Murder at the PTA (31 page)

What actually happened was that I sobbed long and hard enough to exhaust myself. Right there at the top of Agnes’s basement stairs, leaning against the door, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, disoriented and with a stiff neck, I heard something. No, not something, but someone.

Iron Grip—he was back.

As quickly and as silently as I could, I tiptoed down the stairs. Faint moonlight washed through the windows—enough light to let me pick my way across the room. My breaths were rapid and shallow.

He was back. He’d come back to finish me off. What was I going to do? I had to defend myself somehow. There had to be a way.

I made my way to the workbench. Surely there’d be something here I could use. Too bad the workbench was in the darkest corner of this dark room. I need to find something sharp, something heavy, something . . . anything. . . .

Furniture screeched.

Wildly, I felt for something that would save me. And I had the element of surprise on my side, didn’t I? He didn’t know there were tools down here. Not that I was finding anything bigger than a screwdriver, but there must be something. . . .

More screeching. The door opened. Light bounced down the stairwell and onto the far side of Agnes’s hockey memorabilia.

“Hello?” called a male voice. “Is anyone down there?”

I rushed across the room and my hands wrapped familiarly around the best weapon possible. I stationed myself on the darkest side of the stairs. When he came all the way down, I’d give him a good slash, then run up and out across the street to Marina’s house and safety.

“Hello?” A heavy tread squeaked the top stair. “Is anyone here?” He came down one stair at a time.

His legs came into view. From my position I could see his leather belt, then his jacket, then his shoulders, and finally the back of his head. My hands tightened on my weapon. Head up, eyes intent on the goal, I swung the stick fast and high.

At the last second he turned, and I watched with horror as the curved blade of Agnes’s autographed hockey stick sailed straight into the side of the unsuspecting head of Don the dry cleaner.

“B
eth!” Marina forced her way around two law-enforcement officers, jumped over a case of medical equipment, and ran to my side. “Beth! Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.” The rotating lights of the ambulance and two police cars came through the living room windows and washed over us all, giving the scene a bizarre disco feel.

“I’m fine.” I blessed Gloria for being lax in having Agnes’s utilities turned off. My cell phone was in my purse, which was in my car. Luckily, Don had ducked away from the hockey stick and I’d barely landed a glancing blow. After he’d assured me that he wasn’t hurt, I’d called 911, then called Richard’s condo and talked to the children, getting a lecture from Richard beforehand on my irresponsibility of not being available when they’d called earlier and did I really expect him to wake them so I could say good night (to which the answer was, of course, yes). Then, as sirens broke the suburban quiet, I’d called Marina.

“What happened?” Marina’s red freckles stood out sharp on skin turned white. “Don, what are you doing here?”

“Finally got those drapes done.” Don nodded at the plastic-encased drapes hanging on a dining chair. “I’ve had them in the van for a couple days. I was driving past and I saw a light on, so I knocked. The door was unlocked, and there was Beth in the basement, swinging a mean high stick.”

“What?” Marina looked at me blankly.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. One of Gus’s young men”—I nodded at the officer in blue standing nearby—“is going to take me to the hospital.”

“The hospital?” She put shaking fingers over her mouth.

“For a tetanus shot,” I said patiently. “And to take out a few splinters. But who knows how long that will take, so I need a favor.”

She dropped to her knees. “Anything. Just say the word.”

I squinted at her. All I needed was a little shot. She was acting as if I’d had a near-death experience. “My car is behind the school. Can you drive it to the hospital and get your DH to pick you up?”

“No. I’ll wait for you. I won’t abandon you in your time of need. I’ll sleep in the waiting room if I have to. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll—”

“Ma’am, are you ready?” The EMTs helped me to my feet. A sudden and blinding headache reminded me of the damage Iron Grip had done to the back of my neck. There was no need to mention that tidbit to Marina.

“Beth.” Marina moved to my side and touched my leg.

“I know. This place is a mess.” Iron Grip had sliced open pillows, emptied bookshelves and cabinets, and strewn papers everywhere. “I’ll take care of it later. You’ll move my car, right?” I asked as the officer guided me toward the door. “Just drop the keys off at the front desk.”

