Foul Play at the PTA

by Laura Alden

  Marcia frowned. “Maybe I . . . ?” The sentence trailed off into the place where sentences go to die when the speaker (at last) clues in to the fact that she hasn’t had any idea what was really going on. “Quit?” she asked. “You want me to quit?”

  Yes, please. But I couldn’t say that out loud. Or . . . could I? “Yes, I do.”

  Her face went still. “After all these years? All the days and nights and weekends I’ve worked for you, and just like that you want me gone?”

  Not nearly as many nights and weekends as she’d been scheduled to work, but whatever.

  “All the things I’ve done for this store, and when I ask for a little time off, it’s time to get rid of me?”

  There wasn’t any point in answering. She’d decided to cast herself as victim, and I was the villain. It was a new role for me, outside of the times I was dubbed the Meanest Mom in the Whole Wide World, and I already knew I didn’t like it. At all.

  “You’re firing me, aren’t you?”

  Her voice was loud now, and I tried not to think about how many customers were listening in. A smart bookstore owner would have had this conversation in her office behind a closed door.

  “Aren’t you?” Marcia’s white face had gone a blotchy red.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m firing you. I’ll pay you through the rest of the week and—”

  “You can’t fire me.” She snatched her coat off the hook and forced her arms through the sleeves. “I quit!”

  She stomped through the store, head high, the edges of her long woolen coat swinging open, catching at the occasional low-shelved book and pulling it to the ground. At the front door she turned and made determined eye contact. “I hope you have a good lawyer!”

  And she was gone, leaving behind a trail of animosity, pain, and a few picture books. The picture books I could put away, the others . . . I sighed.

  A female face peeked up over the top of the Middle Grades books. “Is she gone?” she asked in a stage whisper.

  “Afraid so.” My smile was weak. “I’m sorry you had to listen to that.”

  “Good heavens.” The customer straightened and walked around the end of the shelving, and I ran through names until I found a set that fit. Barb. Barb with a W. Two syllables. Walker. Wilhelm. Wylie . . . Got it.

  “Mrs. Watson,” I said, “that conversation should have been private and I apologize. It couldn’t have been very pleasant.”

  “Hah!” Mrs. Barb Watson came close and thumped me on the shoulder. As she was six inches taller than I was and sturdy as an overengineered bridge, I rocked back on my heels and tried not to wave my arms about.

  “Best eavesdropping I’ve had in years,” she said. She thumped me on the shoulder again. This time I was prepared for it and leaned into the blow. “Top-notch moment in the history of this store, if you ask me.” She guffawed. “You hit a high note at the bowel movement. Good girl!”

  “I liked the ‘Why do you work here at all’ part.” A short, stoop-shouldered woman edged closer. Her white hair curled up and around the wildly colored knit hat she wore. “That was my favorite.”

  “No, the best part was ‘And I’m always on time, except for once in a while.’ Please.” A middle-aged man in a suit and tie leaned against an endcap of stuffed animals. “I would have fired her then and there. Your restraint is admirable.”

  I looked from customer to customer to customer. “You think so? I mean, I’ve never fired anyone before. It’s not . . . not a very nice thing to have to do.”

  “Course not,” Barb said.

  The man shook his head. “It never is. That’s why it’s so important to hire the right people in the first place.”

  “Wait a few days,” advised the elderly woman. “Things will settle down and you’ll find the store operates fine without a clerk like that.”

  “You think so?” Management consultants lurked everywhere; you just had to open your eyes.

  Barb chuckled, a rich, throaty noise that rose up out of her body like a warm fountain. “Know so.”

  The stoop-shouldered woman edged closer. She looked left and right and we all drew close. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but . . .” She looked at the floor and we leaned farther in. “But Marcia once told me that Anne of Green Gables took place on an island.” She paused dramatically. “Long Island.”

  My male consultant looked puzzled. I was appalled. Barb threw back her head and laughed. And, since her laughter was too big to stay inside one person, it spread first to the elderly woman, then to the man in the suit, and finally to me.

