Plotting at the PTA (11 page)

“The notes say she took her own life, don’t they?” I asked quietly.

His gaze slid away from mine. “Um, sorry, but yeah.”

“Don’t be,” I said. “Start apologizing for things that aren’t your fault and you’ll spend the rest of your life saying you’re sorry.” I spoke with the confidence of long experience.

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “I see what you’re saying. But I am. Sorry, I mean.” He glanced at the computer screen. “She was really pretty. It’s too bad. Kind of a waste, you know?”

I thanked him, and stood to go. “One more thing. Does the computer tell you who made those notes about Kelly?” Chances were, it was an officer long gone from Rynwood, but still.

“Initials are, hang on a sec, G.E. Looks like Chief Eiseley wrote it up.” He looked up and behind me. “Do you remember this one, Chief?”

“Very well.”

I jumped. “Gus. I didn’t hear you come in.”

His glance skidded over me and away. “Beth. Officer Zimmerman here has work to do. If I hear you’ve been wasting his time with your crackpot theory that Amy Jacobson was murdered, I’ll have him cleaning toilets for six months.”

The trepidation I’d felt five seconds earlier vanished. “Seems to me he’s doing a fine job,” I snapped. “Seems to me that answering somebody’s questions has more to do with police work than eating cinnamon rolls. Does Winnie know how many of those things you eat?”

“Leave Winnie out of this.” His voice was hard. “I don’t want you bothering her.”

Winnie was my friend. There was no way Gus was going to keep me from talking to her. He had no right. None whatsoever. “We don’t always get what we want, do we?”

Emotion flashed across his face, but it was gone so quickly I was left with only a memory.

Gus strode past me, down the short hallway to his office, and shut his door with a bang.

I made half a move to go to him, to beg him to tell me what I’d done wrong, to ask forgiveness for whatever it was, to plead to have things back the way they’d been. Instead, I sighed, thanked Officer Sean for his time, and left the suddenly stuffy air of the police station.

Outside, I splashed down the sidewalk, not thinking of anything at all. Then, since not thinking wasn’t a state of mind that ever lasted very long, I started thinking about what to do next. Behind me was a short walk to Sunny Rest and Maude. Could I look into her gentle eyes and give her the news she so desperately didn’t want to hear? Could I tell her that no matter what she wanted to believe, Kelly had taken her own life?

Someday, maybe. Just not today.

I kept walking back to work. Back to where Lois and Yvonne and a whole host of beloved books were waiting for me. Back to where happy endings outnumbered unhappy ones by ten thousand to one.

Chapter 10

T
he weekend and the following week blurred past in a rush of work, kid activities, and PTA duties. I’d e-mailed away the Erica-required stories to keep Claudia’s breath off the back of my neck, but I was getting the panicky feeling that life was whizzing by too fast. I said as much to Lois and Yvonne one day.

“Send your kids out for adoption,” Lois suggested. “They’re cute enough that someone will take them.”

“Lois!” Yvonne stared at her, openmouthed. “How can you say such a thing?”

I patted her shoulder. “She’s just joking.”

Lois gave an evil chuckle. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. “And quit with that creepy laugh. You’re scaring Yvonne. She’s not used to you yet.”

Lois slung her arm around the younger woman’s neck, grinning. “Sure she is. We’re the best of buddies. She knows I’d never steer her wrong.”

“Then why did you send her down to the hardware to get a shelf stretcher?”

Lois sniffed. “A life lesson. Humility is good for the soul. Speaking of what’s good for you, you should learn to relax more. You’re looking uptight these days. When’s the last time you and that Evan of yours had a nice relaxing dinner out?” She waggled her eyebrows and Yvonne put a hand in front of her mouth to cover her laugh.

“Tomorrow night,” I said. “The kids are with their dad this weekend.”

“So convenient.” Lois nodded wisely. “If you need a chaperone, I’m sure I can rearrange my bingo night.”

