Mother's Day, Muffins, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “I’m not the medical examiner, but that will all be sorted out. There will be an autopsy. But you’re forgetting about the suicide note.”

  “Yes. Right,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “So many notes lately—Klea’s note, blackmail notes to teachers and parents, and now a suicide note.”

  * * *

  “I’m glad that’s resolved,” Mitch said later that night when I told him what happened with Peg. I could hear the relief in his tone. “I mean, it’s a horrible situation for everyone involved, but selfishly I’m glad it’s over. Especially since there’s no chance of this exercise ending early. The weather’s cleared and everything is back on schedule.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” I curled my legs under me and settled against the headboard. The kids were tucked in bed, and I was in our bedroom with the door closed. I hadn’t mentioned what had happened with Peg to the kids. I’d been able to make it back to the school in time to pick them up. Then I’d been happy to throw myself into the normal after-school routine of snacks, homework, and cooking dinner. I’d debated talking to the kids about Peg later that night, but in the end, I’d decided that I would wait. The kids hadn’t had any interactions with Peg, and if they knew her at all, it would only be as one of the “office ladies.” I would see how the school handled it and go from there.

  I adjusted one of the pillows behind my neck and settled down to catch up with Mitch. He had a gap in his schedule, and we hadn’t been able to have an uninterrupted call for a few days. “I was hoping you’d be home early.”

  “Me too, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. At least now I don’t have to worry about you.”

  “You never worry,” I said. “That’s my department.”

  “I agree, you are the chief worrier in our family, but I have my moments, too. You’re not one to let things go, and I know that this thing with Klea was weighing on you.”

  “Yeah, about that . . .” I cleared my throat.

  “Ellie,” Mitch said warningly.

  “What?”

  His sigh came through the phone line loud and clear. “I know that tone. You think something about Peg’s death is off—that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. I do. Several things, actually.”

  “I suppose you’ve made a list,” Mitch said.

  “I have.” I reached for the notepad on the nightstand.

  “I knew it,” Mitch said, half exasperated, half joking.

  “It’s everything that is weird or doesn’t fit.”

  “I don’t know if you can make suicide ‘fit,’” Mitch said, his tone serious again.

  “I know, but these things . . . they’re just strange. I mean, who makes an appointment with an organizer, then kills herself?”

  “Okay, I wouldn’t think someone would do that either, but you can’t know what’s going on in someone’s head. Or maybe she made the appointment, then realized she was about to be found out. Once she knew that, nothing else mattered.”

  “That’s what Detective Waraday said,” I admitted. “But I still think it doesn’t fit. And then there was her note. It was typed, which seems a little . . . formal . . . to me.”

  “Maybe she did most things on the computer. People don’t write longhand anymore, not really.”

  “I know, but if that’s the case, why wouldn’t she just . . . I don’t know . . . send a text? That’s more in keeping with how we communicate with each other now. It seems odd that she’d type up a suicide note and print it out, then sign it. And the tone—I can’t remember it word for word, but it wasn’t sad or morose. It was almost . . . defiant,” I said, finally hitting on the word I was searching for.

  “So she saw her suicide as a final in-your-face gesture. There’s no rule that suicidal people must be depressed,” Mitch said. I could tell from his thoughtful tone of voice that he was arguing the other side of my points, but was giving serious consideration to what I was saying. “Although, taken all together, I can see what you’re saying. I hope you’re wrong about all this. I mean, I hope that Peg’s death is exactly what it seems. You haven’t talked to anyone else about this?” he asked sharply.

  “Only Detective Waraday.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Not much. He raised some of the points that you did.”

  “Keep all this to yourself, okay? If you’re right . . .”

  I felt my insides twist. “Then the murderer is still out there.”

  Organizing Tips for PTA Moms

  How to find your volunteering sweet spot

  Here are some questions to consider and some volunteer ideas:

  Do I like this type of activity?

  If you don’t enjoy being outdoors, then Field Day is probably not the best place to volunteer. If you love to read, the library is an obvious starting place. If you’re crafty, then planning holiday party crafts or volunteering on art days could be just the thing for you.

  Do I like to be front and center or behind the scenes?

  A fundraising coordinator needs a specific set of skills (comfort with public speaking, to parents and students; vision casting; and the ability to get everyone excited about the campaign), while volunteers who set up or tear down for plays or events like the book fair enjoy working behind the scenes.

  Do I like to work in a group or alone?

  Managing the phone or text chain requires someone who likes detailed work, is methodical, and likes to work alone. Someone who loves working cooperatively would be great at planning parties, dances, or teacher appreciation events, which require the input and coordination of many people.

  Do I like to have a fixed schedule or play it by ear?

  If you like to know ahead of time what your schedule is, then you’ll probably enjoy volunteering in your child’s classroom on a fixed day of the week. If you hate feeling pinned down by a schedule, volunteer to help when your school is shorthanded or when someone gets sick.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When I walked into the school on Friday before lunch, I sensed a change in the atmosphere. The first person I saw was Vaughn, striding across the lobby, whistling as he pushed a rolling trash can. He nodded to me. Two teachers had paused on the side of the lobby to chat for a moment. As I passed them, I caught a few words.

