Curse of the PTA

by Laura Alden

  What if this didn’t work? What if I couldn’t remember how to do it? What if, in the five minutes since we’d left Marcus, the web designer had uploaded a site revamp and all the videos were gone? What if . . .

  The site came live on my computer screen, links to the videos in full view. “Quit with the worst-case scenario,” I said out loud. But I never would. Moms the world over had cornered the market on that habit eons ago and they’d never relinquish their grip.

  I played the video that showed the intense woman, then tweaked the PLAY and STOP and REVERSE buttons until the best view of her was displayed. I leaned close to the keyboard, scrutinizing each button. “I know it’s here somewhere,” I muttered. “Somewhere . . . ha!” There, in teensy-tiny print, on the obscure seldom-used upper-right part of the keyboard, was a key marked PRT SCR. For “print screen,” a misnomer if there ever was one. Create-a-digital-image-of-what-you-see-on-the-screen-and-then-hide-it-in-an-undisclosed-location was more like it. I whacked the key, spent a few minutes figuring out where the file of the screen image had been sent, then printed it. Rinsed and repeated for the guy with the tie.

  Step one, complete.

  I slid the pictures into a vinyl-covered clipboard I’d been given at a long-ago booksellers conference and picked up my purse. Step two was about to commence.

  • • •

  Half an hour later, after I’d made some vague explanation to Lois and Yvonne about an urgent errand, I walked into the Madison offices of Halpern and Company. I eyed my surroundings. If I’d had enough money to think about investing in anything other than a savings account, this place would inspire me to hand over my cash. It could all be an interior decorator–inspired illusion, of course, but the wood-paneled walls, subdued lighting, and original artwork spoke of success and trust.

  “Good afternoon.” The receptionist, sitting behind a large and very solid dark wooden desk, gave me a polite smile. “How may I help you?”

  My heart warmed to the woman. Anyone who properly used the word “may” was worthy of respect and admiration. I smiled back at her. “Well, I have a question.”

  The woman, her hair in a smooth French twist, nodded. “Answering questions is one of our favorite things here at Halpern.”

  I desperately wanted to ask if the air of somber quiet was permanent or if it was due to the death of the company’s founder, to ask how the company would manage without Dennis, to ask if the remaining partners would carry on or if they’d sell to the highest bidder, to ask if she had any ideas about who killed her boss. Instead, I trotted out the lines I’d rehearsed during the drive to downtown Madison.

  “My name is Beth Kennedy. I own a children’s bookstore in Rynwood, and—”

  The woman’s face lit up. “The Children’s Bookshelf? I love that store!”

  “You . . . do?”

  “Oh, sure. It’s been a few years since I’ve been there, my kids are grown now, but I’m hoping for grandchildren soon.” Her polite smile slipped into a real one. “My name is Valerie. Beth, you said?” She held her hand out over the desk.

  As I shook her hand, the story I’d so carefully composed fell to bits. No way could I ask this nice lady to look at the pictures and say I was afraid that these two people had been sitting beside a friend of mine who had just been hospitalized for a horrible disease that had an extremely long incubation period and could I have their names, please, because they should be contacted right away.

  “You have a wonderful store,” Valerie said. “It must be great to work with books all day. Children’s books, especially. Lots of happiness in children’s stories. A few problems, but no death, no—” She came to a sudden stop.

  But I knew where she’d been headed. “No murder?” I asked, as gently as I could.

  She studied the desktop. “You’re from Rynwood, so you must know about . . .” Her hands made a small gesture that told of sorrow and pain and a deep reluctance to talk about Dennis’s death.

  “Yes,” I said. And since I had a similar reluctance to talk about it, because any more talk and I’d have to mention my role in his appearance at the PTA meeting during which he’d been killed, and if she was astute in asking questions, I’d end up telling her that I’d let his killer escape. No, I definitely did not want to talk about it.

