Plotting at the PTA (7 page)

* * *

I sat on the edge of Maude’s loveseat, listening raptly.

“We couldn’t just walk into a store and buy bags of groceries and walk out,” she said. “Not during the war.”

Oliver, freshly approved for the story project by his principal, was sitting on a stool by Maude’s feet and frowning. “How come?”

“Rationing.” She tapped the arms of her wheelchair. “But you don’t know about rationing, do you? Oh, dear.” She sighed. “You don’t know much of anything, do you?” Her words could have sounded harsh, but since they were delivered with a soft voice that breathed kindness, it was impossible to take offense.

“Not really.” Oliver sighed back. “I’m only eight.”

“When I was eight, it was . . .” She sucked in her lips. “Let me see, it was 1933. Things were bad because of the Depression, but I didn’t know that. My dad owned the only service station in town. Even with the gas rationing, we never went hungry. Sold gas for ten cents a gallon, back then.”

“What’s a service station?” Oliver asked.

Maude smiled, showing bright white dentures. “Something I bet your mother doesn’t remember, either.”

I leaned back and clasped my hands around one raised knee. Leaned back carefully, because the loveseat was upholstered in a smooth brocade fabric that would be happy to see me slide off onto the floor. “There was one service station in town when I was a kid,” I said. “But by the time I started driving they were all gone.”

“Where are you from, dear?” Maude asked.

Oliver spoke up. “She grew up near Petoskey, Michigan. Here, see?” He held up one hand in a mitten shape and pointed to the tip of his ring finger. “Grandpa Emmerling ran a newspaper.”

I smiled at my son. People rolled their eyes every time Michiganders pulled out their hands. Michiganders—and their offspring, apparently—saw it as the easiest way to communicate geographical information.

“You know a lot about your mother,” Maude said.

Oliver nodded. “And my dad. We had to learn it last year in school. My dad was born in Milwaukee in 1968, but my mom was born in 1970, and . . .” He stopped. Opened his eyes wide. Turned to look at me, panic setting in around his mouth.

Because Maude’s eyes were filling with tears. One drop had started to trickle down her wrinkled cheek and a host of others were making ready to follow.

“Oliver,” I said quickly, “why don’t you go down the hall to the dining room and see if you can find a paper cup and a straw for Mrs. Hoffman.” Another teardrop cascaded down. I stood. “And do you remember Tracy? Mrs. Hoffman’s aide? Find her and ask if there’s a special snack Mrs. Hoffman might like.”

He looked at Mrs. Hoffman, his lower lip trembling. I put my hand on his head. “Go, sweetie,” I said. “It’ll be all right.” I leaned down and whispered in his ear. “It’s not your fault.”

His face cleared slightly. “Okay.” He stood, headed for the door, then ran back and patted Maude’s hand as gently as if he’d been patting a kitten’s head. “I’ll bring you something to make you feel better.”

I sat on Oliver’s stool and took Maude’s thin palm between my own.

We sat. I patted her hand. She cried.

And cried.

After a few minutes, I pulled a facial tissue out of the box next to her bed and offered it to her. “Thank you,” she whispered and blew her nose delicately. I took the tissue from her, dropped it into a nearby wastebasket, and handed her a new one.

When she’d used up a third tissue and was wiping her eyes with a fourth, I settled myself in Oliver’s listening position; elbows on knees, chin in hands. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“No, dear.” She wiped at her eyes. “So embarrassing to sit here, bawling like a baby. You must think I’m a silly old woman.”

“I think you’re wonderful. But if there’s something you don’t want to talk to Oliver about, let me know. The last thing we want to do is cause you any upset.”

“You are a lovely girl, aren’t you? So kind and considerate. Your mother did a good job.” She reached forward and patted my knee. “And you’re doing a lovely job raising Oliver. Such a nice young boy.”

“Thank you,” I murmured. Wasn’t me, it was sheer luck, but I was finally learning to accept compliments. I didn’t have to agree with them, after all.

“Now.” She settled back in her wheelchair. “I owe you an explanation for my little scene. No, please don’t argue. What I hadn’t told Oliver yet is that my husband and I never had any children. Back in those days you never knew why and my husband didn’t care for the idea of adoption.” She paused to wipe her eyes, and went on.

“One of my sisters lived down the street from us. Her children, my nieces, were in and out of our house so much they were almost like our own children.” She looked at her lap. “Almost, but not quite.”

Her pain was so obvious it was almost visible. It would be a deep and burrowing kind of pain, pulsating with different colors: white with heat, red with fire, then black with the kind of sorrow that comes at three in the morning when there’s nothing, and no one, who can comfort you.

