Murder at the PTA (2010) bk-1

by Laura Alden

  I opened the top drawer of the undercounter filing cabinet, put the phone inside, and shut the drawer. “Lois, is Paoze here? I’m ready for a long lunch.”

  Her gray head popped above a rack of young adult paperbacks. “He just came in.”

  For part-time help I’d hired two University of Wisconsin college students, Sara and Paoze. Sara was as German-looking as you could get: tall, blond, blue-eyed, and pale of face. Paoze, a young Hmong immigrant from Laos, was her reverse image with short black hair, black eyes, and dark-toned skin. He stuck out in Rynwood like a snowball in a coal bin.

  Paoze materialized in front of me. “Good morning, Mrs. Kennedy. I hope I am not late.” Until he’d started high school, Paoze hadn’t spoken much English beyond “yes,” “no,” and “I need bathroom.” Now a literature major, he yearned to write a novel based on his family’s struggles.

  “No, Paoze, you’re not late. How was the bike ride?”

  “Fine, thank you.” He nodded, almost bowing.

  I opened the drawer and removed the phone. “It’s all yours. I’m going to lunch.”

  The phone rang, and I practically sprinted to my office for purse, coat, and gloves. The weather had turned in the last couple of weeks; Indian summer was a thing of the past. That morning I’d seen a skin of ice on a pond and there’d be snow before we knew it.

  “Good morning, the Children’s Bookshelf,” Paoze said. “How may I help you?”

  I pulled on my coat and headed for the front of the store. “Not here,” I stage-whispered.

  “I am sorry, madam, but Mrs. Kennedy has stepped out.” Paoze smiled, showing brilliantly white teeth. “Would you care to leave a message?”

  The kid deserved a raise. Too bad I couldn’t afford to give him one. I pushed the front door open, rushing into fresh air and freedom. No phones, my heart sang. An hour with no talk of Agnes or the Addition or—“Ooomph!” I banged into an immovable object that had suddenly appeared in the middle of the sidewalk. The impact sent me staggering.

  “Oomph, yourself,” the object said. I felt a grasp on my arms, and my lurch for balance ended. “Are you all right?”

  It was a male object. Straight ahead of me were white buttons on a blue denim shirt. I looked up and saw an attractively muscled neck—higher, a wide, clean-shaven chin. Higher yet there were firm lips, straight nose, blue eyes, wide forehead, and curly blond hair with the lightest touch of white at the temples.

  “You look a little stunned,” he said.

  “Yes. I mean, no. I’m fine.” The heat from his hands was burrowing through my clothes and into my skin. “Sorry. Usually I look where I’m going.” I stepped out of his grip.

  “But not always?” He lifted one side of his mouth in a devastatingly attractive lopsided grin.

  “Afraid not. I’m often in a hurry, and once I almost ran right into Auntie May’s wheelchair.”

  “Auntie May?”

  “She’s not my real aunt. She’s everybody’s aunt. Everybody in Rynwood, anyway.” I was babbling, but couldn’t stop myself. Happened every time I was embarrassed. If I didn’t turn bright red, I babbled. In bad cases, I did both. “She’s about a hundred and fifty years old and lives in Sunny Rest Assisted Living. It’s a couple blocks over, and on warm days she gets a nurse’s aide to wheel her downtown.”

  “She sounds like a nice lady.”

  “She’s a holy terror.” Stop, I told myself. Stop. “That day I almost ran into her, she screamed bloody murder and started whacking me with her umbrella. If the wheelchair hadn’t started rolling away, she might have killed me.”

  He laughed and held out his hand. “Evan Garrett.”

  Tentatively, I put my hand in a palm twice the size of mine. “Beth Kennedy.” He must have had experience shaking hands with normal-sized humans; his grip didn’t even make me wince.

  “You own the bookstore,” he stated.

  My neck was getting sore from looking up at him. I took a step back. My chiropractor would give me a gold star. “Yes, but—”

  “How did I know?” He did that half-grin thing. “Spies.”

  I glanced up and down the sidewalk.

  “Or,” he said, “it could be that I saw your name on the Chamber of Commerce members list.”

  “The spy story is better.”

