Murder at the PTA (2010) bk-1

by Laura Alden

  “It’s Agnes.”

  My fear vanished. Annoyance replaced it. “Oh, geez. What’s she done now?”

  Marina breathed into the phone. Short, tension-filled puffs. “She’s dead.”

  “Dead?” That couldn’t be right. People as obnoxious as Agnes lived forever and turned into Auntie Mays. “As in dead dead?”

  “Yes.”

  The stool cut into the backs of my thighs. Agnes, dead? It couldn’t be.

  “And . . . Beth?” Marina’s voice was so quiet I had to press the phone hard against my head. “She was murdered.”

  Chapter 4

  The morning after Agnes was killed, I woke early and wondered how to break the news to Jenna and Oliver. “Good morning, kids! Your principal was murdered last night. How about some cereal?”

  No, that wouldn’t work. How about: “Mrs. Mephisto’s head had a bad accident with a blunt object.” Or “Last night, Mrs. Neff’s neighbor noticed the back door of Mrs. Mephisto’s house was open and went inside and saw . . .”

  Ick.

  I flung back the covers and decided to cook the children’s favorite breakfast. This meant two breakfasts, because naturally they couldn’t both like the same thing. For Jenna I cooked bacon and scrambled eggs; for Oliver I made blueberry pancakes and sausage. By the time we sat down to eat, the kitchen was piled high with dishes I didn’t have time to wash.

  “Cool!” Jenna slid into her place at the kitchen table. “It’s like a birthday breakfast.”

  “We both have birthdays today,” Oliver said.

  “Don’t be stu—” She glanced at me and made a sudden revision. “My birthday is in June and yours is in May. No one has a birthday in October.”

  “Robert does.”

  Jenna heaved a giant sigh. “No one in this family.”

  “Then why are we having birthday breakfast?” he asked.

  “Because . . .” Jenna, frowning, realized she had no clue why I’d cooked a real meal on a weekday. “You’re going to tell us something, aren’t you?” She stabbed her fork into a piece of bacon.

  I leaned over and cut up Oliver’s sausage into quarter-inch pieces.

  “You are, aren’t you?” Jenna shoved a piece of bacon into her mouth. “I bet it’s about what Mrs. Wolff said last night.”

  “What?” Oliver moved his head to look at his sister around my arm. “What did Mrs. Wolff say?”

  I was glad he’d asked, because I couldn’t remember myself.

  “She said you were with some man yesterday. She said you were a sly cat. She said—” Jenna blinked, her eyes flashing fast. “She asked if Oliver and me knew.”

  My first instinct was to correct her grammar, but I decided to let it go for once.

  “Knew what?” Oliver asked.

  With a rush, I remembered why I didn’t care much for Claudia Wolff.

  “You’re getting married, aren’t you?” Jenna dropped her silverware on the table in a metallic crash. “You’re going to marry some guy we don’t know.”

  “No!” Oliver shrieked. “You can’t! I’ll run away. I’ll lock myself in my room. I’ll—”

  I made my thumb and middle finger into a circle, put them in my mouth and blew a loud whistle. The kids went silent, albeit with mutinous expressions.

  “Number one,” I said, “I am not about to marry anyone.”

  Oliver’s face cleared immediately. He speared a piece of sausage and popped it in his mouth with a flourish.

  Jenna wasn’t so easily pacified. “But who was that man?”

  “A business acquaintance.”

  “Then why did Mrs. Wolff say what she did?”

  “I’m not sure.” The alternative answer had a lot to do with a word rhyming with ditch. “Jenna.” I reached across the table and held my daughter’s hand. “Do you really think I’d marry anyone without making sure you loved him, too?”

  She used the heel of her other hand to push away her unshed tears. “I guess not.”

  “You and Oliver are the most important people in my life.” My own eyes started blinking. “No one else comes close. No one ever will.”

  “Okay.”

  I reached out to give her a hug, but she leaned sideways and picked up another piece of bacon.

  “Why are we having birthday breakfasts?” Oliver asked.

  I looked from one young face to the other. When I’d woken up so early, the idea of cooking a nice meal had seemed like a great one. But maybe I’d done it more for me than for them. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  “Dad!” Jenna shot to her feet. “What’s wrong with Dad?”