For a moment I was tempted. Having Lois along could make for a very interesting evening. I pictured her entertaining Evan and me with her talent for storytelling. Last winter I’d challenged her to make up a story about a box of tissues and she’d risen to the challenge grandly with a sad tale of a child who’d lost her favorite, but very small, doll. The poor little girl had broken down in tears, reached for a tissue, and joyfully found little dolly inside the box. Happy ending. Which was a welcome change. Most Lois stories ended in death, destruction, and mayhem.

“Hello, Beth?” Lois waved her hands in front of my face. “Ah, there you are. Nice to see you back in the here and now.” She tossed one end of her chenille scarf (in bright stripes of orange and yellow) over her shoulder. “I have a recommendation to make. Yvonne, you be witness.”

“Why,” I asked, “am I getting a bad feeling about this?”

“No idea. All I’m going to suggest is—”

“I’m not flying to Las Vegas for the weekend.” It was one of her more popular recommendations. “Or taking a road trip to the Baja peninsula. Or gorging myself on cheese. I’m trying to lose weight, you know, not gain it.”

“—is that you take the day off tomorrow.”

“Don’t be silly.” The last few months I’d slid into working on the Saturdays that I didn’t have the kids. It gave me time to work on the things that never seemed to get done during the week. “There’s too much that needs doing.”

“Matter of fact, take this afternoon off, too. It’s a gorgeous day, you’re caught up with work, and Sara will be here any minute to give us a hand.”

I looked at her. At my office, where piles of work waited. At the young adult books, where I’d planned to analyze the benefits of face out versus spine out. At the dangling and dusty cobweb in the high back corner of the store, something that had been annoying me for weeks, a chore that I’d finally written down on my Saturday To Do list. “There’s too much to do.” I looked out at the blue sky and sunshine. “I should pay some bills, and the new catalogs are here.”

Outside, a youngster in baggy shorts and a T-shirt ten sizes too big for him whirred past on a skateboard.

I turned away and tried to focus. “No. Thanks for the suggestion, but I just can’t.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lois yanked off her scarf. “First step is hold out your hands so I can tie them together with this. Yvonne, get the rope. We’ll need it for her feet.”

“Very funny.” I put my hands behind my back.

Lois swung the scarf back and forth like a long, snaky pendulum. “You need to take some time off. Time off. Time off.”

I batted it away. “I’m not going to be hypnotized by a striped scarf.”

“How about a polka dot one? I have it in my car.”

I blew out an exasperated sigh. “Look, I know you mean well, both of you, but there’s too much to do.”

“And what will happen if it doesn’t get done until Monday?” Lois asked.

“Well . . .”

“Please, Beth.” Yvonne touched my arm. “You’ve been looking awfully tired lately. Please go home and get some rest. I don’t want you getting sick. We need you.”

It was her last words that tipped me over the edge. I looked at Lois. “The world won’t end if I don’t come back until Monday?”

“If it does, I’ll let you know.”

“Well, okay.” But I still hesitated. “You’re sure? I mean, sure sure?”

Lois drew herself tall, stretched out her arm, and pointed with a long and bony index finger to the door. “Go!”

I went.

* * *

“You did what?” Marina stared at me, her jaw dropped so far that, if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t, I could have examined her tonsils.

I leaned against her kitchen counter and tried to look casual. “Took the afternoon off.”

After my staff had sent me home, I’d spread a blanket out in the backyard, packed myself a snack of celery sticks and unsweetened iced tea, lugged out a pile of books I’d been meaning to read, lay flat on the blanket, and fallen asleep. Which was why I’d shown up at Marina’s house for our Dinner and a Movie half an hour late. I hadn’t woken up until the sun had sunk low enough to cast shadows across the yard, chilling my body enough to bring me back to life.