“But I don’t
have
your keys,” she wailed.

“I left them on the dining table.”

“Beth . . .”

Whatever she wanted to say, she wasn’t saying it fast enough. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I called.

Then I was out in air cold enough for heavy frost. I looked up at the clearing sky and couldn’t stop shivering as the officer opened the sedan door for me.

“It’ll be warm in a minute,” he said. “I’ll have you toasty before you know it.”

“Thanks.” But I hadn’t been shivering from the cold.

 

Both Gus and Deputy Sharon Wheeler interviewed me in the hospital. I’m sure they grew as tired of hearing my two standard answers as I did of saying them.

GUS: “Was there anything missing from the house?”

“I’m not sure.”

DEPUTY WHEELER: “Can you think of anything about your attacker that would help us identify him?”

“Sorry, no.”

DEPUTY WHEELER: “What time were you attacked?”

“I’m not sure.”

GUS: “Did he leave in a vehicle? Did you hear a car start?”

“Sorry, no.”

And so on and so forth. The Rynwood police department had jurisdiction over the break-in, but the sheriff’s department was investigating anything connected with Agnes’s murder. Why at least one of them couldn’t wait until the next day to talk to me, I didn’t know.

I was dirty, I was hungry, and I was growing immensely tired of the emergency room doctor’s humming as he pulled tiny hunks of wood from my skin. It was barely past Halloween, but all the songs this impossibly young doctor hummed sounded like “Frosty the Snowman.”

DEPUTY WHEELER: “Did your attacker say anything that led you to believe he killed Agnes Mephisto?”

“Sorry, no.”

DEPUTY WHEELER: “Do you have any idea what he was looking for?”

“Sorry, no.”

GUS: “Why were you there, Beth?”

“Sorry . . . oh.” This was a question I should have been able to answer. “Um, well, Gloria—that’s Agnes’s sister—asked me to clean up the house. Marina and I did most of the work a couple of weeks ago, but there was some paperwork to do. I had a free night since the kids are with their dad on Wednesdays, so I took the opportunity and . . .” I was doing that babbling thing again. “And that’s about it.”

Gus and the deputy both made notations on their notepads.

Taking down the facts was all they were doing. I wasn’t being arrested, and I hadn’t done anything wrong. So why did watching them jot down my words make me feel guilty?

“I might be in contact for some follow-up questions, Mrs. Kennedy,” Deputy Wheeler said. “Thanks for your help.” She nodded at us, then left.

“Help?” I crossed my eyes. “If I was helpful, I’d hate to see someone who wasn’t.”

Gus chuckled and slid his own pad into his coat pocket. “You were polite at least.” He looked at the doctor. “How much longer?”

Still humming about Frosty, the doctor pulled out another splinter and dropped it onto a metal tray. “Ten minutes.”

“Have you had any dinner?” Gus asked me.

“Not really, but—”

“I’ll go down to the cafeteria and get you a sandwich. Then I’ll drive you home.” I started to object, but he overrode me. “No arguing. You try to drive like that and you’ll be sorry tomorrow.”

“Sure will,” the doctor said cheerfully. “Tomorrow morning she’ll be okay, but I hope you have an automatic transmission.”

We ignored him. Long ago, in the back of the choir stalls, Gus and I had come to an agreement about Christmas carols before Thanksgiving: Anyone who forced them upon an unwilling world should be ignored as much as possible. “I’m driving you home,” Gus said. “And I’ll get one of the guys to drive your car back to your house.”

“But I’m—”

“You’re not fine,” Gus interrupted. “For once, let someone help you.”

Tears stung my eyes. I must have been more tired than I thought. “Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.”

 

The next morning personal hygiene was an exercise in frustration. The doctor had slapped gauze pads on the worst of the splinters. “Keep those dry for twenty-four hours,” he’d said. What he hadn’t said was how to manage that simple-sounding task. With gauze on both hands, I couldn’t take a shower and I couldn’t take a bath.

I ended up using a washcloth and kitchen gloves. I washed my hair in the sink, and by the time I put it up wet in a ponytail, I wanted to go back to bed. Who knew that a few splinters could make you so tired?