  “Nothing,” I soothed. “He’s fine. Your grandparents are fine, all your friends are fine.”

  “How do you know for sure?” Jenna’s voice went shrill. “Maybe there was a car accident or something.”

  “Someone would have called. Everyone’s fine. Sit down, Jenna.” As she eased herself into the chair, I asked, “Remember Mr. Stoltz?”

  Oliver poured maple syrup over his pancakes. “The outside train.”

  Norman Stoltz had lived two blocks away and had built a magnificent garden train. The place was a kid magnet. If a child put in the requisite number of hours of weeding, he (or she) got to wear an engineer’s hat and run the controls. Sadly, Norman Stoltz had collapsed the year before from a massive heart attack.

  “He’s dead.” Jenna eyed me.

  “Yes.” I looked at my untouched plate. Cold poached eggs on a piece of cold toast. “I’m afraid Mrs. Mephisto is, too.”

  “Our principal?” Oliver asked.

  “She died last night.” I watched my children carefully, waiting for an emotional response, waiting for a tumultuous reaction, waiting for tears.

  “Like Mr. Stoltz?” Jenna asked. “Her heart gave out?”

  The adult phrase sounded strange coming from such young lips. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “She was pretty old.” A drop of maple syrup dripped onto Oliver’s shirt. “Maybe she just got tired.”

  “People don’t die because they’re tired,” Jenna said.

  “Paoze said that’s why his grandmother died. She was tired and went to sleep and never woke up.”

  “Maybe where he came from they die because they’re tired, but not in Wisconsin.”

  They both turned to me, each of them looking to be supported as being correct. I sidestepped the referee job. “Mrs. Mephisto was killed,” I said quietly.

  “Like car crash killed?” Jenna asked.

  “No, she died at home.” Last night, Marina had said an EMT had said the back of her skull had been bashed in. I shied away from the image. My poached eggs, now congealed to the consistency of soft plastic, looked up at me with wide eyes. I pushed the plate away. “The police will find who did it and put him in jail for a long, long time.”

  “Mrs. Mephisto was murdered?” Jenna’s eyes went wide.

  I wondered how many fictionalized murders my ten-year-old had watched via television and movies. But this time the victim was someone she knew. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Yes, she was murdered.” I searched for words of comfort—words that would help them through the stages of grief; words they could carry the rest of their lives. Before I came up with the perfect phrase, Jenna jumped up.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To call Bailey,” she flung over her shoulder. “Bet she doesn’t know. I can be first!”

  When I dropped the children off at school, Lauren Atchinson, Oliver’s teacher, was standing on the sidewalk. She caught my eye and made I-need-to-talk-to-you motions. I pushed the DOWN button for the passenger window, and she leaned in.

  “Does Oliver know?” she asked softly. Which was the only way I’d ever heard her talk. How this quiet woman controlled twenty-six seven-year-olds, I hadn’t a clue. She pushed curly blond hair behind her ears.

  “They both know,” I said.

  She nodded. “Good. Gary called the teachers last night. We’re to tell the kids first
thing. A grief counselor Gary knows is coming later on this morning.”

  Gary Kemmerer was Tarver’s assistant principal, browbeaten by Agnes for too many years. If the reactions of my children were any indication, the counselor wouldn’t have a lot to do. “That was smart of Gary,” I said.

  “Do you think he’ll be principal?” Lauren’s eyes darted left and right. “I shouldn’t be thinking about it at a time like this, but you’re a friend of the superintendent. Gary would make a perfect principal, don’t you think?”

  “It’ll take a while before things get sorted out.”

  “Mack Vogel couldn’t do better than Gary. You think so, don’t you?” Her face was flushed with an emotion that didn’t look at all like sorrow.

  “It’s the children who are most important right now,” I said. “Everything else can wait.”

  “He’s perfect for the job.” Lauren kept on track, and I got a glimpse of how she ran a classroom successfully. “He deserves to be principal.” A silver SUV braked to a stop behind my car, and Lauren moved away to speak to another parent.

