Curse of the PTA (15 page)

“I don’t know anything about the murder or the fire.” Flossie ran her fingers through
her hair, then patted it into place.

Three seconds of mostly unconscious action and her hair looked as good as if she’d
walked out of the salon. Had she been born with that ability or had it come about
from her years on the stage? My life was full of questions that I didn’t dare ask.
“Maybe you know something that you don’t realize you know.”

She smiled. “That sounds like an impossibility.”

“And it doesn’t sound like you’re taking this seriously.”

“A message wrapped around a dog collar?” She laughed. “There are more effective ways
to send a threat, I should think. Whispered phone calls at midnight, perhaps. Or footsteps
behind you in the dark. Or items in your home being rearranged. Or—”

Suddenly we heard heavy feet pounding toward us. I jumped up and stood in front of
Flossie. She pulled at my hands, but I stood firm.

Lou Spezza came around the corner of the grocery store, arms pumping. “Beth!” he called.
“Have you seen my dogs? They’re gone, just gone and—” His eyes followed my pointing
finger. “There you are!” He ran to the dogs and dropped to his knees, gathering them
into his arms. “You good bad dogs. Yes, you’re all right. Daddy’s here.”

The hind ends of the dogs waggled back and forth as their tails went wild. They licked
Lou’s mustache, making him laugh and bury his face in their fur. “Now, don’t ever
do that again, okay? Running away like that is bad for your old dad’s heart.”

He got to his feet. “Thanks so much for finding Castor and Pollux. I have no idea
how they got out. I’ve been in the store since six, working on a new display. I went
up to the apartment a few minutes ago to let the dogs out and the door was open.”
He stood, one dog on either side of him, their heads leaning against his legs. “I
was sure I’d shut and locked it, but . . .” He frowned, then shrugged. “But I must
not have.”

He looked at Flossie, who’d come to her feet and was standing slightly behind me.
“Flossie, right? Sorry about my dogs. I won’t let it happen again.”

“Thank you,” Flossie said, and I wondered if I was the only one who heard the frost
in her voice.

Lou laid a hand on each dog’s head. “I really am very sorry,” he said quietly.

So he’d heard it, too.

“Yes.” Flossie nodded. “I can see that. So I will also assume you know nothing about
the note?”

Lou’s eyebrows drew together.

It was so obvious what his next words were going to be that I preempted him by taking
the note out of my pocket and holding it out.

“Keep quiet or die?” His frown deepened to the level where his mother, had she been
around, would have warned him about his face freezing that way. “Where was this?”

“Around Castor’s collar.” Or was it Pollux’s? “One of their collars, anyway.”

“But . . .” Lou’s black eyebrows drew so close that they touched. “But how did it
get there? And what does it mean? Keep quiet about what?” He read the note again.
Turned the paper over, saw that it was blank, turned it back again. “This doesn’t
make any sense.”

I looked at Flossie. “How many people know how you feel about dogs?”

“My irrational and abject fear of the creatures, you mean?” Flossie smiled, but it
wasn’t a real smile. All surface and no substance. I started to say something, but
she shook her head. “Almost everyone, I imagine. Certainly I’ve made a public spectacle
of myself more than once.”

I wanted to say that no one would think less of her for having a dog phobia, that
everyone was frightened of something and her fear was just more visible than most
people’s, that’s all. Most of all, I wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter. But
from the shadow in her smile, I could see that it did. She was embarrassed at her
behavior, and if I knew Flossie at all, she’d probably tried to do something about
her fear for years and failed.

So, yes, it mattered. Even if it didn’t matter to anyone else, it mattered to her.
And what should I do about it? I thought through the possibilities. How would I want
to be treated if it were me?

Easy enough.

“It could be worse,” I said. “You could have an irrational fear of broccoli. I’ve
heard that’s impossible to get over.”

Flossie blinked at me, then barked out a laugh. “You’re right. It could be worse.”

“Yeah,” Lou said, chuckling. “It could be a fear of canned goods.”

“Or cardboard boxes,” Flossie said.

“Pennies.”

