Lauren and Jim were in one of the larger gatherings of adults. This was when I, too, should have been socializing with the parents and telling everyone how wonderful their children played, which was easily said as it was the truth, but I never had anything additional to say afterward. Therefore, I was stalling, studying a picture on Elsbeth’s wall that I particularly liked. It was a landscape in pastels done by a local artist whose work I greatly admired.
From behind me, Elsbeth said, “Karen played exceptionally well, as always.”
I turned with a smile. “She’s really blossomed under your tutelage,” I heard myself say, then wondered just where that had come from blossomed under your tutelage? Who says things like that?
“Thank you,” Elsbeth replied.
“Your daughter didn’t play for us today. She’s still taking lessons, isn’t she?”
“Of course. Tamara’s just no longer taking them from me. She’s so brilliant that I felt she needed to be with someone even better than her dear old mom. Her instructor is one of the top pianists in the country.”
“Does she plan to major in piano?”
“At Stanford? No, but she’ll continue her studies.”
Despite my own private admission that mothers weren’t impartial, Elsbeth had just surpassed my tolerance for mentions of the impressive fact that her daughter was going to Stanford University. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “It’s too bad she has to go to school so far away. Couldn’t she get into SUNY at Albany?”
Elsbeth wasn’t listening to me anyway. Stealing a glance over her shoulder as if to see whether we were being watched, she then grabbed my elbow and whispered, “Could I talk to you privately for a moment, Molly?”
“Of course.”
She ushered me into her bedroom. My attention was immediately drawn to a splendid photographic display of all stages of development of her daughter, Tamara, and one wedding picture of herself and her husband, whom I’d seen at these functions but had never formally met. An entire wall was covered by the photos.
“These are great pictures of Tamara.” I focused on one that appeared to be the most recent. She was sitting at the piano. Her expression was one of such obvious displeasure that it was surprising to me that Elsbeth kept it, let alone framed it and hung it on her bedroom wall.
Elsbeth began pacing in front of the door, which she’d closed behind us. “Molly, I don’t really know who else to talk to about this. The more I think about it, the more I realize I’m right. But Tommy’s not here, and I don’t want to go to the police station, just in case that’s the wrong thing to do.”
“What’s this about? Corinne’s murder?”
She nodded, her expression grim. “I think I might know who killed her.”
“Who?”
“Nadine Dahl.”
The school secretary. “Did you recognize her somehow as the gunman?”
“No. But she was the one who deliberately let the doves out of the cage right before all hell broke loose. I saw her do it.”
“She would have been in full costume. Are you positive it was her?”
“Yes. I saw one of the clowns coaxing the bird onto her finger, so I went over there and said, ‘What are ‘you doing?’ She gasped, and the bird flew off. It was Nadine, and she told me I’d startled her and cried, ‘Now look what you made me do!’ But I’ve gone over it in my head, and I realize that the bird escaping wasn’t an accident at all. She waved her arms and scared it even more. I walked away, and only a few seconds later the shooter emerged from that same direction.”
The story made little sense to me. I asked hesitantly, “Was Nadine the one who called out that the doves were escaping, just before the shooting?”
“It must have been.”
“Didn’t you tell Tommy about Nadine when he was interviewing us at the school?”
“Of course, but he didn’t seem to take anything I had to say very seriously. He just kept saying ‘uh-huh’ while writing in his notepad.”
“That means he was taking it very seriously, believe me. I’ve known Tommy for years. That uh-huh of his is a total giveaway. Don’t worry. If Nadine did this, Tommy will be onto her in no time.”
“I’d like to think so, but Nadine was in the office at school yesterday as if nothing had happened.”
“That might only mean that there isn’t sufficient evidence against her, not that Tommy is dismissing your reason for suspecting her.”
“Just the same, though. It scares me to no end to think that somebody who could do that…could pick up a gun and…and kill another human being, is in the same building with my daughter all day long. And I can’t do anything to protect her.”
“I know what you mean. My own children are on the same campus, just different buildings.”
“And to think. That damned Chester Walker’s been paying her to keep him apprised of all the ins and outs of the teachers’ grades.”
“How do you know about—”
Someone threw open her bedroom door. The mom of one of Elsbeth’s male students leaned into the room. I knew her only as the mother of a young boy who played quite well.”Elsbeth? Oh, there you are. We just wanted to thank you again for doing such a wonderful job.”
Elsbeth wandered back into the living room then to join the others. Wanting to think for a minute in peace, I lingered in the hall, but soon heard a distinct, “Psst.”
I turned and searched for the source, then saw Tamara standing in her doorway and gesturing for me. She opened the door and pulled me inside. This was nothing like any of my previous experiences at piano recitals. Apparently this one was destined to include whispered conversations in bedrooms.
“Tamara? What’s going on?”
“I can’t let my mom know that I’m here; otherwise she’s going to force me to play for everyone. I snuck back inside through my window.”
In less than six months she was going to be attending college on the opposite side of the country, and she couldn’t tell her mother that she didn’t want to play the piano? “What can I do for you?”
“Brian Underwood’s a friend of mine. He asked me to give you this.”