  Thoughtfully, I watched her go. Yet another person not prostrate with grief. Maybe I should start a tally.

  “Did you hear?” Lois stood in my office doorway. This morning her hair was spiked and gelled. She wore a white tuxedo-style shirt, a silk paisley vest, and a blue skirt made of a crinkly fabric that made a swishy sound when she walked.

  “Please be more specific,” I said. “Did I hear the weather forecast? Did I hear the Jonas Brothers’ latest release? Did I hear the Dow Jones report?”

  She sniffed. “No tea for you. And today I brought in a box of your favorite.”

  “Indian spice chai?”

  “And milk.”

  I caved instantly. “Marina called me last night. She lives almost across the street from Agnes.”

  Last night, strong, confident, I-know-what’s-best-for-you Marina had needed my comfort, something that had never happened before. Sure, Marina hadn’t liked Agnes, but who had? It didn’t mean she wanted her dead. I chewed on my lower lip and thought about life and death and just deserts.

  Lois made a rolling motion with her hand. “And? Details. I must have details!”

  “All I have is thirdhand knowledge,” I cautioned. “Accuracy is questionable.”

  “Perfect. Let me get the kettle on.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I’d finished a mug of tea and come to the end of the story.

  “No suspects?”

  “She was killed less than twelve hours ago. There’s hardly been time.”

  Lois made a snorting noise. “Especially with our police force. Last time someone in this town was killed was twenty years ago. Harvey Knotton.” Lois had lived in Rynwood all her life and was better than the newspaper archives for what really went on.

  “Who was Harvey Knotton?” I asked.

  “Dairy farmer south of town.”

  “What happened?”

  “Harvey and his brother Matt were in the barn arguing about something. Matt had a temper—always did. He grabbed a pitchfork and”—she made a fist and thumped her chest—“blammo.”

  “How horrible!”

  “Matt called the ambulance, but it was too late. When he got out of prison, he moved to Wyoming. Or was it Montana? One of those. I hear he’s a hospital janitor, cleaning up people messes instead of cow messes.”

  “How on earth do you know this stuff?”

  “Harvey and Matt’s big sister used to date my little brother,” she said matter-of-factly, as if maintaining bonds from the offshoots of a high school romance forty years ago were an everyday occurrence. And for Lois, they probably were.

  “Mrs. Kennedy!” Paoze rushed into the back room. “There was a murder in this town! Mrs. Mephisto is dead!” His large brown eyes were filled with empathy. “Your children must be sorrowful.”

  “Um.” I pictured Jenna’s face, alive with the excitement of being the bearer of bad tidings. I saw Oliver’s empty breakfast plate, and like that other Oliver, his small hands picking it up and asking for more, please. “They’re young and resilient.”

  “How did you know about the murder?” Lois asked. “The Rynwood paper doesn’t come out today, the Madison paper hasn’t shown up yet, and I’m pretty sure you don’t have a car radio on that ratty bicycle of yours.”

  “No, I do not,” Paoze said. “How can a rat be on a bicycle, please?”

  Lois had an evil gleam in her eye. “Rats have long tails, right? Kids around here train barn rats to sit on the handlebars and wrap their tails around them for balance. But you need to start them when they’re young. A tricycle is best.”

  One of Lois’s favorite pastimes was to test Paoze’s gullibility. He’d called her on the cow tipping, but had swallowed the snipe-hunting story hook, line, and sinker. He was starting to nod as she patiently told him that rats preferred green bicycles because green was the color of garbage totes and everybody knew rats were smart about food sources.

  I took pity on him. “Paoze, she’s doing it again.”

  His dark skin flushed, and Lois said I’d ruined her fun.

  “Hey, did you guys see?” Sara poked her head into the room. The store was at full complement today, thanks to the need to get the Halloween decorating done before Halloween. The two youngsters had afternoon classes, but had agreed to come in this morning.

  “See what?” I ran more water into the teakettle.

  “WisconSINs.”

  “Wisconsin’s?” I asked. “Wisconsin’s what?”

  “What? No, WisconSINs. You know, the blog.”

  “Yes.” Paoze nodded vigorously. “This is where I read about the murder. This blog is about the people of Rynwood.”