Smiling, I looked from one of them to the other as they got sillier and sillier. When
they’d reached the point of inanity, I sighed and brought the conversation back to
earth with a hard thud. “Lou, so you don’t have any idea how the dogs got out? Or
how the note got on Pollux’s collar?”

“How they got out, it must have been an accident,” Lou said. “The only thing that
makes sense. Must have been I didn’t shut the door tight. I mean, do you know for
sure that you shut and locked your door this morning?”

I had been, until that very second. Now, of course, I was going to have to call Marina
and ask her to go check. “And the note?” I tried to ask the question in my best possible
Gus imitation, but I sounded more like a mom questioning a child about a broken window.

“No idea,” Lou said, looking at his dogs. “The boys were running around loose, and
someone . . . well, I don’t know why anyone would have done that.”

A thought popped into my head. “Do you think they could get a fingerprint off the
collars? Even a part of one might be worth something.”

“Not a chance,” Lou said quickly. “Not those nylon mesh collars. Those won’t take
a print at all. Leather ones, maybe, but not that nylon. And the buckles are way too
small to get anything worthwhile.”

Flossie and I looked at each other. Had he been playing the “I’m a guy, so I may be
making this up, but I’m going to say it in such an authoritative way that you won’t
think to question me,” card? Maybe. But it made sense. Still . . .

I held out my hand and Lou gave me the note. A thought flitted through my head; would
he have done that if he’d written the threat? Another thought followed fast; everybody’s
motives are a mystery, even your own, so don’t think you can guess anyone else’s.

“We should take this to the police,” I said.

The reply came in unison: “No!”

I looked from one to the other. “Why not? This is a threat, Flossie. Maybe it’s something
to worry about, maybe it isn’t, but Gus and the guys should know about it.”

“No fussing.” Flossie stood tall as if the top of her head were attached to an invisible
string in the sky pulling her taut. “You go to Gus and Gus will talk to Patrick, and
the next thing you know, I’ll be shut into Sunny Rest with nothing to do except knit
hats for the great-great-nephews and – nieces I don’t yet have.”

“It was probably kids,” Lou said. “I seen these three punks hanging around the last
couple of weeks. They looked like trouble, the kind that would do something like this.”

I remembered the tongue-lashing Melody had given the Harvey brothers. From what I’d
heard of them, they were more the type that would break into vacant houses than the
death-threat type, but they did have that dog, so maybe.

“What if,” I said carefully, “what if I talk to Gus in confidence? Just ask him to
keep an eye out. Not make a formal report or anything?”

“No.” Flossie snatched the note from my hand and ripped it in half. I protested, but
she ignored me and ripped the note in half a second and a third time. She tried for
a fourth, but the papers were getting too thick, so she tossed the scraps into the
Dumpster. She turned to us, dusting her palms together. “There. All taken care of,
yes?”

Lou gave her an admiring grin. “No fuss, no muss. I like that.”

I studied Lou. “You don’t think going to the police is a good idea? Not even for Flossie’s
sake?”

His mouth opened. Shut. Opened again. “If that’s what she wants. But it’s up to her.”

Flossie nodded. “And my decision is not to bother anyone with any of this. Thank you,
Lou. And, Beth, I’ll thank you to keep this episode to yourself. Do I have your promise?”

“Are you sure?”

Lou smoothed his mustache, right side first, then the left. “She sounds sure to me.
I think you should respect her decision.”

Flossie laid a hand on my arm. “Please, Beth.”

I looked at her hand. Flossie was smart, talented, beautiful, and kind, but she wasn’t
someone to instigate physical contact. Not the hugging type, not the air-kiss type.
For her to do this . . .

“Whatever you want,” I said, then couldn’t decide who looked more relieved, Flossie
or Lou.

Chapter 13

O
n Sunday morning, the church sanctuary was filled with slanting sunbeams. The sunshine
lit the little faces gathered up front for the children’s sermon with a soft glow
that was worthy of a portrait artist. An intense longing for my own children stabbed
at me, and it faded only when the minister got up to the pulpit and began to speak.
Distraction can be a good thing.

