago, before he had even seen Hancock. He’d been so optimistic then, so sure he could walk into a roomful of middle-aged PTA mothers and they would … would what? Throw themselves at his feet and confess? Throw themselves into his arms and undress?

  He could see his reflection in the mirror without moving much. He’d always been good-looking. When he was a kid, he’d thought that maybe it helped make up for his lateness in learning to read and his general slowness in the rest of his schoolwork. But as he got older and school became so easy that he could expect an academic scholarship to college, he found that he was, if anything, even better-looking. And he had developed a charm to go with his looks. Sure, he used it, but he didn’t depend on it. He had come to depend on hard work and clear thinking. And, at times, bursts of inspiration that combined all the facts into a pattern that revealed the truth.

  At least, that’s how it had worked before. He had solved bank robberies, complex cases of fraud, even a kidnapping. But this case he couldn’t sort through. His job was important to him. He couldn’t let this one go down in the file as unsolved. He was lucky the press hadn’t gotten hold of the story yet. That would put extra pressure on him, and that he didn’t need.

  Oh, hell. He put down his drink and yanked off his clothes. He’d shower in the morning. As he checked the small travel alarm already in place on the table next to the bed, pausing to turn off the light before he slid down under the covers, a quiet click near his head caught his attention. It was a muted echo of the switch on his own light in the room next to his. Kathleen was also getting into bed. He imagined what she must look like …

  Shit. He was never going to get any sleep.

  ELEVEN

  The next morning, Brett’s first words were (after hello) the standard “We don’t give out information during a murder investigation.” It had happened; the press had heard about the murders. Now they would be all over everyone involved for the slightest lead, the least bit of information that could fill out a story. Forgetting that some of these same members of the
press corps were his friends when they weren’t on the same case, he sat up in bed and cursed at them in absentia. What a lousy way to start the day!

  Of course, he couldn’t warn the members of the Hancock community not to speak to the press, and he hoped Kathleen had more sense … but he’d better check. A call to her room only told him the line was busy. The question was, was she calling home or accepting a call from the Daily News? The Daily News—oh hell, at the end of August with no real news, they’d blow up this story until it looked like another Son of Sam thing or the Tylenol murders. Whom was she talking to? He shook the receiver as though it could answer.

  Well, he’d be stupid to take any chances. Forgetting his shower, forgetting even to shave, he pulled on yesterday’s clothing, found lying crumpled by his bed, and knocked loudly on the locked doorway between the two rooms.

  There was some banging around, a small crash or two, some rattling of the doorknob, and then the door opened. Kathleen, wrapped in the bedspread, inappropriately printed with gargantuan Hawaiian flowers, stood before him. The lamp next to the bed, as well as the ashtray, had been knocked on the floor, the result, no doubt, of her desire to use the bedclothes as a wrap. She looked tousled and beautiful and her phone was off the hook.

  “You were talking to someone?” he asked, nodding at the phone.

  “So?”

  Well, she didn’t wake up in a very good mood, did she? “Not the press, I hope,” he said.

  “You think they should get all their information from the victims’ families and people like that? You think there’s something wrong with the honest dissemination of the news? You think—”

  “I think we don’t talk to the press during an investigation. We let the public-relations flaks in Hartford do it for us. That’s what I think.” He walked across the room and smacked the receiver back onto the phone.

  “You had no right to do that!” She almost sprang at him.

  “I had every right. I’m your superior officer on this case. You had no right to go talking to the press without me saying so.” He glared at her. “I’m going to shave and shower and dress. We can talk about this in the coffee shop. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He slammed the door behind him on the way out.

  He thought he was quick, but Kathleen was already sitting at a table for two by the window, sipping steaming coffee, when he arrived. No longer sleepy and sexy-looking, she had pulled her hair back into something resembling a bun and was wearing little, if any, makeup. Her clothes were what fashion people called oversized and he called too loose.

  “Coffee?” a young waitress asked cheerfully, putting a menu down on the table across from Kathleen.

  “Please.” He sat and picked up the menu. Technicolor visions of too-yellow eggs and gleaming French toast didn’t tempt him. Oh well, he had to eat. “Cheese omelet, sausage patties, and English muffins,” he ordered.

  “Right away, sir.” Had she winked at him? Kathleen thought so.

  “You’ve made quite an impression in a very small amount of time,” she said, looking into her coffee.

  “The hell with her. She’s not out of high school. Listen,” Brett insisted. “I’m sorry if I jumped on you this morning. I was pissed at those reporters. I should have known they were going to hear about this, but their involvement is going to make our jobs harder.”

  “How so?” She still didn’t look up.

  “Well, they’ll ask every one of the suspects about the two murders and people will exaggerate and other people will read the exaggerations and it will become harder and harder for us to find out the facts. And then headquarters will start getting political pressure. Politicians pay us nothing and then panic when we can’t do everything instantly. And that pressure will come down on us. We’ll be expected to pull the murderer out of thin air, the sooner the better. Nothing good ever comes out of press involvement. Believe me, they’re worse than leeches.”