  “But we don’t want our relationship to get started on a lie, do we?”

  His gaze was on my face, and I felt the familiar heat moving up my neck. “You’re new in Rynwood?” I blurted.

  “Signed the papers on the hardware store last week.”

  “I thought . . .” The heat continued up my neck and onto my face.

  “That Stanley was trying to unload it on some unsuspecting moron? That’s me,” he said cheerfully, “the new moron in town.”

  “Oh.” I couldn’t think of a thing to say. The best-looking man ever seen in Rynwood was standing in front of me and my mind was empty. I’d never known what to say to Beautiful People. They belonged in a different solar system and lived by different rules. Mr. Evan Garrett was too good-looking not to know he was good-looking, and I knew what that meant: He was most likely a jerk. Yup, a jerk. As soon as I passed judgment, my tongue loosened and my voice returned. “Even morons can run a business. Look at me.” I took another step back and rubbed my neck. “It’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Garrett. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

  “Evan,” he said. “And I say there’s no time like the present. What do you say to lunch? I could use some advice on restaurants.”

  “Oh.” I glanced at my store. At my watch. At the copy of Breaking Dawn I’d picked up on my way out the door. At anywhere but at this stunningly good-looking man, who was no doubt trying to suck local knowledge out of my brain and leave me a spent husk. “Thanks, but I have some errands to run.”

  Just then I saw a nightmare marching toward me: Claudia Wolff, mother of Tyler, Taylor, and Taynor, and her compatriot-in-arms, Tina Heller, mother of Brytny and Tyfanni.

  “Beth!” Claudia shouted. “Beth, is that you? I want to talk to you about Agnes.”

  “On second thought,” I said, looking up into eyes the color of a summer sky, “I am hungry. Have you eaten at the Grill? No? Then you have a treat coming.”

  With a quick “Call me tonight” to Claudia, I made my escape.

  “This isn’t what I expected from a place called the Grill.”

  I turned to see Evan ducking under an accordion that dangled from the ceiling. With a quick step left and back right again, he avoided both a tray-laden waitress and a collection of skis stacked into a tepee shape.

  “Well,” I said, “the proper name is Fred’s Eclectic Collections and Food from the Grill, but no one ever calls it that.”

  The hostess waved us to a table underneath a shelf of toasters, laid out our silverware and napkins on the paper place mats, and hurried off.

  “She forgot our menus.” Evan started to rise. “I’ll go get a couple.”

  I pointed at his place mat. “She didn’t forget.”

  He sat and ran his finger down the short list. “Hamburgers. Hot dogs. Brats.”

  Hmm. He’d pronounced “brats” the Midwestern way, rhyming it with “hots.” So much for my just-formed theory that he was a transplanted New Yorker trying to bring life back to a small town.

  “And French fries.” He looked up at me. “That’s it?”

  “Yup. Fred sticks to what he knows.”

  “Hello, my dear.” Flossie Untermayer, who was eighty if she was a day, pulled off a multicolored knit hat and shook out her silvery hair with the grace of the ballet dancer she’d once been. “Ask me to sit, will you, please? I’m aching to know about last night’s PTA meeting. Hello, young man.” She turned to Evan, who’d stood as she approached. “You’re the new owner of the hardware, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Evan Garrett.”

  He blinked as they shook hands, and I tried not to smile. Flossie’s grip could wring tears out of a weight lifter. “Firs
t impressions count,” she’d once told me. “And I want a man’s first impression of me to be strength. You lose that first chance and it’s a steep uphill climb to prove yourself.”

  “Flossie Untermayer,” she said, lowering herself onto the chair next to him. “I run the grocery store, and some years I almost make a living. Do you think you can make that place work? No one has in twenty years.”

  Evan helped scoot her chair forward. “Time will tell.”

  She gave him a long look as he seated himself. “Yes, it will.” She quirked an eyebrow at me, that questioning look so easy for another woman to interpret, even if the women in question were forty years and almost two generations apart.

  I shrugged, shorthand for He’s just this guy I met half an hour ago. Sure, he’s gorgeous, but he’s probably a jerk, and I’m not ready to date anybody, anyway.

