Murder at the PTA (2010) bk-1

by Laura Alden

  “What’s the address?” Marina asked hoarsely.

  “Are you getting a cold?” I put my finger on the screen—bad Beth!—to help me read along. “It’s 1t94z4a at rynwood dot com. Is that anyone you know? Marina?”

  I turned around. Marina was standing statue still, staring out the window. But since it was dark outside, there wasn’t anything to see except her reflection. Her mouth opened, then closed without a sound coming out.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Read it,” she said dully. “Then delete it.”

  “But—”

  “Just do it!”

  A loud pop echoed across the kitchen; we both jumped. There was another pop and another, and then a flurry of popcorn burst into full flower. Marina started cranking the wooden knob. “Are you going to read it or what?”

  I read it, then desperately wished I hadn’t. Once, twice, three times, I tried to speak, but nothing came out. Repeating the words on that screen wasn’t possible. If I spoke them, they might come true.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Marina said. “It can’t be that bad.” With a heaping popcorn bowl in hand, she gave me a friendly hip check and pushed me aside. She leaned close to the screen, squinting, and started to read aloud, but fell silent. Her hands began to tremble.

  I watched the tremors grow from a one on the Richter scale to a seven. The popcorn bowl plunged to the vinyl floor with a loud whack, and hot buttered popcorn went everywhere.

  “He says—”

  “Yes.” I put my hands on her shoulders.

  “He says he’s going to—”

  “Don’t,” I whispered, and put my arms around her waist. Whoever had sent that e-mail had a vivid and bloody imagination. “Just don’t.”

  She gripped my hands hard enough to hurt. “Beth, what are we going to do?” Panic pushed her voice high. “What am I going to do?”

  “Shhh.” I put my forehead against the back of her neck. Her whole body was shivering, but after reading the new threat, I didn’t blame her a bit. “Shhh,” I whispered. “It’ll be all right.”

  “How can you say that?” The panic was rising, threatening to take her off in its dark, dirty claws. “How can you know?”

  I gave her the firmest, sturdiest, most reassuring hug possible. “Because I have a plan.”

  A thundering herd pounded up the hallway. When it reached the kitchen, it resolved down to three preadolescents. “Something fell!” “Did you drop the popcorn?”

  Marina and I were already back in Mom Mode. Pleasant faces, no sign of fear or anxiety. Happy, happy, happy. “Just a mere slip of the elbow, dear young ones,” Marina said. “Demonstrating once again that anyone can make mistakes, tu comprends?”

  “She’s talking French again,” Zach said to my children. “I hate it when she does that.”

  Oliver looked at the scattered mess. “Does this mean we’re not getting popcorn?”

  “Fear not, young friend.” Marina handed me a broom and dustpan. “If yon minion will complete the tidying, the master chef will commence replacement.”

  Oliver turned to Zach and whispered, “What did she say?”

  “That she’ll make some more,” Zach said.

  Jenna headed back to the family room. “C’mon, we’re missing the movie.”

  I got the wastebasket out from under the sink and started dumping popcorn into it. “This part of the floor needs a wash.”

  Her head was in the fridge. “Don’t bother. I’ll get it later.”

  I turned the laptop my way and hit a few keystrokes. “Later the kids will have tracked butter all over the house. It’ll only take a minute to mop up.”

  “You’re the best friend in the whole wide world.” Marina shut the refrigerator door and looked at what was in her hand. “Why am I holding this?”

  I was willing to bet it wasn’t because she wanted to add oyster sauce to the popcorn. “It was in front of the butter.” Which wouldn’t have made any sense whatsoever in most households, but Marina ran hers with a special brand of logic. “You wanted butter,” I reminded her gently. “For more popcorn.”

  “Did you delete that e-mail?” she asked the oyster sauce.

  “From the in-box and from the deleted folder.”

  She tightened the lid on the jar. “Do you really have a plan?”

  What she wanted to know was if I had a way to end the e-mails. If I could help her find a way out of the fear. If I could make it all go away and never come back. For the very first time in our friendship, I needed to be the mother figure.