  “My fiancé writes for The New York Times.” The face came up from the coffee mug and the look suggested that he just try and make something of it.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were engaged. No ring,” he explained.

  “It’s unofficial. Uh, he’s still working out the details of his divorce with his … uh, his ex-wife.”

  “You mean almost ex-wife,” Brett corrected.

  “I mean that I intend to talk to him when and if I feel like it, and that it is no business of yours.”

  “I don’t care when you talk to him, but I do care what you say,” Brett said. “I expect you to be able to keep your personal and professional lives separate and not to pass on information to anyone. You are not to—”

  “I am more than willing to keep police and personal business separate, and I certainly expect you to stay out of my affairs. What I mean is …”she started to correct herself, realizing she had used the wrong word.

  “No problem,” Brett replied, smiling at her slip.

  The waitress slid their meals before them and they ate. Brett was thinking that, although he had scored a point, the news of a current attachment was a disappointment. More of a disappointment than he had expected.

  “Are you Brett Fortesque?” The waitress was back.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a phone call for you at the desk,” she said with a wiggle. “Oh, not a reporter. They’ve been calling all morning. It’s been keeping Lucy on the switchboard very busy. This call is from a Mrs. Cooper. She said it was urgent and that you would talk to her. Will you?”

  “Mrs. Cooper?” He remembered. “Oh, that must be Ellen. Yes, I’ll talk to her.” He speared one of his sausages and stuck it in his mouth. “Is there someplace private where I can talk to her without going back to my room?”

  “I knew you’d ask that,” she answered, obviously thrilled at her own perceptiveness. “You can use the phone in the manager’s office. He never comes in on Sunday. I’ll bring your breakfast and you can finish it while you talk.”

  “Excellent idea.” He turned to Kathleen.

  “I’ll finish here,” she said, looking out the window rather than at him.

  He shrugged, waited for the waitress to reload a tray with his food, and followed her out of the restaurant, through the lobby, and into a door marked “Manager” in gold letters.

  Kathleen had finished her own food and was debating the wisdom of a third cup of coffee when he returned.

  “We’re going to meet Ellen Cooper at the Field Club,” he announced.

  “I don’t think I’ve met her,” Kathleen remarked, ready to put this morning’s argument behind them and get on with work.

  “That’s right. I talked to her yesterday morning. You were still down at the municipal building.”

  “Why did you interview her so early in the case?” Kathleen asked, signing her room number across the bottom of her check after adding a tip. “I don’t remember who she is.”

  “To be honest, if I hadn’t met her at Susan Henshaw’s, I might not have done so, but she placed herself in the forefront.”

  “I don’t understand.” Kathleen swung her shoulder bag onto her shoulder and started to leave the room.

  “Do you need to return to your room for anything?” Brett asked, following her.

  “No. Unless you do, I’d rather just get on with it.”

  “Great. I told the girl on the switchboard to take messages for today. They’ll probably all be from the press, but”—he paused, thinking himself on shaky ground again—“we should go through them anyway.”

  “Yes.” She ignored his comment. “About this Ellen Cooper.”

  “What about her?”

  “Why is she calling? How did you end up interviewing her early in the case? What did you mean when you said she placed herself in the forefront?”

  “She’s one of those people, I think, who hates to have something happen without herself being involved,” he answered tentatively.

  “Isn’t she one of the women who wanted to be president of the PTA next year
that I’m so tired of hearing about?”

  “Yes, but that’s not all there is to her. She came over to the Henshaw house while I was talking to Mrs. Henshaw on Saturday morning. And when she found out that I was there, she didn’t excuse herself, she immediately became involved in helping describe the various PTA members and also the ones that were at the Field Club when Paula Porter died. And then she took advantage of the time when she and I were alone together—”

  “When was that?” Kathleen interrupted, going through the door he had opened for her.

  “When Susan Henshaw went to make some coffee. I suggested it more to find out if Mrs. Cooper would stay around than to get the coffee.”

  “And Ellen Cooper didn’t offer to help get the coffee?”

  “She may have offered, but it was a halfhearted offer at best. And I think that Susan Henshaw expected Ellen to insist. I think she’s that type of person. But maybe I’m wrong.” They had arrived at the car and he stopped talking to unlock it.

  “And so?” Kathleen pushed, getting in.

  “And so,” he replied, putting the key in the ignition, “she took advantage of the time when Susan was out of the room to explain in long and repetitive detail how she never did anything for the PTA except for the good of the organization. That there was never any personal gain or greed or aggrandizement involved.”

  “And you knew she was lying?”

  “No, I got the impression that she believed every word she said,” Brett answered. “But, in fact, I think she was lying. I think she’s unwilling to admit to herself just why she does the things she does, why she has to be involved in everything.”

  “Is this the amateur shrink hour?” Kathleen asked.

  “Okay, you don’t have to agree with me. Just see what you think of her.”

  “I will, if you’ve taken the right turn for once.”

  “The left turn is the right turn and here we are,” Brett answered fatuously, but they were, in fact, approaching the Field Club’s impressive gates.

  “So where is she going to meet us? Or didn’t she say?” Kathleen asked, as he parked the car.