I whiled away the afternoon by taking a long walk with Spot, trying to enjoy the sound
of other family’s backyard games, and welcomed Jenna and Oliver home with hugs and
warm cookies fresh out of the oven.

Weekends without the kids were sometimes very, very long.

Monday morning’s weather was a shocking reversal from the sun and warmth we’d been
enjoying. Rainy and cold and dark, it was a reminder that October was fast on its
way. The multiple mugs of tea I downed did little to warm me up, and I spent the morning
shivering and wishing I’d worn something warmer than thin dress pants and an Oxford
shirt.

Lois had clucked at my clothing. “Light blue over navy? That has to be the most boring
color combination in your closet. And look at you, not a single accessory. No bracelet,
no scarf, no necklace, not even a pair of earrings.”

I glanced down at my practical, reasonably priced, no-iron clothing. “Tell me again
that you and Marina aren’t in cahoots.”

Lois twirled one end of her fuzzy scarf. It was a multicolored hand-knit gift from
a niece, and the multiple hues almost went with the olive drab pants and deep purple
top. None of which matched the light pink sneakers, but color matching wasn’t ever
one of Lois’s primary concerns. “Why, is she on you to get out of your mom clothes
rut?”

“We were at the mall on Friday night. You should have seen some of the stuff she was
tossing over the dressing room door.”

“Ha.” Lois grinned. “Wish I could have seen you in some of her picks.” She narrowed
her eyes as I rolled mine. “Don’t tell me you didn’t try anything on.”

“One.”

“Gold lamé sheath dress?” She raised her eyebrows. “A spangly tube top?”

I flashed back to the single thing I’d taken off a hanger—the black pants—and pointed
at my watch. “The first interview will be here in a few minutes.”

Lois sighed dramatically. “I know. I know. You want me up front and you and Yvonne
will interview her. Why don’t I ever get to have any fun?”

I held up two fingers. “Two answers. Number one is that you’re not to be trusted around
potential new hires due to your penchants for hyperbole and mischief. Or you can choose
option two, which is you’re the person I trust most to run the store while I’m otherwise
occupied.”

“Hmm.” Lois rubbed her chin. “I choose option three.”

I looked at my two fingers. “What’s that?”

“That it’s both one and two.”

She was right, of course, and we both knew it. “Option four,” I said. “We could skip
the interviewing thing and hire Marcia back.”

I said it matter-of-factly, as closely as I could to sounding serious. Lois stared
at me. “You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking. You must be . . . right?”

“If I called, I bet she’d come back in a heartbeat.”

Lois fixed me with a hard glare. “Option three it is.” She spun around and marched
off, muttering, “Marcia. Ha. Marcia Trommler wasn’t worth the toner her paycheck was
printed with, let alone the paper. Marcia. As if.”

Smiling, I retreated to my office to get ready for the first job applicant.

•   •   •

Twenty minutes later, the office felt even smaller and more cramped than it was. Not
only were three people occupying it—two more than the fire marshal would have liked
to see—but the comfort level was down to an all-time low.

“So, April.” I smiled at the girl. Well, young woman, technically, since she was a
recent high school graduate and a part-time student at a nearby community college,
but she didn’t look much older than Jenna. Her straight dark blond hair parted in
the middle, she wore black pants that bore a striking resemblance to the ones I’d
tried on the other night and a knit shirt she kept pulling down. That, plus her anxious
expression all contributed to an overall impression of youth, innocence, and a complete
inability to work in a children’s bookstore. “What books did you like to read when
you were in school?”

The three of us had been sitting here for a fifteen-minute eternity. It had taken
me less than sixty seconds to realize that April wasn’t suited for the job, but it
would have been cruel to end an interview that quickly. Instead, I’d plowed ahead
with my questions, and for the last five minutes Yvonne had been casting me panicked
looks that could only mean “You’re not seriously thinking of hiring this kid, are
you?”

I tried to send her comforting glances, but she still looked nervous. Not nearly as
nervous as April, though. The poor girl was so soft-spoken that every time she talked,
I had to ask her to repeat herself. And even then, I caught her words only half the
time. Sadly, I’d found my mind wandering even as the girl was talking about the books
she’d loved as a child.