  “Fear not, young maiden.” I headed for the laundry room and a mop and bucket. “Salvation is at hand.”

  As I’d hoped, she snorted out a laugh. I went into the laundry room and made rattling noises until I heard the fridge door open again. Softly, slowly, I went one room farther, into the study. Marina’s DH used a wireless server to give all the computers in the house printer access. I tiptoed in and collected the e-mail I’d printed. It was just as frightening when read the second time. I folded the sheet of paper and slid it into my pants pocket.

  “Did you find it?” Marina called.

  I slipped out of the study and went to find a mop.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning I woke to a whispered darkness. “Mom?” came a hushed voice. “Are you awake yet?”

  I rolled over, eliciting a protest from the cat. “I am now.”

  “Good.” Oliver turned on the overhead light, blasting the room with too many lumens. Before my eyes un-squinched, he’d jumped onto the bed and settled down as he had so many other mornings; his back against the footboard, feet out straight, a stuffed animal on his lap. Today’s animal choice was a large dog of an unlikely shade of navy blue.

  “When are we going?” Oliver wiggled his feet. “I’m not hungry. Can we skip breakfast?”

  “No,” I said automatically. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” My brain, fuzzy with too little sleep, tried to remember what today’s big event might be. It was the store’s Halloween party, but that wasn’t until afternoon. I rubbed my eyes. Focusing was difficult because I’d stayed up late trying to figure out who’d sent that e-mail to Marina.

  When we’d come home last night, I’d called Sara, my part-time helper, on her cell phone. “What’s up, Mrs. Kennedy?”

  “Sorry to call so late, Sara.” Since it was past ten, I’d debated about calling at all.

  “Late?” She laughed. “We’re getting ready to go to a party. Want to come?”

  Ah, youth. I didn’t miss it. “Then I won’t keep you long. A while back, you said there are ways you can find out who sent an e-mail.”

  “Sure. It’s really easy sometimes.” Sara’s minor had something to do with computers. More than once she’d tried to explain, but my eyes always got glassy somewhere in her second sentence.

  “Great. Can you tell me how to do it?”

  “Oh. Wow. Well . . .”

  Clearly it wasn’t that easy. “Never mind. I’ll just—”

  “No, hang on a sec.” Her voice went far away. “Kayla, where’d my laptop go? No, it’s not on the couch. . . . There it is.” She came back. “Mrs. Kennedy? Hang on.” She tapped at the keyboard. “Got a pencil? Here’s a Web site that’ll walk you through the basic steps.” She told me the URL. “If you have troubles, bring the e-mail to the store and I’ll help you out, okay?”

  I’d thanked her and hung up. I wanted to take the e-mail to Gus, but Marina had threatened her own unique brand of terror if I did any such thing. The best remaining choice was to try and figure out on my own who sent it. In the wee hours of the morning, I determined that the sender’s IP address was a string of meaningless numbers and that the sender had a computer name of dh4cln.

  Well, yee-hah.

  The victory was hollow at best, and I’d trudged up the stairs, trying to beat down the feeling that I’d failed Marina.

  Now, Oliver was banging his feet against the mattress, jouncing
my bladder a little past comfort. “All I want is cereal.” He held the stuffed animal at arm’s length and flew him left and right. “You’re going to get a brother, Big Nose!” He pulled the dog to his chest, hugging it tight.

  Right. Today was Dog Day.

  Jenna came into the room. Dressed in her favorite weekend jeans and a Door County sweatshirt, she was ready for action. “I can’t believe you’re not out of bed yet. We’ve been up for hours. All the good dogs will be gone if you don’t hurry.”

  I pulled the covers over my head and gave them the cue. “Can’t. I’m stuck.”

  Jenna giggled. “I’ll help unstuck you.”

  “Me, too!” Oliver shouted. The kids launched themselves at me. The next few minutes were a glorious riot of tussling and tugging and hugging and laughter and, even if they didn’t know it, an outpouring of love. For, oh, how I loved my children.

  Three hours later, the love was wearing thin.

  Hands on hips, I stood in the animal shelter’s dog wing, looking around at dozens of caged canines. “I can’t believe you two have rejected all of these dogs.”