  All of which meant that instead of the made-up tale of diseases and hospitals, I told her the truth. “The police have asked for help. If anyone thinks they might know anything about the killer, we’re to contact them right away.”

  Valerie shook her head slowly. “But I don’t know anything. There were detectives in here, asking everybody questions, but I don’t think any of us here helped at all.” She looked up at me, her face crumpled with the effort not to cry. “We all loved him.”

  “Loved?” I echoed. Maybe Marina had been right about the mistress thing.

  “Not love love,” Valerie said. “Dennis swore up and down that Vicki was his best and last and forever wife. No more divorce, he said. He’d finally found the woman he’d been looking for all his life. I meant we loved him like a brother. An uncle.” She looked unhappy with her word choice, so I supplied the right one.

  “A friend.”

  She swallowed. “He was our boss, but he was our friend, too. And if any of us knew anything about his murder, we would have told the police already.”

  I opened my clipboard and slid the two pictures across her desk.

  “Who are they?” she asked.

  “Both of these people attended the lectures that are up on your website. One or both of them might have something to do with Dennis’s death.”

  Valerie’s eyes thinned as she studied the pictures. “Right. I’ll call the police and let them know.”

  Ah. That hadn’t been my plan, exactly. It might be the right one, but I spun out the future conversation in my head. Valerie would talk to the sheriff’s office, and they’d call me and ask why I thought these two people had anything to do with the murder. I’d have to say, “Well, Officer, it’s like this: I’m a mom, and I can tell when people are lying or uncomfortable and these two people . . .”

  There wasn’t a chance in a kazillion that I’d be taken seriously. What I needed was a teensy bit of evidence. But how to tell Valerie that? There was only one way. The truth.

  “Um . . .” I explained the dilemma, but toward the end, when she could see where I was going, Valerie started shaking her head.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you. They’re clients, and it’s confidential. I’m really very sorry.”

  I’d suspected as much. Maybe I should have stuck to the disease story. I thanked her for her time, picked up the papers, and turned to go. But before I got halfway across the room, Valerie asked, “Are you on Facebook? You know, that social media site?”

  “Sure.” The bookstore had a very active presence. I posted regularly about author signings, new books, and sales of all shapes and sizes.

  “Halpern and Company is on Facebook,” she said. “And we have a lot of friends.” She arched her eyebrows. “A lot of friends.”

  Light dawned. “It’s good to have friends,” I said, a grin spreading wide.

  Valerie’s crumpled look returned. “Yes, it is.”

  I wished there was something I could do to ease her pain, but there wasn’t. “I’m so very sorry,” I said quietly. And left.

  • • •

  That evening, the phone rang while my hands were covered in egg wash and bread crumbs. “Jenna, could you get that, please?” I asked.

  My daughter was at the kitchen table, chewing on the end of a pencil eraser. A week earlier, she’d announced to her startled mother that she wanted to get her homework done before dinner instead of after, and would it be okay if she did her homework in the kitchen instead of up in her bedroom?

  The phone rang again. “Jenna,” I called a little louder. “Answer the phone, please. My hands are all gooey.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She slid off the chair and walked over to the phone. “
Kennedy residence, Jenna speaking.” After a moment, she plopped the receiver back into its home and went back to her homework.

  “Wrong number?” I asked.

  “No one there.” She shrugged. “Mom, if the prefix ‘dis’ means the opposite of whatever the rest of the word is, how come ‘parage’ isn’t a word?”

  “Because the English language was made to torture middle schoolers.”

  “Hardy har har.” But she said it with a smile. “Do you—” The ringing of the phone interrupted her. This time after she answered, she said, “Sure. She’s right here. Hang on a second, okay?” She clunked the cordless phone onto the table. “It’s Mrs. Neff.”

  I put the boneless chicken breast on a wire rack, quick-washed my hands, and had them half-dried on a towel by the time I picked up the phone. “Did you call just a minute ago?”

  “Non, mademoiselle.”

  “Since when did you start speaking French?”