  “Is this part of the newspaper?” Though it had been years since I’d been on the Gazette’s staff, I often had lunch with Jean, the editor, who kept me up-to-date with tales of staffing woes and horror stories of computer failures. She’d never once mentioned the paper had started a blog.

  Sara shook her head, and blond hair whisked from side to side. “No, it’s anonymous. It’s been up at least a month. I can’t believe you don’t know about it.”

  Lois sniffed. “I prefer to get my gossip the old-fashioned way.”

  “Did you know about Don Hatcher?” Sara asked.

  “Don the dry cleaner with the horrible jokes?” Lois rolled her eyes.“His wife was always whining about the cold winters, and a while back she just took off. Vamoose!”

  “Yeah, but did you know Don’s getting a hair transplant?”

  “A hair . . .”

  There was a small stampede to the closest computer. I stayed behind to brew tea and brought a laden tray to the front of the store.

  A short chorus of thank-yous was interrupted by Lois’s exclamation. “Did you see this? It says here that an S.W. drives to Chicago every other weekend to get her roots done. That’s got to be Stephanie Waldruss. She told me she was visiting her mother in assisted living!”

  I blew across the top of my mug. “Maybe she does both,” I said, and got a withering look in response.

  “Go to the entry about Mrs. Mephisto.” Sara pointed. “There it is. ‘Too Many Suspects to Count.’”

  I watched the steam on my tea drift upward and thought the phrase had the ring of a mean-spirited epitaph.

  Sara read on. “‘The heinous crime of murder was committed in Rynwood last night with the death of Agnes Mephisto, principal of Tarver Elementary. Her reign was marked by brouhaha after brouhaha, each of which created enemies for the aging woman.’”

  Ouch.

  “What is brouhaha?” Paoze asked.

  “Look it up,” Sara said, and continued reading. “‘After ten years of Mrs. Mephisto, even eternally patient teachers could be seen marching away from meetings with clenched fists and a cloud of rage. Parents, with the welfare of their children on the line, were even more easily riled. Who’s to say one of these tormented individuals didn’t snap last night? Who’s to say t
he affair of the school buses wasn’t enough to drive some poor soul to murder? Who’s to deny the furor wrought by the elimination of Fish Fry Friday? Stay tuned to WisconSINs for the latest developments in the murder of Agnes Mephisto.’ ”

  Lois turned. “You’re on the PTA. Could Agnes have been killed because of something at the school?”

  My first reaction was to say, Don’t be silly. But then I remembered the hot anger on the playground last night and the fear that had snaked around my neck.

  “What do you think?” Sara asked.

  “That we need to get to work.” I picked up a spray can from the counter. “Cobwebs, anyone?”

  Chapter 5

  Police Chief Gus Eiseley offered me a mug of coffee. “Strong enough to pull your socks off.”

  I demurred and sat in the proffered chair. The morning sun lit a metal desk, originally painted brown, but chipped down to bare metal at the corners and edges. Orderly stacks of paper covered the entire surface.

  Gus and I had mutually attended countless church choir practices. His tenor section sat behind my alto contingent and, thanks to the Latin he’d taken in high school, I knew exactly how to pronounce Sanctus, Te Deum and excelsis Deo. I still didn’t know what they meant, but Presbyterians don’t have to.

  “So, Beth.” Gus set his coffee mug atop a bloated three-ring binder. “What can I do for you this morning?” He glanced at his wrist. Reflexively, I did, too. In any group larger than one, if one person looks at his watch, everyone will. Pavlov in action—or something. In this case it was still morning by forty-five minutes.

  “I suppose,” Gus said, “that you want to know if the murderer of Agnes Mephisto has been apprehended and brought to justice. If we’ve been doing the job for which we’re being paid. If the marble bookend with blood on it was, in fact, the murder weapon. If we’ve gotten results on the DNA samples. If we have the slightest clue what we’re doing.”

  “Um, no.” The Gus I knew was as mild mannered as Clark Kent and as patient as Mother Teresa. To hear him wax sarcastic was similar to hearing my very proper grandmother swear like a sailor.