Curse of the PTA

by Laura Alden

  Of all the things Summer was or might be, naming her as a bad influence had never occurred to me. “I don’t agree. A little misguided, perhaps, but that’s far from being a bad influence.”

  Auntie May narrowed her eyes in my general direction. “And when did you get so much gumption, missy? Two years ago you hardly said a word, and now you’re telling me”—she thumped her chest—“telling me that I’m an idiot?”

  “Just because we disagree about something doesn’t mean we have to think the other person is stupid.”

  “Huh,” she said. “Could have fooled me.”

  I let that go in favor of returning to the previous subject. “Summer may be going through a rough patch, but I don’t see how that translates into being a bad influence. She’s a hard worker, she’s willing to take on responsibility, she’s—”

  “Whoa there, Nelly.” Auntie May waved me down. “I ain’t talking about Summer. I meant her little playmate there, what’s-her-name. Denise. No, it’s Della. Wait, I got it. Deirdre!” she said triumphantly.

  “Destiny.”

  “Whatever. Summer’s a nice girl, but if she keeps on lying to her husband, she’s going to be in a world of hurt.”

  I agreed, but I didn’t want to venture into the land of gossip with Auntie May at my side. Within seconds, I’d learn far more than I wanted to about people I dealt with on a daily basis, and I was still trying to wash away the image of a young and skinny-dipping Mack Vogel that she’d suggested into my head months ago.

  Auntie May pushed her wheelchair around so she was staring straight at me. “Who do you think killed Dennis Halpern?”

  “That’s for the sheriff’s office to figure out. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to—”

  “Don’t give me that.” She rolled forward to where I couldn’t stand up and take a step forward without falling into her lap. “You must have some idea. You and that Marina catch more criminals than Gussy Eiseley and his crew put together.” She smirked. “Women been catching people in lies for thousands of years. Only now we’re finally getting some notice for it.”

  I smiled. Now that we could agree on. But . . . Gussy? Never once had I heard anyone call him that. Not even his wife.

  The wheelchair rolled forward onto the tips of my shoes. “You got a list of suspects somewhere, don’t you?”

  It took an act of supreme will not to glance at my purse.

  “Well, your list don’t matter squat,” she said. “I know who killed Denny.”

  I looked at her inquiringly. “Did you know him?”

  “Babysat the little brat, didn’t I? Kid was forever asking questions. How do you get to be president? How does a radio work? Where does that road go?” She rolled her eyes. “I told him Toledo and he went to get an atlas. Yep,” she said with satisfaction. “Another one I outlived.”

  Curiosity won over politeness. “Are you keeping score?”

  “Of course I am. What else do I got to do in here?”

  “Well, there’s—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Activities every day. I know all about it.” She made a gagging noise. “I think they schedule that stuff just to keep me out of their hair.”

  Since I happened to know that there was a large element of truth in her statement, I made as noncommittal a noise as I could, then asked, “So you think you know who killed Dennis?”

  “Don’t think. I know.”

  Riiiight. “Don’t tell me, you think it’s Claudia Wolff.”

  She snorted. “That’s just dumb. Why the heck would she kill Denny?”

  “Then who did?”

  “The janitor,” she said, triumph ringing loud and clear.

  “Harry? Why would Harry kill Dennis?”

  “Motive ain’t my concern.”

  I started to point out her hypocrisy, but she cut me off. “The janitor’s like the butler in all those movies. No one really suspects him because it’s too plain, see? The perfect crime.”

  I tried to move my feet, but they were pinned down by the wheelchair. “So the reason you think Harry did it is because of some old movies.”

  “Ooo, listen to the expert, tearing down my case.” She tried to roll forward, but this time I put out my knees to prevent any further incursion on my toes. “Now, girlie, don’t be getting all feisty on me. You got any better ideas?”

  I thought back to Saturday morning. “Do you know Lou Spezza? He opened that Made in the Midwest store.”