She offered me a sealed envelope, identified only by the initials MM on the front. “Do you know what this is about?”
“Nah. He didn’t say.” She flopped down on her bed.
I needed to get back to the party before my husband and daughter started to wonder about me, but I was too curious to let this wait. I opened the envelope. Inside was a short note that read:
Molly—
Thanks to you, Dave’s pissed at me for having his keys. Thought you’d like to know something. They were Jenny’s keys. She got them from her mom, who probably got them from Corrie. I was just trying to take responsibility so Jenny wouldn’t get in trouble, but now both of us are in hot water. This is what I get for trying to do the right thing, huh?
Brian
P.S. Did Dave Paxdumb like my drawing?
The postscript must have meant that Brian had drawn the hanged clown. But why would Corinne have given Olivia a copy of the keys to Corinne and Dave’s shared office at the high school? And when could Jenny have gotten the keys, since she was no longer living with her mother?
“When did you get this from him?” I asked, slipping it into my pocket.
“This morning. He takes piano lessons from the same guy I used to take lessons from.”
“A former teacher of yours, you mean?”
“Yeah, former as of today. I quit an hour ago. Mom doesn’t know yet, so don’t say anything. She thinks I’m still at today’s lesson, but it was just a waste of her money and my time. I’ve hated piano for years now, but she just won’t listen to me.”
She lifted her window, then turned back to face me.
“I’ve got to get going so I can make an entrance again. Soon as the audience leaves, that is. How much longer do you think this stupid party of hers is going to last?”
“Not much longer,” I said sadly as I wa
tched Elsbeth’s pride and joy climb out her bedroom window.
Chapter 8
Hello, Dolly
Sunday passed without incident, which was something of a triumph, though I couldn’t get Brian’s letter and his mother’s behavior out of my mind. Did Danielle really think I was a threat to her son or to her? If she was Corinne’s killer, perhaps she thought I knew more than I actually did. And why was Brian telling me now that he got Dave’s keys from Jenny?
I couldn’t answer those questions, but I finally realized that I could, at least, alert the school principal to my suspicions about his secretary. I called Jack Vance at home and told him exactly what I’d seen transpire between Nadine and Chester, as well as the lame explanations she’d given me. Jack said only, “I’ll look into this. Thank you, Molly.”
Monday morning I spent a sizable portion of my time complaining on the phone to Chester. His workers had brought the materials as promised, but trusting that nothing could go wrong with what was, after all, only a delivery, I’d worked on my cartoons and simply pointed out where they could stack everything.
Apparently I should have been more specific. They set a heavy box on our window-well covering, which cracked before my eyes. Chester assured me that he’d have his men install a new covering, but no one should have been so stupid in the first place. He also assured me that actual construction would “start tomorrow,” six days after the very latest start date he “could possibly foresee” a mere two weeks ago.
That night I left Jim home with the kids and arrived on time for our regularly scheduled PTA meeting. Originally, the meeting was to concern the announcement of proceeds from Friday night’s fundraiser. Tonight there would be no back-patting about the revenue.
Attendance in the cafeteria was unusually high, with nearly all of the folding chairs taken. Because the elementary school parents tended to be the most active PTA members—the ones who weren’t yet suffering from total burnout, that is—we met in their building on the campus. Many years ago, when I attended that school, the building housed the entire student body, but it was now the smallest of the five buildings.
Stephanie was in her usual luminous mood whenever there was an audience and a microphone in front of her. She started the meeting and, in contrast to her smile, said, “We all know of the tragic circumstances that caused our fundraiser to be postponed. I’ve decided that the PTA should, of course, provide a bouquet for Corinne Buldock’s funeral. I’ve selected a wonderful floral arrangement from the—”
A shrill voice called out, “Excuse me, Ms. Saunders.” Olivia Garrett waved her hand. “Before you write a check with our collective funds, you’d better hear what I have to say.”
“Yes, Olivia?” Though Stephanie continued smiling, she was obviously speaking through a clenched jaw. “You wish to interrupt?”
Olivia got to her feet. “I think it’s about time we got some new leadership in this school. When I say that, I’m referring to the principal and to you, Stephanie.” She paused to let this register. “We need someone to take over as president of the Carlton PTA, and I am hereby throwing my own name into the hat.”
Stephanie’s face clouded over into an expressionless mask that hid deep anger. “Olivia, in my seven years as PTA president, this is the first meeting I can recall seeing you in attendance. You are clearly just grandstanding because of our personal differences, which my lawyer has advised me not to discuss.”
“No, Stephanie, this is officially a coup.” The voice was that of Danielle Underwood, who stood up from the back of the room. “Several of us were talking before the meeting started. We realized that there has never been an official election of the president of the PTA, and we want to have one tonight.”
“Of course there hasn’t been an election,” Stephanie said. “It’s a volunteer position with no benefits and countless disadvantages. Nobody other than me has ever said that they were willing to do the job.” She gave Olivia a smoldering look. “So, Olivia, by all means. I officially step down and announce that Olivia Garrett is now PTA president.” As she spoke, Stephanie marched off of the small podium in front of the cafeteria and took one of the few seats available, in the front row.
