Murder at the PTA (2010) bk-1

by Laura Alden

  “But, Mom—”

  “Now,” I said, and they went.

  Marina, however, was oblivious. “I posted this about nine this morning, and just look at the comments!” She plopped the laptop on the counter and scrolled down. “Almost fifty already. Okay, some of them are mine, but there must be at least forty.”

  “What’s the original post?” My voice was still quiet.

  “Well, duh. What you told me last night, about Agnes. Here.” Marina scrolled to the top of the page. Again I saw the title: “A Secret Life Revealed?”

  My hands turned into dry fists and my throat grew tight. I made one brief attempt to think calm thoughts, then let myself go. “Are you nuts?” I yelled. “That was private information. I didn’t go up there so you could blog about it.”

  She frowned. “You didn’t?”

  “No, I did it to help you. To find out who killed Agnes. To find out who sent you death threats.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t use it on WisconSINs.”

  My whole body felt hot. “I didn’t spend my weekend driving to Superior and back so you could get fifty comments on your blog.”

  A small ding diverted Marina’s attention. “Fifty-one,” she said, smiling.

  “Listen to me!” I pounded my fist on the table. “Some things should stay private. Not everything needs to be broadcast to the world. I gave you that information in confidence.”

  “You didn’t say so.” Marina crossed her arms.

  I stared at her. “What is wrong with you? Should I get a flag to hold up when something I tell you is off-blog? Put a flower in my lapel?”

  She tapped her lips with her index finger. “Not a bad idea.”

  Cold anger flowed through me. “I have an even better idea—one that would be even easier. How about I never tell you anything ever again?”

  She laughed, but her laugh fell away when I picked up my purse. “Beth, come on. Don’t be so sensitive, okay? Maybe I went a little far, but there’s no harm done. We’re trying to find the killer, right? This has to help. I’m sure of it.”

  I put my hand on the kitchen doorknob, as I had countless times before. “I’d say good-bye, but it might show up on your blog.” I shut the door behind me with a quiet thump.

  “Are we going home, Mom?” Jenna asked from the backseat. Her arms were full of wriggling dog.

  I dragged my thoughts away from I just had a huge fight with Marina; I just had a huge fight with my best friend and concentrated on my children. “What do you two want to do?”

  “Play!” Oliver giggled.

  The sun was shining bright, and I had no compulsion to go home and do housework. “Play it is.” In a short minute, we were parked at the school and I was opening the trunk to get out the Frisbee I hadn’t put away since our last summer trip to the lake.

  “Think we can teach Spot to catch this?” I waggled the plastic disc in front of the dog, and he bounced up and down like a kid on a pogo stick.

  “Throw it!” Jenna ran into the empty playground, brother and dog chasing after her.

  For a laughing, breathless hour, we were a family, bound together by those invisible cords that can be thinned and loosened, but never broken. “Throw it to me!” Oliver shouted, his small body leaping into the air with wild abandon, the dog at his feet barking with the joy of being able to bark.

  “Here!” Jenna held up her arms.

  I threw the Frisbee halfway between them. They ran pell-mell toward each other, their gazes locked on the spinning disc, but before either one reached it, a brown streak of dog snatched it out of the air.

  “Hey!” Jenna started laughing. “He really can catch them! Look at him go!”

  Frisbee in teeth, Spot was galloping into the wild blue yonder.

  “Don’t let him run off,” I called, and the three of us started chasing the dog. He thought it a great game, and we chased the canine from one side of the playground to the other. I grew tired, the kids grew tired, but Spot ran on.

  “He’s getting away!” Oliver shrieked as the dog darted under a post-and-rail fence that delineated a backyard.

  “We’ll catch him,” I said soothingly, deciding that never again would I let the dog off a leash. “Jenna, don’t—”

  But she was already climbing through the fence. “Here, boy,” she called.

  Spot, his doggy grin not quite hidden by the Frisbee, darted out of her reach and scrambled under the side fence and into the next yard. We repeated the sequence through half a dozen backyards, and my patience was long gone when Spot squirreled under a rusty chain-link fence.