  “It’s not me.” Jenna stood with her hands on her own hips. “It’s him.” She pointed at the only full sibling she’d ever have. “Every dog I like, he hates.”

  Oliver’s lower lip was pushed out as far as it could go. “Every dog I like, she hates.”

  “That’s because you only like dumb ones.”

  “I do not.”

  “Do, too!”

  “Kids,” I warned. After one final round of do-not-do-too, they subsided. I looked at the ceiling, hoping to find divine guidance, but saw only white acoustical tile. In after-school specials this would have been a happy family outing.

  “Since you two can’t agree,” I said, “I’ll pick the dog.”

  The attendant smiled weakly. “That’s a wonderful idea.” She gestured at the plethora of doggy life. “We were fortunate enough to get a very generous donation from an anonymous donor a few years ago, and not only did we have the money to build this new facility, but now we have the staff for training.”

  Anonymous donors were thick around here these days. Too bad one that supported children’s bookstores didn’t fall into my lap.

  “All our dogs are housebroken and trained to a leash,” the attendant went on. “Every single one would make a wonderful pet.”

  I tried not to look cynical. She was trying to sell something; of course all the dogs were wonderful. Every one would probably fetch my slippers, bring in a slobbery paper, and text me at the store about Timmy falling down a well.

  The puppy Jenna and Oliver originally fell in love with had been a neighbor’s expensive purebred destined for special diets and expensive shampoos and show rings. When I’d broken the news that a dog like that wouldn’t be happy at our house, they’d stormed and raged but had eventually come around to the idea of bringing home a dog from the animal shelter.

  “We’ll be saving it, right?” Jenna had said.

  The shelter was no-kill, but in lots of ways she was correct.

  “I want a puppy.” Oliver had been adamant. “I want a puppy, I want a puppy, I want—”

  “Enough.” My voice was calm but firm, and my son’s chant had died away. “We’ll go to the animal shelter and see what’s available.”

  “But I want a puppy!” Oliver’s lower lip had started to tremble.

  “We’ll see what’s available,” I’d said. “Cheer up, kiddos. On Saturday we’ll go to the shelter. They’re bound to have a dog we’ll all love.”

  And now it was Saturday. There wasn’t a single dog my kids could agree on, and I was not—repeat not—going to take two dogs home. Jenna stalked over to stand in front of the dog of her choice: an Airedale. Oliver grabbed a boxer’s cage door and held on tight. “I’d feel really, really safe if we had him.”

  “It’s not a puppy,” Jenna said.

  “I don’t care.” Oliver took on the mulish look Jenna had sported of late. “He loves me.”

  The tag on the door said BONNIE. I smiled at him. “You mean she loves you.”

  Oliver jumped away. “He’s a girl?” His look of horror almost made me laugh out loud.

  “What’s wrong with a girl?” Jenna asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “Any more bickering,” I said, “and we’re going straight home. All these dogs would love to come with us. They all want kids to play with and a food bowl with their name on it. We just have to look for the one who fits into our family.”

  “This one,” Jenna said.

  I squatted down and looked the Airedale in the face. Even standing still, he looked as if he were bouncing. “Hey, there,” I said softly. Instantly he erupted into leaps so high he bashed his head against the top of the cage and started a frenzied barking that set off the other dogs.

  We held our hands over our ears and waited for the din to die down. Either the attendant was hard of hearing or she was used to it.

  “I’m not so sure,” I told Jenna, “that he’s the best choice.”

  In spite of her square stance in front of the cage, she’d taken on a doubtful look. “He is pretty noisy.”

  I walked down the aisle. There were so many dogs in so many shapes, sizes, and colors. Big dogs, little dogs, medium-sized dogs. Old dogs, young dogs. Short-haired, long-haired. Black, brown, yellow, white. So many dogs without a home, so many dogs without anyone to love them. If the shelter hadn’t been no-kill, I might have started crying then and there.

  The last cage at the end of the row looked empty. “I thought you were full up,” I said. “Did someone adopt a dog today?”

  “That’s Spot,” the attendant said. “He’s a little shy.”