  Flossie nodded. “Tell me about the meeting last night. Dan Daniels stopped by for milk early this morning, and he looked ready to take on the whole school board. And when Kirk Olsen came in for doughnuts, I had the phone in my hand in case of a stroke. His face was that red.”

  Dan was CeeCee’s husband. He was a nurse at Sunny Rest Assisted Living and worked the afternoon shift, so he rarely made meetings, but clearly his wife had passed on the news. Too bad. Dan was one of those people who changed personality in and out of the workplace. As a nurse, he was caring and considerate and kindness itself. As a PTA member, he fought against any idea he hadn’t conceived himself.

  And Kirk Olsen had certainly been busy. Kirk was often out of his office on errands unrelated to his insurance business, and it was a mystery to all how he managed to keep his company afloat.

  “It’s an Agnes Project,” I said sadly.

  “Oh, great, merciful heavens,” Flossie said. “Is there any chance for us? Is there any chance for Agnes?”

  We laughed, Evan looked politely puzzled, and we ordered our meals.

  “I had macaroni and cheese for lunch,” Jenna announced. “I could eat mac and cheese every day and not get tired of it.”

  “What did you have, Oliver?” I started the car and backed down Marina’s driveway. In the rearview mirror I saw his small form slide into a slouch.

  “Hamburger,” he muttered.

  “Was it good?”

  “No. It was gross.”

  Jenna and I exchanged looks. Oliver loved hamburgers. “Did you tell Mrs. Krenz you don’t like mustard?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did it come without mustard?”

  “Yeah.” He slouched so low that I couldn’t see him any longer.

  “Then what was wrong with it?”

  “Nothing.”

  Jenna rolled her eyes. “So why was it gross?”

  “It just was.” He sounded three steps away from tears.

  “What’s the matter, Oliver?” I asked softly. “Is Toby Stillson picking on the little kids again?” There was nothing but silence from the backseat. “Did you have a spelling test?”

  “No.”

  At least he was talking. “What is it, Ollster?”

  Either the pet name got to him, or he was ready to crack, anyway. “They wouldn’t let us play!” Tones of outrage rounded out every vowel.

  I looked at Jenna. She shrugged.

  “Who wouldn’t let you play?” I asked.

  “It’s the place we always play every single recess, and they wouldn’t let us!”

  They? I immediately had a picture of a cabal of fifth graders standing shoulder to shoulder, forcing Oliver and his friends to slink away. “Did you tell your teacher?”

  “Yes!” he shouted. “She said they were right and we couldn’t play there again. Ever.”

  This didn’t make sense. “Who?”

  “The men.”

  Trying to get a story out of this kid was like sweeping sand with a bad broom. “What men?”

  “I don’t know. They were mean. They had hammers and colored hats and big papers.” He stretched his hands wide.

  My foot moved from gas pedal to brake. “Show me.”

  Five minutes later, Oliver was trudging across the playground. “See? Robert and I always play marbles there. And now we can’t.” His lower lip trembled and I pulled him close.

  The back side of Tarver Elementary was similar to many primary schools, with swing sets and slides and dirt packed hard by hordes of children. But tonight there was something new—a small forest of fresh wood stakes. Bright pink plastic tape fluttered from the tops of waist-high strips of wood, cryptic handwritten lettering marking each one. Things like “10’ off NE B Cor,” and “12” WM,” and “10’ off SW B Cor.” The pink ribbons flapped noisily in a sudden north wind, and I shivered.

  “Mommy?” Oliver pressed against me. “Can you fix it?”

  Oh, how I wanted to say yes. Oh, how I wanted to fix everything that had and ever would go wrong for my children.

  I pulled out my cell phone and started dialing.

  The playground had never seen so many adults. I’d called Marina and Erica. They’d each called four people. Each of those people had called four more. Within minutes of my red alert, parents started arriving. Claudia Wolff had brought her friend Tina, who had brought her husband, Tony, who had brought Don the dry cleaner, who had brought Kirk Olsen. Instead of six degrees of separation, Rynwood had more like three.

  “Did we miss anything?” Claudia Wolff charged up. “Hey, who was that handsome hunk we saw you with this noon? You sly cat, you. Do your children know?” She winked at Jenna.