  “I am practiced in ze language,” she said in what even I knew was a horrible accent. “I have many words in ze French. Croissant. Baguette. Champagne. Merlot. Éclair. Quiche. Crepes.”

  “I notice that your French is heavy on the pastries.”

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “Heavy is the word.”

  “How about this word? Genius.”

  “A lovely word,” she said, “especially when applied to me.”

  “Nope. Elsa Stinson and Kyle Burkhardt.”

  “Who are they?” She stopped. “Wait a minute. Are they . . . ?”

  “Yep. The names of our suspects.”

  “How did you do that so fast?” she demanded.

  “I have my ways.”

  Marina started to sputter. I enjoyed the sound for a few sputs, then took pity on her and explained. “It took me half an hour of looking at tiny pictures to get Kyle’s name. Five minutes later, I had Elsa’s.”

  “I get Kyle,” Marina said quickly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They each need investigating, right? I get Kyle; you get Elsa.”

  I turned and stared in the direction of her house. Which I couldn’t see because it was a mile away and night was coming on fast, but there’s no controlling instinctive reactions. “Why?”

  “Do you need the truth, or can I make up something?”

  “Did you really need to ask that?”

  “What if the truth makes me look silly?”

  “Especially then.”

  “Yeah,” she said glumly. “I figured. Truth, then. Say, remember that old show Truth or Consequences? How about if I—”

  “Just tell me. I need to get dinner in the oven.”

  Her next words came all in a fast whooshing rush. “That woman scares the crap out of me.”

  “Elsa Stinson?”

  “See, even her name is scary! Please don’t make me investigate her, let me do the tie guy, please, please, please.”

  I didn’t care one way or another, but . . . “What’s so frightening about El—”

  “Don’t say her name!”

  “About that woman?” On the video she’d looked intense, fierce even, but scary?

  Marina mumbled something.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  She heaved a huge sigh. “She reminds me way too much of this girl I knew when I was a kid. Toni Cregar, her name was. All through elementary school, she pushed me around.”

  “You got pushed around?”

  “Hard to believe, I know. But I was short for my age back then and very shy.”

  “That is also hard to believe,” I said dryly.

  “Toni the Tiger was queen of the playground and I . . . I wasn’t.” There was a short silence. “I suppose it would be good for me to deal with someone who looks like her. Get over that childhood stuff once and for all.”

  She was right. It probably would be good for her. Then again, it would probably be good for me to wear a feather boa at least once in my life, but I didn’t see it happening. “I’ll do Elsa,” I said. “Getting over stuff is overrated.”

  “You’re the best.” She made a loud kissing noise. “Gotta go. Zach and the DH will start chewing the flesh off my bones if I don’t serve dinner in the next five minutes.”

  I hung up, wondering what childhood wounds Jenna and Oliver would carry with them into adulthood. The divorce, certainly, and the murder of their school principal two years ago. But did they have playground incidents I didn’t know about? Were there—

  The phone rang, and since I was still standing there, lost in thought, I picked it up. “Kennedy residence, Beth speaking.” I heard traffic noise, a sharp intake of breath, then nothing.

  “Was that Mrs. Neff again?” Jenna asked.

  “No.” I put the phone back into its cradle. Absentmindedly, I brushed at the back of my neck, trying to wipe away a feeling of trickly unease. “Sounded like someone’s cell phone is calling us by mistake.”

  Jenna, buried in her homework, made a grunting noise and I went back to cooking dinner. Cell phone, I told myself. These things happen. Just a coincidence that the store is getting hang-up calls at the same time we were getting them at the house.

  Pure coincidence.

  • • •

  Oliver was moving the last plate from table to kitchen counter when the phone rang. This time it was hot, sudsy water with which my hands were covered. “Oliver, could you get that? I’m all wet over here.”

  The phone was in midring when Oliver picked it up. “Kennedy residence, Oliver speaking.” Pause. He repeated himself, then looked at me. “Mom, no one’s there.”