  I hunkered down and peered in. Way in the back corner, a medium-sized lump of fur was curled into a ball. “Spot?” My whisper had no effect. “Hey, guy. Are you in there?” His eyes opened to small slits. We stared at each other for a moment, long enough for him to communicate his entire life history—born to an unwed mother; grown up in a foster home that didn’t have time for him; tossed into this shelter without a wave good-bye.

  “You poor thing.” The tip of his brown tail beat a quiet tattoo against the blanket. I looked up at the attendant. “Spot?” From muzzle to tail, everything about him was brown.

  “Someone’s idea of a joke, I guess.” She shrugged. “We have some golden retriever mixes that are good with kids. I could get one out.”

  “No, thanks.” My knees creaked as I stood. “We’re taking Spot.”

  Within seconds of our return home, the phone rang. It was Jenna’s friend Bailey. “Oh, sure,” Jenna told her, “we got a dog. You wouldn’t believe the lame thing my mom picked out. He’s scared of everything.”

  I put down the expensive bag filled with dog treats, dog toys, dog leash, and collar, and I headed back to the garage. Oliver and Spot were sitting together in the backseat, waiting for doggy arrangements to be made in the laundry room. When I came back to the kitchen with two bags of expensive dog food, Jenna was saying, “Yeah, some guard dog he’s going to be. If a burglar comes, I bet he hides in the closet faster than Oliver does.”

  Her laughter was loud and raucous and mean. The sound was so unlike my happy Jenna’s laughs that I couldn’t believe it came out of the same person. Where had my daughter gone? Even more important, how was I going to get her back?

  “Five minutes,” I said, holding up one hand, fingers spread wide.

  She turned her back to me.

  For a moment I stood there. Jenna was only ten, far away from the dreaded teenage years. If she was snubbing me now, how would she treat me at fifteen? Images flashed. Jenna with blue spiked hair and rings in her nose. Jenna skipping school . . .

  “No,” I said. “This is not going to happen.”

  Jenna gave me a startled look. “Uh, Bailey? I guess I gotta go. Yeah. See ya later.” She hung up the phone. Wariness dominated the mix of emotions on her face. “Um . . .” She stopped, not knowing where to go ne
xt.

  I didn’t know, either, but since I was the adult in the house, I had to take a stab at it. Pretending this was about the dog would be the easiest way to go, and it was a tempting route, but my mom instincts were telling me to take the road less traveled.

  “Why don’t you play with your old friends anymore?” I asked.

  “You mean Alexis?”

  “Alexis and Sydney. The three of you were such good friends last year.”

  Her shoes were, apparently, worthy of sudden and intense examination. “Bailey says Sydney is dumb. That she doesn’t know anything about clothes and is stupid about music. She says the only thing Sydney knows how to do is play the piano, and who cares about that?”

  “Okay.” I resisted the impulse to do some Bailey bashing. “Is that what you think, too?”

  “I dunno.”

  “How about Alexis?”

  She shrugged, but it was a halfhearted movement. The seed, however, had been planted. She needed to find her own way, but please God, I wanted it to be a fine and upright way.

  “Anyway,” I said, “if a burglar breaks in, a closet is the safest place to be.”

  She frowned, not making the leap back to her phone conversation. Then her face cleared of confusion and went straight on to another expression altogether—shame. “I didn’t mean that about Oliver,” she said in a low voice. “He’s pretty brave for a little kid. When I was seven, there’s no way I would’ve gone up in the big tree at Mrs. Neff’s.”

  I felt a rush of relief that, for today at least, my Jenna was back. “And you’re pretty brave for a big kid.”

  “Can we come in?” Oliver called. “I think Spot really wants to see his new house.”

  “What do you say, favorite daughter?” I kissed the top of her head, then rubbed the kiss into her hair, just as I’d done for years. “Want to help me with the food and water bowls?”

  She squeezed me tight. “Sure. But, Mom? Can we call him something else? Spot is sooo dumb.”

  I laughed. “The name doesn’t seem to fit, does it?” “Mom!” Oliver yelled. “I think Spot just leaked!” On the other hand, there could have been a very good reason for calling him Spot.