  “You two stay here.” Harkening back to my youth, I put my toes in the open diamonds of the fence and climbed over. “Here, Spot.”

  The dog actually looked droopy. Without too much effort, I walked him into a corner of the fence, arms outspread. “That’s a good boy, pretty boy,” I crooned. “You’ll never run free again. Nope, never, ever again. That’s a good boy.” I snatched his collar. “There’s a good dog.” I leaned down to pick him up, grateful that we’d chosen a dog under thirty pounds, when I noticed a collection of bicycles leaning against the fence.

  I stole a glance at the house—dark, with drawn curtains—and edged closer. It was Paoze’s ancient bike. It had to be. There weren’t many white, scabrous bikes with large metal baskets on the front. It was tempting to take it, right then and there, but I couldn’t do that with the kids around. I’d call Gus later.

  Thoughtfully, I carried Spot to the fence and deposited him on the other side. “Don’t let him go,” I told Jenna. When I was halfway over, I looked back at the bike. It had been here in plain sight all the time. All I’d needed to do was look in the right place.

  I lowered myself to the ground next to a wagging dog and two chattering children, but I didn’t hear a word they said. I looked at the bike, then at the school. At the bike, then the school.

  It had been right here all the time.

  Chapter 20

  “You want property information?”The Rynwood deputy clerk peppered me with questions. “What kind? Deeds? Liens? Taxation information? Tax maps? A plat book?”

  The brilliant idea that had hit me Sunday afternoon while I was straddling the fence was lacking in specifics. “Property ownership,” I said. “That’s public information, right?”

  “Sure. Do you have the parcel number or an address?”

  I shook my head, shifted from one foot to the other, and tried not to feel intimidated. Rynwood’s city hall was one of those old municipal buildings with high ceilings, elaborate crown molding, and the scent of an aged patriarchal history. That the thirtysomething assistant, Kristen, didn’t seem fazed by the environment intimidated me even more.

  “Town, range, and section? Subdivision?”The friendly gaze with which Kristen had begun our conversation was turning into that polite look.

  “No, sorry.” Up on that fence, I had been struck by the idea that maybe Agnes’s murder was related to the building addition, but maybe the reason didn’t have anything to do with money or even the design from the Black Lagoon.

  Maybe the reason was in plain sight; I just had to look at things the right way.

  I glanced at my watch. If the city couldn’t provide, maybe Dane County could, and I was itchy to see how this idea panned out. Due to long-overdue holiday planning and a busy store, I’d had to wait until Wednesday, when Marcia came in to work afternoons, to get this far. “Well, thanks anyway.” I reached into my purse for the car keys.

  “Hang on,” Kristen said. “There are ways and there are ways. I’m guessing you don’t have an AccessDane account?”

  “A what?”

  “From the Dane County Land Information Office. It’s part of their GIS system.”

  “Gee eye ess?” Down the rabbit hole, once again.

  “Geographic Information System. It captures, manages, analyzes, and displays geographically referenced information.”

  “I see.”

  She noticed the glazed lo
ok on my face and switched to the lay explanation. “Through a GIS you can see where utilities run, see population density, and”—she tapped the computer monitor at her elbow—“you can use online maps of Rynwood to figure out who owns what property.”

  “I see.” And this time, I did.

  “Have you ever used a program like this? No? Then you’re going to run into a learning curve. Come on in and I’ll show you the basics.” Kristen tipped her head sideways, indicating a metal door with a sign, AUTHORIZED ADMITTANCE ONLY.

  Faster than the White Rabbit on his way to that important date, I found myself seated in a castered chair facing a computer screen full of mysterious things to click.

  “This here?” Kristen pointed. “That starts the informational query. Just zoom into the area you’re interested in, click on that button there, and the basic parcel info will pop up over here.” More pointing. “If you want to see more detail, click this button here.”

  Information overload. I squinched my eyes shut and reopened them, hoping to see something that made sense. “This one will show me the owner?”