  “Brought in some chewy cherry bars,” she said, nodding. “Tasty, but he’ll probably go broke with a store like that. Not enough scope, you know?”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Hey,” she said, her face lighting up. “You think Lou killed Denny, don’t you? Sure, why not? New guy in town gets in an argument with the hometown kid, he loses his temper and bam!”

  “Kid?”

  “Honey, just about everybody is a kid to me.”

  She had a point. “I don’t think Lou killed Dennis,” I said.

  “Then why you asking?”

  “Because . . .” Think, Beth, think. “Because he’s practically my neighbor downtown and I haven’t heard a bad word about him.” All true. “And if there is anything bad to be heard about him, you’d be the one who’d know. So, if you don’t know anything, there probably isn’t anything.” Maybe.

  “Gotcha.” She tapped the side of her head. “I’ll keep my ears open. Say, do you carry?”

  Again with the handguns. “No, but I have the best weapon of all,” I said, giving her wheelchair a light push.

  Rolling slowly backward, she squinted at me. “Better than a .44 Magnum?”

  “Too obvious.” I picked up my purse by the shoulder strap. “What man would see this coming?” Moving forward half a step, I spun, whirling the purse around. It smacked into the side of the chair. Thwap!

  Auntie May cackled out a laugh. I picked up the box of books and made my escape.

  • • •

  A short hour later, I’d eaten a fast lunch of peanut butter and jelly, worked on the details of an upcoming author visit, paid invoices I should have paid a week before, and was playing with numbers in an effort to figure how the store could afford to replace the increasingly worn carpet when Marina banged into my office.

  “Hi ho, Ms. Works-too-Hard. Let’s go find a groove for you to get on.”

  I looked about for small children, but saw none. “What did you do with your day-care kids?”

  “One is home sick, one is at a doctor’s appointment with his parents, and the other . . .” She peered at the ceiling. “What did I do with the last one? Oh, yes. Her mother is off work because of a plant shutdown, so she’s not with me this week. All accounted for, Cap’n.” She saluted.

  “Well done, First Mate.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you kindly, sir. Now, let’s scoot. We have an appointment.”

  I looked at my desk blotter calendar. “No, we don’t.”

  She picked up a pen and reached across my desk to scribble something. “Now we do. Let’s go.”

  I squinted at her upside-down writing. “Who’s Marcus Lombardo?”

  “Remember at the mall, when you were rejecting all my clothing choices? By the way, those navy blue pants you have on today are sooo late eighties. Pleats? Puh-leese.”

  “My pants are from the late eighties.”

  “Huh. The only thing from that decade that I can still fit into is a pair of earrings. Anyway, remember that I said leave it to me? Remember the guy in the video who sat in the second row in the middle? Fortyish, short brown hair, short-sleeved dress shirt that only grandpas should wear, took lots of notes? Well, I had to check, but that guy used to work with the DH, and we’re going to talk to him. The guy, not the DH.”

  “Used to work?”

  Marina came around the desk and put my purse into my hand. “He’s a civil engineer and got laid off a couple years ago, like half the other civil engineers in the country. Come on. We were supposed to be there seven seconds ago,
and you know how engineers are about being on time.”

  “Be where?” I asked.

  But she didn’t answer.

  • • •

  Two minutes later, I knew why she hadn’t said where we were going. Marcus Lombardo had switched careers with a vengeance. No longer a member of cubicle world, he was now a manager for a Rynwood retail business. The local hardware store. The store that was owned by my former love interest.

  Marina breezed up to the six-foot-four Evan. “Hi. We need to talk to Marcus for a few minutes. We have some . . . hardware questions. He said he’d be checking stock in the basement this afternoon, so we’ll just toddle down there, if that’s all right with you. We’ll be in and out of here in a flash. Thanks!”

  Evan looked at me. “Beth. How are you?”

  “Fine.” I nodded. “And you?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” Marina grabbed my arm. “He’s fine; you’re fine; we’re all peachy-keen fine, okay?”