  “Just hang up,” I said. Coincidence. They happened, after all. “Third time’s the charm, right?”

  “What do you mean?” He put the phone away and scrambled up to sit on one of the kitchen island stools. Not as much of a scramble as it had been a few months ago, though. My little boy was growing fast.

  I smiled at him. “That’s the third time we’ve had a hang-up call tonight. I’m sure it’s just—” He jumped down from the stool in an awkward heap, his eyes round. “Oliver, what’s the matter?”

  “They’re after me,” he whispered, staring at the phone.

  “They who?” I asked.

  “The . . . the . . . guys.”

  “The bad guys?”

  He shut his eyes tight and nodded.

  I wiped my hands dry on my pants and hurried to his side. “No one’s after you. You’re safe at home with me. With your sister. With Spot.” I laid my hand on top of his head.

  He jerked away. “No, no, you don’t know! They’re after me and I can’t let them get me!” His voice went high and thin. “Don’t let them take me, Mommy!”

  I dropped to my knees and hugged him tight. Oliver hadn’t called me Mommy in years. “Shh, Ollster. Shh. I won’t let anyone take you. You don’t need to worry.”

  “But what if—”

  “Shhh,” I said. “There’s nothing to worry about. Mommy’s here. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you, forever and ever.”

  He buried his face in my neck. Wrapped his arms around me and held me with a strength I hadn’t known he had. “Please don’t let them take me away. Please, Mommy.”

  “I won’t, sweetheart, I won’t.” But even summoning all the mom powers at my disposal, it took a long, long time to calm Oliver down from near-hysteria, and through it all, he wouldn’t say why he was so scared.

  I kissed him and held him and made soothing noises. And I made my decision.

  Tomorrow I’d call in the big guns.

  Chapter 15

  The next morning, I dropped Jenna off at the middle school, dropped Oliver at Tarver, drove around the block to give Oliver enough time to get inside and out of sight, then parked in a spot marked VISITOR just outside Tarver’s front door.

  I hurried into the front office, got a quick introduction to the gorgeous new vice principal, Stephanie Pesch, and was soon sitting in the school psychologist’s office, pouring out my concerns.
Millie Jefferson listened for the fifteen minutes it took me to tell the tale, asking quiet questions when they needed to be asked, giving small nods of encouragement when my words slowed.

  Finally, there was no more to tell. “So what do you think is wrong?” I asked. “I’ve talked to the mothers of all his friends and they don’t know. Marina Neff is his day-care provider, and she doesn’t know. His father doesn’t know.”

  “How would you like me to help?” Millie asked.

  “Well.” I shifted. “I was thinking maybe you had a magic wand in your desk drawer.”

  She smiled, making her comfortable round face look even more like a fairy godmother’s. “I save that for the truly difficult cases.”

  Hope sprang up inside me. “You don’t think there’s anything really wrong with Oliver?”

  “Anything is possible, but judging from what I know of the boy, I’d say no.”

  Relief was a great wave, washing worry out of dark nooks and crannies, cleansing me of the concern that had been weighing me down. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that.”

  “I’d say nothing is seriously wrong,” Millie went on, “but obviously something isn’t right. If my years in this field have been at all worthwhile, it will be my working theory that he’s feeling guilty about something.”

  “Guilty? Oliver?”

  “How has his schoolwork been the last few weeks?”

  I thought back. “Fine. Better, if anything. That’s one reason why . . . um . . .”

  “Why you didn’t come to me earlier?” Millie asked gently.

  Shame colored my face. It was true. The quality of Oliver’s homework had been a prime factor in my reasoning that whatever was wrong with him was just a small bump in the road. If anything had been deeply amiss, his grades would have slipped. Every mom knew that.

  “Don’t worry.” Millie sat back in her chair, suddenly looking less like a fairy godmother and more like a multidegreed psychologist. “It’s a typical reaction for parents. Don’t blame yourself.”

  But I would. Of course I would. I nodded, indicating external agreement. “What should I do next?”