  “. . . so horrible to know it was Peg, but I’m so glad. That’s terrible to say, but it means it’s over.”

  The other teacher nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. We can put it all behind us now. No more looking at everyone and wondering, Was it you?”

  I went in the office and saw that Detective Waraday was at Peg’s desk. He nodded and said, “Mrs. Avery,” in greeting, and I said hello. Two of Peg’s desk drawers hung open as he methodically picked up sheets of paper and examined them. The computer was missing, and I assumed it had been taken so that the tech-savvy investigators could search the files.

  Mrs. Kirk was walking briskly toward the door, but she paused by the sign-in computer as I waited for my name tag to print. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Avery. Such a shame about Peg, and I’m terribly sorry that you were the one to find her.”

  “It was distressing,” I said, feeling that the word was inadequate, but Mrs. Kirk just nodded.

  “Of course it would be.” She frowned. “The end of the year has been quite difficult, but at least we can start over with a fresh slate next fall.” She glanced at Detective Waraday, who had moved on to another drawer at Peg’s desk. “Thank goodness it wasn’t during the middle of the school year. By the time August rolls around, most people will have forgotten what happened.” She patted my arm. “Again, I’m sorry you were involved, but we can all rest easy now.”

  She left, and I glanced at Marie as I stuck the name tag to my shirt. She picked up a stack of papers and came around the counter. “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay, I guess. I didn’t really know Peg.”

  “Apparently none of us did.” She looked through the door into the lobby and lowered her voice. “Can
you believe it? Peg!”

  “No,” I said quite truthfully. I felt Detective Waraday look at me sharply so I didn’t say anything else.

  “It’s made a complete difference in the atmosphere here at the school,” Marie said. “Can you feel it?”

  I nodded, and she added, “I didn’t realize how on edge we all were, but now that we know . . . who . . . er, I mean, what happened . . . it’s like everyone has relaxed.”

  Through the office’s windows I saw a van with the words SOUTHERN BARBECUE on it arrive. It lumbered around the drop-off line circle and came to a stop at the school’s front doors. “There’s lunch. I have to go.”

  Today was the last day of Teacher Appreciation Week, and for a finale, we had a catered barbecue buffet scheduled. I met the two restaurant employees, a young man and a young woman who looked to be about college age, at the door and guided them through the sign-in process and then showed them the teachers’ lounge. I had them set up the food on the counter that ran across the back of the room. They’d barely finished putting the last pan of coleslaw out when a couple of teachers poked their heads in the room. “Is it ready? It smells delicious.” I waved them in, told them to help themselves, then walked the restaurant employees back to the office so they could check out.

  “Will you return this afternoon for the containers?” I asked.

  “No. It’s all disposable,” the young woman said as I walked them out the main doors. “Hopefully, there will be some leftovers for you to take home.”

  “I doubt that.” When we had come out of the main office, the line of teachers waiting to dip a plate of food and return to either the cafeteria or their classrooms had already been out the door of the teachers’ lounge.

  I was on my way back inside when a car horn tooted. Gabrielle waved from the driver’s seat of a compact SUV. I saw that she had upgraded her advertising. She used to have metallic signs attached to each side that read GET ORGANIZED WITH GABRIELLE, but those were gone. Now the whole car had been encased—wrapped, I think it’s called—so that the same slogan marched from the front to the rear bumper in giant font. Her website and phone number were also listed. Near the back of the car, a four-foot image of Gabrielle’s face smiled out at me.

  The catering van pulled away, and Gabrielle punched the gas. Her car surged forward and stopped by the main door; then she hit the brakes and hopped out.

  “Wow.” I pointed to the side of her car. “Nice advertising. How’s that working out?”

  Her long hair bouncing against her shoulders, she came around to the passenger side of the car and studied the ad on her car. She was again in a nice tailored suit and heels. Today’s combination was a purple jacket with a black skirt. “Great! I’ve only had it for a couple of days and already gotten three calls because of it.”

  “Good for you,” I said, as I contemplated doing something similar. I was always looking for ways to grow my business, but after thinking about it for a second, I decided that the approach wasn’t quite me. So far, my best advertising had been satisfied clients who told their friends. A discount coupon for people to give their friends seemed like a better idea for my business.

  “I wanted to catch you before you went inside.” Gabrielle took a few steps in her high heels, but only moved to the edge of the sidewalk and stopped. “You heard about Peg?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, leaving out the fact that I’d been the person to find her. I was sure Gabrielle would be upset she hadn’t been my first phone call.

  “Can you believe it? I always thought she was a sneaky one, but my, I never expected that. When I heard the rumors about what was going on here at the school, I never would have put it together with her.”

  “We didn’t get to talk about that message you left for me,” I said.

  “I know. I’ve been so busy. Fitzgerald called me.”