The audience, meanwhile, was stunned into silence. I glanced around the room. Drat! No sign of the secretary/ treasurer, currently our only other PTA officer besides Stephanie. Danielle sat back down again, but her cheeks were blazing. I looked over at Olivia Garrett, whose face was also red. With her usual graceful movements, she made her way to the podium, took a seat, and adjusted the microphone. She looked at Stephanie and asked, “Where’s the written agenda for tonight’s meeting?”
Stephanie held up a sheet of paper in one hand and several three-by-five cards in the other. “I wrote the agenda when I was president. That’s one of your new duties.”
Olivia pursed her lips and blinked a few times. I squirmed on her behalf. In spite of our considerable differences, this coup was unfair to Stephanie, who had done a fine job in all respects as PTA president. However, Olivia was now horribly on the spot, and I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes, either.
“Does anyone have anything they want to discuss?” Olivia asked.
Stephanie raised her hand. For a moment Olivia scanned the audience, her eyes falling pleadingly on Danielle, who merely shrugged. Reluctantly, Olivia returned her vision to the front row. “Stephanie?”
“We need to discuss the status of the fundraiser from last Friday and decide whether to reschedule or to scrap the whole thing. If we scrap it, we need to come up with an alternative fundraiser.”
“Good suggestion. Thank you, Stephanie.”
“No need to thank me. I’m only doing this because I’m a parent, and I’m willing to make whatever sacrifices I can to ensure that my children get a good education.” She came forward and placed her agenda and note cards back onto the podium. “Maybe these will be of some use to you.”
Olivia flipped through the cards, a pained expression on her face. She sighed and ran trembling fingers through her reddish-blond hair. She started to speak, then shut her eyes for a moment. She looked out at the audience. “It’s occurred to me that I no longer have a child at Carlton Central School, whereas Stephanie now has two, plus a son who’s about to enter first grade. I was wrong to volunteer to serve in the parent-teacher association when I’m no longer considered a parent in the eyes of the law.” She started to cry. “By all means, Ms. Saunders,” she continued, her voice breaking, “this is your meeting. I’ll leave you to it.”
Olivia rose and made her way down the aisle. She stopped at her seat long enough to retrieve her jacket and purse, then continued past the rows of folding chairs. There was a considerable racket as many of the people whom she passed rose and told her not to leave. She ignored them and continued walking at a steady pace, though she was clearly upset.
Stephanie returned to the podium. Her face conveyed a picture of self-control, though I knew her well enough to know that she was masking her emotions. What those emotions were, however, was not within my ability to grasp. She waited until everyone had quieted, but a quick scan of the faces behind me made it clear that she was confronting a hostile crowd. The woman sitting beside me grumbled to her companion, “This is all Stephanie’s fault! She never should have taken that poor woman’s daughter from her!”
“That was the judge’s decision,” I heard myself reply, amazed at the realization that I was squarely on Stephanie’s—of all people’s—side. “Blame him, not Stephanie.” I straightened and returned my attention to her.
“Danielle,” Stephanie said into the mike while picking out Danielle’s face in the crowd. I could see from my angle that she’d shrunk down in her seat. “You wanted to hold an election. Are you willing to step in as PTA president, at least for the next three months, through the end of the school year?”
She shook her head.
“Any other volunteers?” Stephanie waited, but no one spoke up or raised their hands.
“How ab
out Molly Masters?” some woman behind me said. I looked back, but couldn’t spot the person. If I’d located her, I would have been tempted to kick her in the shins. Had I wanted to be PTA president, I’d have volunteered for the position.
A young-looking woman I didn’t recognize grumbled, “Well, anyone would be better than—” She stopped when she realized her voice was carrying.
“You’re right, Susan,” Stephanie said to the young woman. “This is not the time for me to attempt to represent the parents in this town. Clearly, many of you have drawn your own conclusions regarding my being granted custody of Jenny Garrett.” She rose and once again gathered her notes. “In a court of law, the judge listens to both sides and tries to make a just decision before condemning one of the parties.” She returned to her seat in the front row.
“Molly, you go take over,” said some woman a couple of rows back. “You’re opinionated and like to talk.” I looked back at her, but didn’t even recognize her.
“A criterion which fits you, too, obviously,” I replied. “Want to thumb-wrestle me for the honors?”
She smirked and crossed her arms. Meanwhile the people seated to either side of me generously moved back to clear an aisle for me to make my way to the front. Grudgingly, I stood up and proceeded to the podium.
I pulled the microphone from its stand and remained on my feet. “Under the circumstances, I’m sure the majority of you will agree that we need to postpone this meeting until emotions are not running quite so high. I move that we adjourn this meeting.”
“I second,” Stephanie promptly said.
“Agree?” Nearly everyone raised their hands. “Disagree?” No hands. “Meeting adjourned,” I said, hoping that these would be my final words as acting PTA president.
Stephanie immediately leaped to her feet and headed for a table along the front wall, where she’d left her coat and belongings. As she made her way to the doors in the back of the room, no one would look directly at her, and yet all conversation ceased as she passed.
Death at a Talent Show (Book 6 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 9