  She pulled at me and, after a moment, I went. “Don’t know what you ever saw in that man,” she muttered. “So what if he’s as rich as Midas? So what if he’s good-looking enough to star in his own television series? So what if he wined and dined you like no one’s done before or is likely to do ever again?”

  “How nice that you’re so optimistic about my romantic prospects.”

  “What’s that? Speak up if you want me to hear what you’re mumbling.” She released my arm and started down the broad stairs.

  I made a face at the back of her head. She’d heard me well enough, she just didn’t want to respond. But if I was going to be truthful with myself—and I always wanted to be, even if I hardly ever was—I knew what she meant. What I’d seen in Evan was all surface. He was a very nice man, but there was no deep connection between us. No sense of . . . of oneness. We’d gotten along well enough, but it was more the getting-alongness of friends.

  “We never should have dated,” I said softly.

  “And if I’d said so, would you have listened to me?” Marina asked.

  “How can you hear me when I’m practically whispering but not when I’m speaking in my normal tone right next to you?”

  “The acoustics are weird in here; haven’t you noticed?” We reached the bottom of the stairs and walked across the ancient black-and-white linoleum tiles to a counter where a man was standing, tapping away on a laptop computer. “Hey, Marcus.”

  As we approached the thinnish man, he held up his index finger. “Marina Neff. Greetings. One moment, please.”

  I looked at her. She shrugged and laid her elbows on the counter, crossing her arms and looking as if she could stand there for hours. With ease. “So,” she said. “What’cha doin’?” All she needed was some bubble gum to snap and she’d be fourteen again.

  Marcus flicked her a short look, then refocused on the computer screen. “If I recall correctly, and I’m sure I do, you have a tremendous capacity for tenacity.”

  “Yup.” She inched closer to him. “Say, what would happen if I, you know, accidentally of course, pulled the plug on your doohickey here?”

  His face, still impassive, nonetheless gave the impression of long-sufferance. “I am coming to the conclusion that it will be faster if I halt my work on redesigning the layout of the store’s plumbing fixtures, let you speak, and then return to work than try to continue working with you here.”

  She grinned. “You’re pretty smart for a boy.”

  The middle-aged boy made a few more taps on the keyboard, then stepped back from the counter and folded his arms. “What is it you wish to know?”

  Marina made the introductions. “Beth, Marcus. Marcus, Beth.”

  “Does Beth have a surname?” he asked.

  “Kennedy,” I said. “I own the Children’s Bookshelf.”

  He nodded. “You used to have a relationship with Evan Garrett, correct?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s correct.” I waited for a cold shoulder, for a knowing glance, or at least a quiet snort, but he gave me nothing except: “I’ve never met anyone with the last name of Kennedy. Odd, as it is a relatively common surname.”

  Marina bumped me with her elbow. “Marcus collects names. He remembers the names of everyone he’s ever met.”

  The term “pencil-neck geek” popped in my brain, and I didn’t know how to get it out. Think about Marcus as an infant, I told myself. He must have had a nice fat baby neck at six months old. But try as I might, all I could picture was a miniature version of the adult man, reaching out for his mother’s smartphone and downloading an app to play “Itsy Bitsy Spider” at his vocal cue. Not that there were cell phones when he was that age, but the image felt right.

  “I used to collect rocks,” I blurted out. “Little ones.” I used my index finger and thumb to indicate an object about an inch in diameter.

  “Igneous?” Marcus asked. “Metamorphic? I assume not sedimentary, not for something that small.”

  Actually, what I’d filled my pockets with were the pretty ones. Sparkly had been best, but I’d liked the red ones, too. “It was a long time ago.” Marcus gave me a long look. I gave him a bright smile. “So,” I said. “My friend Marina here says you attended all of Dennis Halpern’s lecture series last summer.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And can I assume that you know Dennis has been killed?”

  “You can.”

  “So . . .” I was suddenly stumped. How could I convince Marcus here to share information that might possibly incriminate people who might possibly be his friends?