  We held on to bookshelves to keep from falling to the floor, and laughed and laughed and laughed.

  A mere four hours later, I was sitting in a freshly empty Tarver classroom. Erica placed her half-glasses on her nose. “This special meeting of the Tarver Elementary PTA will come to order,” she said, managing to convey disapproval without so much as a sniff.

  I looked out across the minimalist audience, which consisted of three of the four dance committee members and no one else. Marina, the fourth member, was in the gym, babysitting the kids.

  Erica forged ahead. “Our vice president, Claudia Wolff, called this meeting. Claudia, you have the floor.”

  “Thank you, Erica,” Claudia said gravely.

  I glanced down at the agenda: “Thanksgiving Father-Daughter Dance.” The PTA had sponsored this dance every year for eons. Always held the second Saturday in November, it was consistently the PTA’s most successful fund-raiser.

  What on earth could be so important that Claudia needed to call a meeting? The dance committee had met a few days ago; all the dancing ducks were in a row. There was the small matter of who was going to play deejay, but I was almost sure the issue would be settled without bloodshed. CeeCee Daniels was committee chair, and though she didn’t always present herself as someone who could sort a sock drawer, she was, in fact, a very competent organizer.

  “Having this meeting was a difficult decision for me,” Claudia said. “I’ve had hardly any sleep as I’ve struggled with what’s the right thing to do.” She bit her lower lip. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had such a hard thing to decide.”

  Erica started tapping her index finger on the tabletop, a sign to “get to the point or I’ll make your point for you.”

  “Some things are easy to decide,” Claudia said, “but the tough decisions are hard.”

  Maybe it was the deejay. Or maybe . . .

  Erica couldn’t stand it any longer. “Please. We all have other places we’d rather be.”

  A sudden flash of Claudia insight filled my brain. “Oh, no,” I whispered, too softly for anyone to hear. “Please, no.” But the universe is a cold, hard place and my plea went unanswered.

  Claudia focused her big wet eyes on our PTA president. “What are we going to do about the murder of Sam Helmstetter?” She swung around to look at me.

  I wanted to put my head in my hands. Almost by accident, I’d once helped put a killer in jail. The odds of doing it again were about as good as the chances of me losing ten pounds over the holidays. The odds of me wanting to do it again were roughly the same. I wanted the murderer brought to justice, of course I did, but I wasn’t going to risk life and limb to do so, not with two children depending on me.

  Firm thoughts. Excellent. Keep it up, Beth. Don’t let your mind wander off into investigations you aren’t going to pursue. Stop wondering about who knew of the change in the meeting date. Stop wondering about that white van you saw on the way home that night, parked where you’d never seen any vehicle parked before. Stop wondering about any of it.

  “We are all troubled about Sam’s death.” Erica, as always, was ready with the right thing to say. Maybe in a million years or so some of her ability would rub off on me. “But this agenda”—she held up the sheet of paper—“is related to PTA business.”

  “I know.” Claudia dabbed at her eyes. “That’s why this is so hard. The dance is important, but not as important as Sam.”

>   Erica folded her hands and spoke in a patient voice. “Claudia. What are you proposing?”

  “I think . . .” Her mascara was almost, not quite but almost, smearing. “I think we should cancel the dance. In honor of Sam. It wouldn’t be right for us to dance the night away with poor Sam dead.”

  Since the event closed down at nine o’clock, it was hard to square reality with her statement, but I suppose I knew what she meant.

  “Especially when you think about where he was killed.” She drew in a raggedy breath. “In this very parking lot. Think about it. Poor Sam was killed right there!”

  I’d been trying very hard not to think about it. Thanks to Claudia, however, my internal gaze went out the door, down the hall, out the front door, and to the dark far corner of the parking lot, where Erica and I had . . .

  “We’re all having a hard time with Sam’s death,” Erica said. “But let’s stay on topic, shall we?” There was velvet steel in her voice, and I got a glimpse of what she’d been like in the courtroom. “Now. You are proposing a cancellation of the twenty-third annual Tarver Elementary PTA Father-Daughter Dance, correct?”