  “No. That opens the infrastructure palette. You can turn on and off the water main, gas lines, sanitary sewer, storm sewer. Electrical, if you’re lucky. Sometimes cable, but I’m not sure I’d trust that layer. You know how cable guys are.”

  I was afraid to ask any more questions. If I asked, she’d tell me, and my brain was already too full. I thanked her for her time.

  “No problem,” she said cheerfully. “I love this program. Intuitive, really. Let me know if you have any trouble.”

  Half an hour later, I’d had enough of the easy, intuitive, best-thing-since-sliced-bread program. After the third time I’d locked up the computer, Kristen had given me blanket permission to reboot as necessary and shut her door firmly.

  “Stupid computers,” I said. “Why didn’t we stick to paper and pencil? Is this really so much better?” I clicked the mouse on a property next to the school. Nothing. Whacked at the keyboard. Still nothing. “You stink.”

  “Hey, I showered this morning.”

  I whirled around. Pete Peterson was leaning against a filing cabinet, the label on his shirt pocket telling the world he was CLEANER THAN PETE.

  “What are you doing here?” It came out snippy, but for once I didn’t apologize. I hated being watched.

  “Trolling for work. City clerks know everyone.” He grinned, and I smiled back. I couldn’t help it; the man’s cheerful mien was infectious.

  “Having problems?” He waved at the computer.

  I glared at the hateful thing. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure.” I told myself to straighten my shoulders, square my jaw, and focus. Instead, I sighed.

  “Tell you what.” Pete grabbed a nearby chair. “I’ll sit over here and study the latest update from OSHA.” The stack of paper in his hand was thicker than Jenna’s math book. “If you have any questions, just holler.” He sat guy-style, crossing his ankle over the opposite knee.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “‘OSHA Regional News Release,’” Pete said in a monotone. “‘Region five. The U.S. Department of Labor’s Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) has cited MHJ Packaging with alleged serious, repeat, and willful failure to abate citations of federal workplace safety and health standards. Proposed fines . . .’”

  I turned my attention back to the computer and started concentrating.

  “You looking for ownership?” Pete had inched closer. I nodded. “Fastest way,” he said, “is to double-click on the parcel number.”

  I tried it, and lo and behold, up came the ownership information without any need to decipher the meaning of mysterious hieroglyphics. “Hey, that’s slick. Thanks!”

  “No problem.” He went back to his boring news release.

  A nice man, that was what Pete Peterson was. He wasn’t drop-dead handsome, he wasn’t a man to set your pulse racing, and he wasn’t the stuff of which dreams were made, but he was nice. Not a bad way to be.

  I clicked on things and wrote down things, and soon the blank paper I’d brought with me was filled up with a rough sketch of property lines and the names of who owned what around Tarver Elementary.

  Most were people’s names; a few of the properties were held by banks, a few by businesses. All the business properties were on a small industrial park directly behind the school. Rynwood Auto Parts, Lakeside Dry Cleaning, Glass Enterprises, and Otto’s Heating and Cooling all had properties that abutted Tarver’s. But so did thirty-two residences.

  My fence-sitting stroke of brilliance had persuaded me that when I saw this list, my brain would make an electric leap. I’d suddenly know—just know—who’d killed Agnes.

  “This was a dumb idea,” I muttered.

  “Sorry?” Pete asked.

  “And a complete waste of time.” I pushed the mouse around. Where was the GET OUT OF HERE button? I started clicking anything that looked remotely appropriate. Why did they make these things so complicated, anyway?

  “Hey, slow down,” Pete said. “That’s a good way to lock it up.”

  Locking up was good. Then I’d reboot and go away. Click. The dark gray background turned to an aerial image. Click. Thin curvy lines appeared everywhere. Click. Another menu popped up. Click. Red lines appeared.

  “Water main.” Pete indicated a red line. “Is this what you wanted?”

  I stared. A thick red line cut across the school property, close to the school itself, and went into the industrial park. My brain started making little leaps. “Is there a way to find out when this was put in?” I asked slowly.