“Almost any other story I’d have believed, but this?” The cooking magazine in Marina’s hand waggled at me. “Not with your work ethic. Not with your obsessive intent to always do the right thing. Not with the way you commit to work before pleasure, every freaking second of every freaking day.”

I pushed up the sleeve of my polo shirt and pointed at the faint color change. “See that?”

Marina gasped. “Is it, could it be, could it truly be, a
tan
line?” She put her nose an inch away from my bicep. “Why, it is! Beth Kennedy, you sly dog, you. You really did take the afternoon off! Wonders never do cease, do they? Don’t tell me you went to the lake.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

Her eyes went round. “You went to the lake? On a weekday?”

“No, I fell asleep in the backyard.”

“You said . . .” She stopped and replayed the conversation. “Oh, aren’t you the funny one. I knew you couldn’t have done anything all that exciting, not without me to lend a hand.”

“I can’t do anything fun on my own?”

“Sure, you can. You just don’t.”

I opened my mouth to start listing all the fun things I’d done by myself. Closed it when I couldn’t come up with anything better than “in January I spent a Saturday night reading the latest Laurie R. King mystery.” Fun for me, but it wouldn’t even rank a one on Marina’s one to ten scale.

Her ones were structured activities like riding roller coasters. A five might be crashing a country club wedding reception and leading the conga dance out to the club’s swimming pool and off the end of the diving board. Nines looked a lot like the movie
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
Ten, she was saving, but it would probably have something to do with either the president of the United States or Hugh Jackman. Maybe both.

“Have you talked to Winnie yet?” Marina pushed my sleeve back down and patted it in place. “You know, about what’s eating Gus?”

“Sent her an e-mail asking her to call me, but she hasn’t yet.” Both Winnie and Gus had been acting so out of character that I wasn’t sure there would even be a phone call. I said as much to Marina.

She scoffed. “Please. It’s Winnie. She’s worse than you are about doing the right thing, if that’s possible.

“Why do you make it sound as if doing the right thing is something to be ashamed of?”

“For most people, it’s not. Normal people don’t hold themselves to some freakishly high standard of conduct. Most of us play by the eighty-twenty rule. You know, do the right thing eighty percent of the time and choose custard-filled long johns over broccoli the other twenty percent. Your percentage is ninety-nine to one. It’s not right and I’m pretty sure it’s against the law.”

“I bought out Alice’s M&M cookies this morning.”

Marina lifted her hand for a high five, but just before our palms slapped, she pulled hers back. “How many did you eat?”

“Three.”

“That’s my girl!” Her hand went up again. Pulled back again. “What did you have for lunch?”

“Well . . . I kind of didn’t.”

“Too busy, or intentionally, to make up for the cookies?”

I wanted to lie, but knew I’d never be able to pull it off. What it said about me that one of my deepest wishes was to improve my lying skills I didn’t know, but it probably wasn’t good.

“Intentionally, then.” Marina lowered her hand and shook her head sadly. “A flicker of hope, blown out forever.”

“You’re the one who started this weight loss contest,” I said. “You’re the one who expanded it to the entire town, and you’re the one who got that spa trip as a prize, so you shouldn’t be surprised if I want to put a little effort into winning, especially with Claudia in the running.”

“All in your best interest, mah dear,” she said, slipping into Southern belle-speak. “Ah’m just trying to help.” She opened the refrigerator door and extracted a stick of butter. “Ah’m doin’ this for you.”

“Then you should put that butter away and use canola oil instead.”

She looked at the half cup of fat, cholesterol, and calories. “No butter?”

“If it’s not good for me, it’s not good for you.”

“Sure, but you’re the only one who cares.”

“Back.” I pointed at the fridge.

“Don’t make me.” She turned her hands palm up, presenting the butter to me like a small trophy. “You do it.”

“Think of how much better for you a little oil would be.” I took the butter and swatted her hands away when she tried to get it back.

“Think how much better butter tastes.”

“Nothing tastes as good as thin feels,” I said, quoting a long-ago coworker.