  “Oh,” I said, recognizing that she wasn’t talking about a person, but a company. Fitzgerald was one of the big paper companies in the area. They had a paper-manufacturing plant in North Dawkins, and their name came up frequently as a sponsor of various local events like the North Dawkins Fourth of July fireworks display.

  “They want my input on a couple of changes they are considering.” Gabrielle looked pleased. “I’ve just come from their main offices, in fact.”

  “That’s quite a coup,” I said, and for once, I didn’t envy her. I didn’t have a great desire to do freelance corporate work, especially if I had to dress in hose and heels on the job.

  “I’m enjoying it,” she said, then lowered her voice. “Anyway, I know you’re up on all the news. Detective Waraday called me the other day and had all sorts of questions about the rumor I’d heard. I wasn’t able to tell him much, but I did pass along what I knew—that someone was making money off people who had been naughty. But when I asked him what was going on, he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “Well, he was probably still investigating,” I said, not quite believing that I was defending Detective Waraday.

  She made an impatient movement with her hand. “Still. He could have given me a hint.”

  “I think that might be frowned on in the sheriff’s office.” She looked like she was about to protest again, so I hurried on and said, “Anyway, it appears to be all sorted out now.” I didn’t wholeheartedly agree with that statement, but I didn’t want Gabrielle insisting that we had more to investigate.

  “Yes, it is good that it’s all straightened out. I doubt that the executives at Fitzgerald would have called me in if they knew I was involved in what happened here.” She tilted her head toward the school building. “No matter how remotely I was involved, it would be a black mark. They’re such nervous nellies, these corporate bigwigs.”

  Her phone buzzed with a text and she checked the display. “Oh, this is Fitzgerald.” She read the message and quickly sent one back. “They want me to drop by the office to clarify a few points, which is a good sign. I better get out there right away.” She held the folder in her hand out toward me. “Ellie, will you be a dear and drop this with Mrs. Kirk? Tell her I’ll be by tomorrow to explain everything.”

  “Um, sure.” I took the folder. Her SUV with the ad on the side was out of the parking lot before I made it to the school doors. I dropped off the folder with Mrs. Kirk, who opened it, read the title, then looked from it to me.

  “Mrs. Matheson’s recommendation for the digital organization class for the teachers, I assume?” Mrs. Kirk said, eyebrows raised.

  “I’m not sure.”

  A shade of disapproval came into Mrs. Kirk’s voice. “I thought she wanted to go over this with me. She was very insistent.”

  “She had to leave unexpectedly. I’m sure she’ll contact you.”

  Mrs. Kirk made a harrumphing sound as I left her office. I went back to the teachers’ lounge and found that about half of the food was gone, and the teachers for late lunch were lining up, their plates ready. I was glad they were enjoying the food, and I was also happy it was the last day I’d have to monitor the food. Now, all I had to get through were the end-of-school parties next week and another school year would be over. Mrs. Harris, plate in hand, came over to me. “This has been wonderful, Ellie. Thanks for coordinating the food.”

  “You’re welcome. We do appreciate everything you all do for the students.”

  “Well, this is an excellent way to show it,” Mrs. Harris said, pointing at her plate with her fork. “I’m glad I caught you,” she said. “I thought you’d be interested to know that this will be my last year here at the school.”

  “Really? Oh, I’m . . . happy for you . . . ?” I asked with an uncertain grin.

  She laughed. “Thank you. Yes, I am looking forward to it. I can still volunteer at the school. They always need help—volunteers don’t have to be parents—but I can dedicate more time to . . . other things. I’m considering trying something new . . . more mainstream, you might say.”

  I fell into step beside her as we left the teachers’ loung
e. “Well, good luck with it,” I said, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye, my thoughts about Klea’s list coming back to me, as well as my realization that Mrs. Harris’s alibi wasn’t as solid as I’d first thought. But she looked so frail and had such a kind disposition. Could she really be a murderer? Everyone seemed to think that Peg’s death had wrapped up the investigation, but there were too many questions around Peg’s suicide and that had me second-guessing everything. At first glance, Mrs. Harris didn’t look like a murderer, but she was also very good at hiding a part of her life from nearly everyone at school. Could she be hiding something else?

  As we crossed the lobby, a strange swishing sound interrupted my thoughts, but before I could look for the source, Vaughn hurried by, his heavy tread thudding loudly. With a mop and bucket in hand, he nearly ran me over. “Sorry,” he called over his shoulder.

  I’d never seen him move that fast. He slowed down as he approached the records room next to the main office and stepped more carefully as he paused to prop the mop and bucket against the wall. That was when I saw water rushing out from the gap under the door to the records room. As he flicked through his key ring, the water coursed over his shoes and splashed at the ankles of his pants. He inserted the key and opened the door. A flood of water rushed out, soaking him to the knees, and spread out across the lobby floor like an incoming tide.

  Organizing Tips for PTA Moms

  Social Media Ideas for Schools

  Facebook

  Facebook is a great platform for posting announcements and reminders, and for providing a platform for parents to connect.