  “Sure.” Pete reached for the mouse, made a long series of clicks, and a list popped up on the screen. “Here we go. Twelve-inch cast iron . . .”

  A memory niggled at me, and I tugged around until it pulled loose. The kids and I had been standing in Oliver’s favorite part of the playground, back before Agnes had been killed, looking at stakes that had “12” WM” scrawled on them in thick black marker.

  Pete was still talking. “Blah, blah, blah, inspected by whoever, here it is. That main went in three years ago. Laid in August.”

  Three years ago in August . . . I sat up straight, my brain jumping in great leaps and bounds. Three years ago we’d taken a summer trip to Colorado. No wonder I didn’t remember. No wonder I hadn’t made the connection before. Dot to dot to dot and none of the dots involved Erica.

  Open utility trenches deep enough to bury small children. Or, more pertinent in this case, a full-sized adult.

  A disappearing wife.

  Interval of a few years.

  A surprise construction project.

  Certain exposure and imprisonment.

  Another murder.

  Dot to dot to dot. The clues had been there all along, I just hadn’t seen them clearly. But now I knew who had killed Agnes. And I knew why.

  “Thanks a million, Pete.” I jumped up and gathered my purse and papers.

  “Hey, no problem. Glad to help.”

  He really was a nice guy. I bent down and kissed him on the cheek. “I owe you one.” I walked out and, out of the corner of my eye, saw his hand go up to his face.

  My cell phone rang as I hurried outside. “Hello?”

  “Beth, it’s Richard. I can’t keep the children tonight.” He spoke loudly over an odd assortment of background noises.

  I unlocked the car and slid in. “It’s Wednesday.”

  “Yes, I know, and I’m sorry, but my mom is having heart surgery tomorrow. She went in for a checkup, and now she’s in the hospital. They wouldn’t even let her go home.”

  “Richard, I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.” His voice was rough. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, but . . .”

  “You have to go. Of course you do. Give her my best.”

  “I will. How soon can you get here? My flight leaves in an hour and a half.”

  “You’re at the airport?�
�� Suddenly, the noises made sense. He was rolling his suitcase, and disembodied voices were calling flights.

  “The kids are right here with me. We’ll be waiting at the front entrance.”

  “I’ll be there as—” But he’d already hung up.

  “You two stay here.” After stuffing the car keys in my coat pocket, I half turned to address both children at the same time—Jenna in the backseat, Oliver in the front. “I’ll only be a minute,” I said.

  “But I haven’t seen Mrs. Neff all day.” Oliver’s lower lip stuck out. “I want to show her my new drawing.” He kicked his backpack.

  “Show her tomorrow.” What I had to tell Marina wasn’t for the consumption of small children, and since Marina’s DH always took Zach to karate lessons on Wednesday nights, I knew she’d be alone. I was still angry with her, of course, but I could ignore that for as long as it took to deliver this news. “Be back in a flash.”

  A whoosh of cold, wet air flew in. I got out quickly and shut the door behind me. Inside the car, the kids were already arguing about something. I rapped on the window. “Be nice to each other,” I said loudly.

  Before I’d moved two steps from the car, the argument started anew. I shook my head and hurried around the side of the house. For once the gate opened easily; I took it as a good omen. Like I always did, I knocked on the back door as I turned the doorknob. “Marina, it’s me.” But the door was locked. I rattled the knob and knocked again. “Hey! Let me in!”

  A ruffled curtain covered the lower two-thirds of the door’s window. I got up on my tiptoes. Marina was at the kitchen table, hands on her lap, staring at the calendar on the far wall.

  I banged my knuckles on the glass. “Marina, it’s Beth! I need to talk to you!” Marina was first; then I had to call Deputy Wheeler and then Gus. “Hey, c’mon. Open up!”

  Marina shook her head and continued her stare-down with November.

  Sunday afternoon’s spat came back with a rush. “Oh, please.” Rain was coming down my neck. The kids were in a car that was growing colder by the minute, and Marina was playing a thirteen-year-old princess.