While April whispered about staying up until midnight to buy Harry Potter books, I
worried about my son. Richard hadn’t been able to get Oliver to talk at all, and Pete
had been called out of state on a big cleaning job he couldn’t afford to turn down.
“I’m really sorry, Beth,” he’d said, talking on his cell phone while he was driving
west. “I can call him if you want, but I’m guessing that won’t work as well.”

I’d reassured Pete that it could wait, but last night Oliver had woken up, shrieking
with nightmares that he wouldn’t talk about.

What on earth was I going to do? My hugs and kisses might help temporarily, but what
about tonight? And the next night?

“After I was done with Harry Potter,” April said, so softly that Yvonne and I were
on the edges of our seats, straining to hear, “then I started reading the Twilight
books. You know, Stephenie Meyer?” She looked at us doubtfully, didn’t look reassured
when Yvonne and I said that we did, in fact, know about Stephenie Meyer, but went
on with her recitation of the books that had changed her life. “It was, like, beautiful,
you know?”

Meanwhile, I wondered if Marina’s list of suspects had any value whatsoever. Did clothes
really reveal so much about us? Did those FBI profilers—if they actually existed—take
clothes into account when looking at . . . at whatever they looked?

But under all those thoughts was the steady question that ran low and slow and treacherous:
What had Lou been hiding? Because as surely as boys loved to play in the mud, Lou
hadn’t wanted to talk to Gus. And whyfor would fair Lou not want to talk to law enforcement?
One reason only. Because he was hiding something.

All of which led to the obvious question of: What was he hiding?

I tugged at my lower lip. I liked the man, I really did. But people had liked Ted
Bundy, too, and if Flossie was in danger . . .

“Beth?” Yvonne asked.

I blinked. Both Yvonne and April were looking at me. Um. “Thanks so much for coming
in, April,” I said, putting on a fast smile. “We have a number of applicants to interview.
We’ll let you know.”

We watched her make a fast exit. Yvonne hummed a few notes of indecision, then said,
“She seems . . . like a very nice girl.”

I sighed. “Yes. Unfortunately, nice isn’t enough.”

“No.”

We sat a moment longer, thinking our own thoughts, which for both of us probably ran
along the lines of “It’s too bad that nice isn’t enough, and wouldn’t it be a wonderful
world if it was?”

Finally I pushed back from the desk. “I’ll call the library. They’re doing a complete
inventory next month. She’ll be perfect for that.”

Yvonne’s smile brightened the room. “You’re a nice lady, Beth,” she said. “I’m proud
to work for you.”

She left, but I continued to sit in my chair, staring at nothing.

Nice. It wasn’t enough, and never would be. I needed far more than nice, and I was
afraid I didn’t have any idea how to get it.

Whatever “it” was.

•   •   •

That night was the first meeting of Summer’s committee. I’d called her on Saturday
from the bookstore. “Summer, it’s getting to be the end of September. Your committee
is supposed to have a proposal to the PTA board by the November meeting, remember?”

“Oh, so you think we should meet soon?”

I couldn’t decide whether to shriek at her like a harpy or fall to my knees sobbing.
“Yes,” I said, with all the patience I could muster. “We should meet soon.”

Another pause. “Are you mad at me?”

Apparently, the patience at my disposal hadn’t been enough. Deep, calming breath.
“No, I’m not angry. All I’m saying is we need to get going. Putting together a proposal
like this could take a lot of meetings.”

“Oh. You really think so?”

More deep breaths.

“Beth?” she asked. “Are you still there?”

“Let’s just say this
could
take a lot of meetings. Maybe not, but we have to assume it will.”

“Okay. I guess I see what you mean.”

I rubbed my forehead. The Summer I knew was smart and sharp and quick to pick up on
things. This indecisive, please-give-me-direction Summer I was hearing at the other
end of the line was not the woman I’d come to consider a good friend. “Are you okay?”
I asked. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“What? Oh. No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure,” she said. “It’s just . . .”

I waited for her to finish. Nothing. “Just what?”