“And I would know that how?” She thumped her well-rounded hips. Stabbed her midriff with her thumbs. Held up her hand and flopped the flesh on the underside of her arm.

“Stop that. Some things you just have to take on faith.”

Muttering, she opened the cupboard door and rattled around until she found an unopened bottle of olive oil. “I have a lot more faith in the healing power of butter.” She plopped the bottle on the counter. “Fat equals flavor, you know, and flavor is what it’s all about.”

“Have you lost any weight?”

“With the weight of the world on my shoulders?” She struck an Atlas pose.

I took that as a no. “How much has anyone else lost?”

“If you’d joined the Yahoo group, you’d know that already.”

“Maybe tomorrow. How much has Claudia lost?” Horrible person that I was, I was hoping for her to have gained weight. Childish Beth.

“Was it six?” Marina poured a dollop of oil into the frying pan. “No, not six.”

I let out a breath of relief. Maybe my four pounds was still in the running. If I started exercising twice each day—back to the two-a-days of high school swim team—I’d be able to beat Claudia. Win the prize, even.

A day at a spa had never been one of my fantasies, but I could probably deal with a few hours of doing nothing. Especially if they let me bring in the eReader Evan had given me for Christmas. A day of self-indulgence wouldn’t be complete without at least a couple of hours of uninterrupted reading. He’d also given me a gift card that had let me download a number of e-books, and I still hadn’t read Lorraine Bartlett’s latest, or the Margaret Maron. And wasn’t Lee Child releasing a book soon? Maybe I could time my spa trip to coincide with—

“I remember now,” Marina said. “Claudia’s lost ten.”

“Ten pounds?” My voice rose to a near-shriek. “It’s only been a few weeks. How could she have lost ten pounds?”

Marina shrugged. “Probably just water weight. You know how some people lose lots of weight when they stop eating all that salt and gunk in so much prepared foods. She’ll probably gain most of it back when she starts eating normally again, but if she keeps it off until the end of the month, well, weight is weight.”

“Ten pounds,” I said dully. No way would I be able to compete with that.

“Or was it eight?” Marina hummed as she studied her spice rack. “Basil, oregano, and garlic? Or garlic, oregano, and basil?”

“I thought we were making tacos.”

“Change in plans, mah dear. If you’re going to catch up to that wretched woman, we need to feed you properly, and tonight properly means small amounts of pasta and large amounts of vegetables. Say . . .” She turned to face me. “Maybe Claudia killed Amy. If we can prove it, oh, like this weekend, she’ll get slapped in jail.” Marina’s face lit up. “Wouldn’t that be perfect? The food is bound to be fattening in there, so there’s no way she’ll win. And I bet that Tina helped out with Amy. Those two never do anything on their own. Tina’s only lost five pounds, but put her in a cell next to Claudia and I bet they do nothing but eat and eat and eat.”

Clearly, Marina had a different idea of what jail was like than I did. “And why would Claudia have any reason to kill Amy?”

Marina pointed a jar of rosemary at me. “Tina went along with Claudia, like she always does. And Claudia goes off half-cocked all the time. It could have been because Amy took Claudia’s parking space.”

“Amy didn’t have a car.”

With another wave of spices, Marina disregarded my objection. “Then she was still mad about something from twenty years ago. People like Claudia don’t need a good reason to kill, you know. Any old justification will do.”

I looked at her. “You’ve been trying to pin a murder on Claudia for years.”

She nodded furiously. “Wouldn’t we all be happier if that woman was tucked away where she couldn’t do any more harm? Last year she started that boycott of your store and almost put you out of business. The year before that she incited mob justice over the school addition. And remember the Claudia-inspired Troubles of the Tarver Tater Tots? How, I ask”—Marina tucked her thumb into the armpit of her invisible vest of an imaginary three-piece suit—“how can this woman still be roaming around free to do more damage to this fine country of ours?”