With one thing and another, I was half an hour late getting to the store. I came in the back door and hung up the coat I’d draped over my shoulders. “Sorry I’m late, Lois.”

“Oh! My! Lord!” Lois dropped the armload of books she was carrying. “What happened? Did you—? Are you—?” She put her hands to her mouth.

“It’s nothing. An accident.” Kind of.

“Accident?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was doing some cleaning at Agnes’s house and you know how klutzy I can be. A picture fell off the wall and onto my hands, and the glass broke.” I looked at the masses of gauze. The story had sounded better last night.

The front door burst open. Marina flew in, her red hair sticking out in a dozen directions. “Beth, it’s all my fault you’re hurt. I am so, so sorry.” She flung herself onto me and drew me to her bosom. “How can I make it up to you?”

Lois looked from Marina to me and back again, then lifted her eyebrows. “Accident?”

My best friend snorted into my hair. “If you call someone overpowering Beth and tossing her into a basement an accident. If you call Beth using her wits to escape certain death an accident.”

The future unfolded before me. Marina would spread the story hither and yon. A parade of people would traipse through the store, gawking at my wounds, begging me to tell the story over and over again. No one would buy a single book, and I wouldn’t get a thing done.

I extracted myself from Marina’s clutches. “Lois, can you watch the store?” I dragged Marina to my office and shut the door. “Tell me you didn’t blog about last night.”

“Not yet.” She pursed her lips. “I’m trying to think of the best way to start it. How does this sound? ‘Local business owner defies death.’ Or how about ‘Courageous Rynwood woman lives to fight another day.’ Or—”

“Don’t you dare post anything about this.”

“Of course I won’t. But just think if I did.” Her cheeks glowed with color.

There was a knock, and Lois popped her head in. “Beth, there’s a gentleman to see you.”

Before I could tell her to send whoever it was away, Evan Garrett came in. “Good morning, Beth. Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you were in a meeting.”

His gaze fell on my hands. “Oh, my God. Beth.” He took hold of my shoulders and looked into my upturned face. “Are you all right?” He kissed my forehead, then pulled back and searched my eyes. “You’re in pain, I can tell. Here.” He hooked his foot around the leg of a chair and drew it near. “Sit.”

“I’m fine,” I said, pulling free of him. “Marina, this is Evan Garrett. Evan, Marina Neff.”

They nodded, and Marina shot me a you’ve-been-holding-out-on-me look. “Evan and I,” I said, “went to kindergarten together. He bought the hardware a few weeks ago.”

“Kindergarten?” Marina’s eyes narrowed to small slits, and I knew I’d be grilled later on.

Evan paid no attention to the feminine undercurrents swirling about. He was gently turning my hands this way and that. “How on earth did this happen? A car accident?”

Excellent idea. A car crash could explain all sorts of bizarre injuries. Anyone would believe a car crash story. This would work. All I had to do was convince Lois I’d been in a car accident, work on getting Marina to spread a car-crash story, and make sure Gus and Deputy Wheeler didn’t release my name to the press. Piece of cake.

“Hah.” Marina tossed her hair back. “This young lady was almost murdered last night.”

“What?” Evan went still.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Maybe sitting down wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I groped for the back of the chair and sat. “If he’d wanted to kill me, I wouldn’t be here now.”

“What!” Evan’s voice rose. “Who? Your ex-husband? Have you told the police? You’ll need a restraining order.” His former profession was rearing its legal head. “Let’s go. The paperwork takes a while, but you’ll be safer in the long run.”

I wanted to drop my head into my hands, but I didn’t want to undo the carefully taped gauze. Instead, I closed my eyes and wished they’d both disappear.

“It wasn’t her husband,” Marina said. “It was the guy who killed Agnes Mephisto.”

“The school principal?” Evan looked from Marina to an unresponsive me, then back to Marina. “What’s going on here?”

Marina launched into an extravagant version of what I’d done last night. Every time I tried to get her to stop, she overrode me. After three attempts, I quit trying. It was like trying to fight a tidal wave.

She concluded, “Beth made her way to a telephone and called 911.”

I opened one eye. Evan was crouched in front of me, his mouth firmed into a straight line. “Why were you in Agnes’s house?”