  Claudia rubbed her cheek. “That’s right. It’s the least we can do for poor Sam and—”

  “Does the dance committee have a recommendation?” Erica asked. “We’ve advertised the dance. It’s scheduled for Saturday, eight days from today. If we’re going to cancel, we need to do it now.”

  CeeCee had that deer-in-the-headlights look. The other committee members were two mothers I didn’t know very well. All I knew about Ursula was that she’d had triplets. I couldn’t even remember the name of the other woman. Something to do with the weather. Stormy? Autumn?

  “Ladies?” Erica asked.

  I considered going to fetch Marina, but Marina’s response would be: “Cancel the dance? Is Claudia insane?” She’d cross her eyes, say, “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve heard since they decided to revamp the lunch menu and get rid of Tater Tots,” and the meeting would go downhill from there. Much better to sit quiet and let events roll out without the benefit of Marina’s opinions. She’d be annoyed at my high-handedness, but she’d been annoyed before.

  The mother whose name I didn’t know slid to the front edge of her seat. “I . . . I think having the dance would be okay. It’s a tradition. The girls and dads look forward to it. And it’s a very profitable fund-raiser.”

  I looked at her curiously. She was probably ten years younger than my forty-one, and had straight brown hair like mine. If I cut off my feet to lower my height a few inches and lost twenty pounds, we could look like sisters. Not that I needed another sister.

  Claudia straightened. “Why do we let money rule our decisions?” Her voice grew strident. “Is holding a good fund-raiser more important than Sam’s memory? Is that what you’re saying?”

  The unnamed mother slid back. “No. I didn’t mean . . . I mean . . .” She shrank into herself and nearly disappeared.

  “Ursula?” Erica asked, taking no prisoners. “What do you think?”

  “Well . . .” Ursula’s gaze darted from Claudia to CeeCee to Erica and back around again. “Maybe we could hold off until December? Or January? After the holidays, anyway. Would that be a problem?”

  Of course it would, I thought.

  “Yes, it would.” Erica was writing, but I couldn’t see if she was writing notes or doodling. Sketches of flowers would be my guess. “Rescheduling a large fund-raising event is impossible. We have a Valentine’s mother-son dance the first week of February, and holding two dances within a three-week span isn’t the best use of anyone’s time. Canceling the dance or holding it are the only two realistic options.”

  As surreptitiously as I could, I craned my neck around the front of Claudia to look at Erica’s notepad. Daffodils and tulips.

  “Anyone else?” Erica asked. “CeeCee? You’re the committee chair. Surely you have an opinion. Currently we have one opinion for holding the dance and one for postponing it. Where do you fall?”

  CeeCee pushed her hair back behind her ears. This could be interesting. CeeCee and Claudia had been friends since they ran around in their backyards in diapers and nothing else. I’d heard (from Marina) that their husbands didn’t get along, so their friendship was limited, but CeeCee often bowed to Claudia’s will.

  The last time I’d seen it in action was when they were shopping in the bookstore and Claudia had scoffed at the graphic novel CeeCee was reading. “That stuff’s awful. Your kids read too much of that and their brains will rot.” And though CeeCee had put the novel back in the rack, she’d come back a week later—alone—and bought it for her son. “It’s all he likes to read,” she explained. “It’s better for him to read this than nothing at all, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely,” I’d said, and wrapped the novel in special glitter paper, no extra charge.

  Now, she opened and closed her mouth repeatedly without saying a word, and looked as miserable as a cat in a rainstorm.

  “CeeCee?” Erica put on a patient smile. “Do you have anything to say?”

  “I . . .” Her eyes darted left, right. And down to her lap. “No,” she said softly. “Nothing.”

  Erica’s eyebrows rose into high peaks. “No opinion? You’ve been active on the dance committee for years, headed it the last two, spent hour after hour on the preparations, and you aren’t speaking in support?”

  CeeCee kept her attention on her lap and shook her head.

  “Well.” Erica sat back. “Do we have a motion?”