“Oh, nothing.”

I’d started to ask her what was wrong, if she was troubled by the murder accusations
hanging in the air, if Claudia was becoming too much for her, to say that if she needed
someone to talk to or a shoulder to cry on, I could do the job. But just as I’d started
to say so, she’d chirped up. “Okay, committee meeting. You and me and Marina and Carol
Casassa. We can meet at my house first, then decide if we want to rotate. How does
Monday night sound? Let’s say seven.”

And now it was Monday night at seven and the four committee members were seated around
a card table in Summer’s living room, four notepads in front of us, each with a pen
in hand. Summer and her husband, Brett, were in the middle of expanding the kitchen
and dining room of their 1960s ranch house, and the dusty evidence of renovation was
everywhere. Summer had apologized for the mess, but why would I mind mess in someone
else’s house? As long as I wasn’t responsible for the cleanup, I didn’t mind a bit.

I glanced over at Marina’s pad. She’d written “Artsy Ideas” at the top of the page
and was playing tic-tac-toe everywhere else.

Carol was sitting across from me, but even from that distance I could see that her
pad was empty. To my left, Summer’s pad looked a lot like mine. “Ad Hoc Committee
for Fine Arts Expenditures” at the top, then nothing.

I glanced at the clock. Almost seven thirty. All the kids were downstairs in the Langs’
family room. Laughter and random thumps filtered their way up the stairs, but so far
there’d been no screams and no crying. Long may the peace reign.

“So,” I said. Three heads popped up. “We need some ideas. Some inexpensive things,
some expensive things. Priorities. A short-term plan and a long-term plan.” As I talked,
Summer was scribbling away. When I paused, she stopped, and I could see that she’d
been writing what I’d said. “Summer,” I said, “we don’t need verbatim minutes of this
meeting.”

“We don’t?”

“No. A summary will be fine.”

“Oh.” She drew lines through her handwriting. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“No need to apologize,” Carol said. “It’s the first committee you’ve chaired. There’s
no way to know how it’s done until you’ve done it.”

Summer looked at her notepad. “But the chair should be doing something, right?”

“Leading discussion,” Marina said, letting her X’s beat her O’s. She drew another
frame and put an O in the middle square.

I looked at her. That had been a little harsh.

Summer’s face crumpled, then smoothed out. “You’re right. I should be. So . . . does
anyone have any ideas? About fine arts spending of the storybook money, I mean?”

“Music teacher.” Marina added pointy ears, a nose, and whiskers to the O, making it
a tiny cat face.

“That’s right.” Summer nodded vigorously. “Music teacher,” she repeated, writing the
words.

“We’ll need to find out how much hiring one costs,” Carol said. “And what instruments
and any other equipment she’d need.”

I started making a list. “Wouldn’t hurt to work costs for a full-time teacher and
a teacher at half-time. Maybe at a quarter-time, too.” Was there such a thing as quarter
time?

Marina drew another circle and turned that one into a puppy face. “Percussion is big
with kids. We should make sure the music teacher can teach drums.”

“Great idea. Boys especially do that drum thing,” Carol said. “I know mine was crazy
for us to get him a drum set. Nick got him a weight set instead. I’m not sure he used
it much, but at least it was quiet. Drums?” She closed her eyes and shuddered.

Marina laid her palms flat on the table, then starting a rolling drum solo. “In a
gadda da vida, baby,” she chanted.

I raised my voice to be heard over her unauthorized cover of the Iron Butterfly song.
“Any ideas other than a music teacher?”

Marina’s drum solo decrescendoed to a dull patter. “In a gadda da vida, honey.”

“Um . . .” Summer looked around her living room. “Um, I know I had a bunch of them.
Ideas, I mean. And I thought I wrote them down, but I can’t find them anywhere.”

Carol shrugged. “I can come up with estimates until the cows come home, but I’m not
an idea person. You know that.”

When Marina and I and the kids were walking over, I’d asked her for her ideas and
she’d said I was the guts and she was the glue of the operation, which I’d interpreted
to mean that I was supposed to be doing the brainstorming.