  Marina placed her forefinger on the counter and pushed hard enough to send it into a backward arc. “Point one. The police have not arrested the killer.” Her middle finger went down next to the first finger. “Point two. Local law enforcement is asking people to speak up if they see or hear anything that might help catch said killer.” Her ring finger joined the pair. “Point three. Beth and I think it’s possible that someone who attended those lectures might have killed Dennis. Point four. You were at all the lectures.” Her hand went flat on the counter. “Point five. We’re thinking you can help.”

  His arms crossed in front of him. “If you think I killed Dennis Halpern, why haven’t you gone to the police?”

  Marina’s eyes opened wide. “What? No! That’s not it at all!”

  “I suggest,” he said coldly, “that you make your accusations after you have some semblance of proof.”

  “No, I . . .” Her mouth opened and shut a couple of times. No words came out, only small pathetic squeaking noises.

  “Leave it to me,” she’d said. “I have ways of finding out,” she’d told me.

  “Look, Marcus,” I said, pulling my list out of my purse’s outside pocket. “Here are descriptions of the people I’d like to know something about.” I pushed the paper over to him. “I’m sure you’ve heard of kinesiology. Using some of those techniques, I studied the videos and came up with three people who fit the parameters of actions committed while under stress.”

  Marcus nodded. “Applied kinesiology is gaining ground as a science. There are some respected researchers doing work in the field. Though it’s not a hard science, of course.”

  “Of course,” I murmured.

  He scanned the paper, turned it over and saw the blank back, then turned it over again. “These are the people you’ve selected as possible suspects?”

  Marina pulled a crinkled piece of paper from her own purse. “These, too.”

  He lined up the lists side by side. Read them both, then reopened his laptop. As he tapped on the keyboard, Marina pushed herself forward on her elbows to see what he was doing. “Good idea,” she said. To me she whispered, “He’s going to the Halpern website.”

  Marcus’s head rotated between the lists and the computer screen, at the speed of someone watching a very slow game of tennis. “This man”—he pointed at my description of the man with the short beard and tapping feet—“has been in China for the last month. He spent an inordinat
e amount of time during breaks on his cell phone making the arrangements. This man”—he tapped Marina’s description of the man in the flannel shirt and pocket protector—“is my cousin, and I’ll vouch for his character.”

  He eliminated my description of the man who didn’t blink by saying he’d moved to Montana the week after the last lecture to take up a career as a fly-fishing guide. Which left two people.

  “These two,” Marcus said, “are possible.”

  From my list, the woman with the fierce expression. From Marina’s list, the man with the horrendously ugly tie.

  “One of mine and one of yours.” Marina clapped her hands. “Hooray, we both win!” We grinned at each other.

  “However,” Marcus said, “I’m afraid I don’t know their names.”

  Our grins fell to the floor. “You . . . what?” Marina asked. “But you know the name of everybody you’ve ever met. How can you not know their names?”

  He shrugged, the most human thing I’d seen him do. “I didn’t meet any of these people. It was a lecture, and we weren’t introduced. I have to be formally introduced to someone to collect a name.”

  Marina started to say something, but I jabbed her in the ribs with my elbow. “Thanks for your time, Marcus. We appreciate it.” I headed for the stairway.

  “Now what are we going to do?” Marina said, sending Marcus a stink-eye look of which he was completely oblivious. “I was sure he’d have those names. What kind of dumb rule is that, to not learn someone’s name unless they’re officially introduced?”

  We started up the stairs, and Marina continued to grouse about the stupid rules of Marcus’s name game. When she ran out of breath, I finally got a word in. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You’re telling me not to worry?” She stopped halfway up the stairs. “Has the world ended and no one texted me about it? We need those names and we have no way of getting them, and you’re saying not to worry?”

  “That’s right.” I smiled. “Leave it to me.”

  Because I had an idea.

  • • •

  I abandoned Marina to her own devices and returned from whence I’d come, back to my office. Once seated, I pushed aside the stacks of work that were calling my name and fired up the Internet. In the three seconds it took Halpern’s website to load, a small mountain of questions piled into my brain.