  “Yes,” Claudia said. “I move that, due to the death of Sam Helmstetter, we cancel the Tarver PTA Father-Daughter Thanksgiving Dance.”

  “Is there a second?” Erica asked.

  My learned response was to wait for Randy, who could always be relied on to second anything. But Randy wasn’t here; during the winter he didn’t have anyone to cover him at his gas station.

  “Do I hear a second?”

  I shuffled my feet. Licked my lips. “I second the motion.”

  Erica stared at me. I could feel the intensity of her unspoken question: What are you doing?

  Between us, Claudia was smiling as if she’d gotten top score in a spelling bee.

  “The motion is seconded. Is there any further discussion? No?” Erica kept her gaze riveted on me. “Roll call vote, please. Those in favor signify by saying aye. Those against, signify by saying nay. Will the secretary call the roll?”

  My throat suddenly felt clogged. I coughed once, then again. “Wolff?”

  “I hope,” Claudia said, “that the rest of the board understands the rightness of canceling this dance. I vote aye,” she said, smiling at me.

  “Hale?”

  I expected Erica to launch into a concise yet detailed summary of the reasons for her vote, but all she said was a short nay.

  “Kennedy.” I scribbled my vote and looked up. Erica, Claudia, and our small audience were all waiting expectantly. Erica, with her eyebrows still lifted; Claudia, smiling with happy confidence.

  But it was a confidence born from a lack of knowledge regarding parliamentary procedure. Seconding a motion does not mean support of a motion. It merely means you agree that the topic of the motion should be discussed. Not many people understood the intent of a second, but thanks to an online course I’d recently taken, Robert’s Rules and I were as one. “Sam loved to dance with his daughter,” I said. “My vote is nay.”

  Erica’s brilliant smile was completely eclipsed by the storm cloud on Claudia’s face.

  “You can’t do that!” she shouted. “You seconded! That means support. You have to vote in favor. Point of order!”

  “The meeting is still in order.” Erica put on her lawyer face. “A second to a motion merely allows discussion about the motion to take place. Robert’s Rules of Order is very clear about this, and our bylaws state that we operate under those rules. I have the tenth edition, if you’d like to borrow it.”

  “She supported,” Claudia said. “She ha
s to vote in favor.”

  “No, she seconded.” Erica clicked her pen. “Your objections will be part of the minutes. Beth, are there any communications? No? Then this meeting is adjourned. Thank you for coming.”

  I hurriedly made a note of the time and started stuffing papers into the diaper bag.

  “How could you do that to me?” Claudia asked. She’d stood and was looking down at me with red anger flaring in her eyes.

  Confronting hostility was so low on my priority list it might as well not have been written down. “I’m sorry we disagree, but—”

  “Sorry? If you were that sorry you’d have voted the right way. But no, you vote with Erica. President’s pet, that’s what you’re turning into. You don’t have a mind of your own.”

  Even I could be pushed only so far. I put the tape recorder into the bag, then stood, surprisingly calm. For years I’d held insults and slurs tight in my stomach, letting them color my days and nights with a dull gray. Tonight her words didn’t touch me. Was it possible I was finally growing up?

  I looked Claudia full in her flushed face and my mouth went dry. Possible, but not probable. I smiled and shrugged. “Looks like we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

  “No way am I agreeing with you on anything.” Claudia’s hands had turned into fists. “You can bet your last dollar that I’ll never vote for anything you want. Ever!” She tossed her nose in the air and stomped out of the room.

  My hands trembled slightly as I watched her go. From now on Claudia would do her best to make PTA meetings miserable for me. I hated being miserable.

  Erica buttoned her coat, chuckling. “President’s pet? Nice alliteration. Shall I have a name tag made up?”

  I summoned a smile. “Choosing the color would be too hard. I need to be color-coordinated at all times.”

  “Black on white,” Erica said. “Goes with everything.”

  “Please. Those colors would look atrocious against my sleeveless silver lamé gown.” I shuddered.

  Erica laughed. “Wear it to the dance.” She lifted one eyebrow. “Wonder what Claudia is going to wear.” She laughed again, hefted her briefcase, and walked out.