  “I’m pulling out these stakes!” a burly man shouted. “Every time she puts them in, we’ll pull them out.”

  A murmur of assent ran through the group; I was suddenly sorry I’d called anyone. They called Madison “Mad City” for a reason, and Rynwood was close enough to Madison for the city’s history of civil disobedience to be contagious. “Um . . .”

  No one paid attention to me. The crowd was turning nasty, and I sincerely hoped Agnes didn’t make an appearance. These people were ready for a witch hunt. Give them pitchforks and torches and they’d set upon Agnes even if she lacked the black dress and pointed hat.

  “Pull them out!” Claudia yelled. “We’ll pile them on her front porch.”

  Jenna tugged on my coat sleeve. “Mom, I’m hungry.” I looked at her face and knew the tightness had nothing to do with a delayed dinner.

  “Me, too.” Oliver ducked his head under my arm and snuggled close.

  It was past time I took the kids away from this. “Me, three,” I said. Jenna smiled, and I felt Oliver’s giggle against my hip bone. “How about a treat tonight? What do you say to Hot Dog Heaven?”

  A single shout became a chant. “Pull them out! Pull them out!” Mob rule took hold, and the pack surged forward.

  My children and I went in the opposite direction, hand in hand in hand.

  “My tummy is all happy now,” Oliver said as I was starting the animal good nights.

  “I’m glad.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Will Robert’s dad get into trouble for taking out those little poles? The men who put them in said to leave them alone or the police will put us in jail.”

  “Robert’s dad isn’t going to jail.” I supposed the surveyors had been trying to keep their stakes intact, but scaring children was a poor way of going about it. “I promise.” And one day soon I’d have to figure out who Robert’s dad was. “Time to sleep. It’s way past your bedtime.”

  “I know.” He grinned, and my heart went mushy around the edges. “But you made us go out to eat.”

  “That’s right.” I picked up an armful of stuffed animals and started the routine. “Good night, Rex. Good night, Fred. Good night, Dancer.” By the time I’d finished, Oliver’s eyes were drooping. “Good night, Oliver.” I kissed my son’s forehead. “Sweet dreams and may tomorrow be your best day ever.”

  “Okay,” he said sleepily.

  Jenna was already o
ut. I took away her Sports Illustrated and clicked off the bedside light. “Night, sweetheart,” I whispered, and kissed her lightly.

  I went downstairs as quietly as I could. After half an hour, Oliver slept like a rock, but for the first thirty minutes a cough two floors away would wake him. I flicked on the desk light in the study and turned on the computer. Good little secretary that I was, I wanted to finish the minutes of last night’s meeting before falling into bed.

  The first pages of my handwritten notes were filled with quotes from concerned parents. Each succeeding page had an increasing number of doodles. Every person talking had said the same thing, over and over, the same things I’d heard on the phone all day. And I’d probably had dozens of e-mails on the subject, too.

  My own eyes were drooping when I reached the proof-reading stage at one in the morning. Yawning, I printed a hard copy and decided to look at e-mail. After subject lines such as “Tarver Addition,” “Agnes Must Go,” and “Legal Action Called For,” there was a series of e-mails from Marina. “Call me,” said the first one. Then, “Call me—urgent.” There were more with increasing numbers of capital letters and exclamation points. The last message had been sent less than five minutes ago.

  CALL ME!! URGENT!!!!

  “Why didn’t you call me yourself?” Grumbling, I picked up the phone, but there was no dial tone. “Oh . . .”

  Thirty seconds after walking in the door, the phone had rung. Carly, mother of Thomas and Victoria, had wanted to know how we were going to stop Agnes. After I’d finished with her, I’d pulled the cord out of the phone jack. Voilà, no more calls.

  I went into the kitchen and dialed Marina. “Sorry. I unplugged the phone. You wouldn’t believe how many people have called. What’s so important?”

  “Sit down.”

  “Why?”

  “Sit!”

  Marina never yelled at me. She scolded, cajoled, and occasionally henpecked, but she never shouted. I sat on a bar stool with a thump. “Something’s happened.” To Marina’s kids. To her husband. Her parents. Her sister. “Tell me.” My heart pushed blood through my neck in thick clumps.