“I’m so sorry,” I said softly.

“Thank you. We do the best we can with what we have, don’t we, and at least I had children in my life, and they were my own flesh and blood, even if they never called me Momma.”

“I’m sure you were the perfect aunt,” I said, handing her another tissue, for at the word “Momma,” more tears had started to brim over.

“It was all so long ago, you’d think I’d hardly remember.”

On the other hand, even at less than half her age, some of my sharpest memories were hurtful ones. The time the neighborhood boys put pine cones in my hair. My sister Kathy walking down the street with her friends and ignoring my eager wave.

“When you get to be my age,” Maude said, “most things were a long time ago. But in here?” She tapped her chest, a small thumping noise that could have been the echo of her heartbeat. “Some things happened yesterday.”

I nodded. I could feel how that was going to happen. It was already happening.

“You were born in 1970.” Maude twisted her tissue so hard that small white pieces shredded onto her lap. “And so was my niece.” Her voice was trembling, a bird beating its wings against cold air. “Kelly,” she breathed. “My little Kelly. She was so beautiful.”

“Was”? I didn’t want to hear this. I wanted to shut my ears to this poor woman’s story, which clearly wasn’t going to have a happy ending. “What happened to her?” I asked.

“Oh, my dear.” Maude gave a sad, sad smile. “You already know, don’t you? She’s dead.”

I nodded. “How old was she?”

Maude’s clear eyes lost their focus. “My sister and her husband moved to a condominium after the girls were grown, and my niece and her husband stayed on. Their girls grew up just like my own nieces, in and out of our house every day. Kelly was the youngest. Long blond hair in braids, then ponytails, then loose down her back.” She trailed her hand down the back of her arm. “Her hair, it was the color of morning sunlight.”

I didn’t want to hear what happened. I wanted Kelly alive and well and living in her mother’s house with her own sunlit-haired children. “What happened?”

“She didn’t do it,” Maude said. “They say she did, but I knew Kelly. She wouldn’t do a thing like that.” She looked at me earnestly.

I nodded. Not that I had any idea what she was talking about, but she was waiting for some sort of reaction, so I had to do something. Nodding was easy. And subject to interpretation.

“It was all whispers, afterward.” She dropped her voice to a rasp. “Did you hear about Kelly? It’s so sad what Kelly did.” Her head came up, her chin firm. “Kelly didn’t do it, I tell you. She didn’t!”

I was getting a bad feeling about this.

“She was only eighteen.” The tissue lay in pieces on her lap. “Just turned eighteen. Why would a girl with everything ahead of her take her own life?”

And there it was. It lay there in front of us, sallow and limp and big enough to pull all the air out of the room. Suicide, that sad, ugly word, no one ever wanted to hear.

“Why would she?” Maude insisted. “Why?”

But she didn’t meet my eyes. She knew as well as I that there were almost as many reasons for a teenager to commit suicide as there were teenagers.

I edged forward and laid a hand on her knee. “What happened?” I asked.

She took hold of my hand with a grip that ground my bones together. “How could she drown herself?” she asked fiercely. “She couldn’t. That girl was part fish. Swimming before she was three. Winning ribbons at summer swim meets when she was six. Drown?” Maude made a noise in the back of her throat. “Might as well say Johnny Weissmuller could have drowned.”

“Did it . . . ?” I looked over my shoulder, through the walls and in the direction of Blue Lake, the lake where all young Rynwoodites learned to swim.

Maude followed my gaze. “It was in late May, not long before her high school graduation. They say she was depressed from her boyfriend breaking it off with her on the night of her prom.”

The poor girl.

Maude pulled at my hand and I turned back to look at her.

“She was going to college. Kelly was going to get her biology degree and work at a doctor’s office in the summers.” Maude’s pride in her great-niece shone in her ringing tones. “She had straight A’s always. She was going to be a doctor. Does that sound like a girl who would drown herself over some boy?”

“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.” But did we ever know who was likely to take her own life? Sometimes. Not always. Not nearly always.

“Find out,” she said.

I blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve done this before.” Maude leaned close. “May Werner told me about it. You’ve hunted down killers and put them in jail where they belong. Do it for Kelly.”

“I . . . what?”

“Now, no need to be shy. It was in the papers, both times. You do realize, don’t you, that you have a gift for talking to people?” She patted my hand in much the same way I’d patted hers. “And a tremendous gift for listening. That’s the most precious gift of all.”

What I had was a gift for incredibly bad timing. Including this particular moment. If I hadn’t sent Oliver off, would I have heard all this? And the incidents that Maude had mentioned, I’d stumbled half blind into things that if I’d been using my brain properly, I wouldn’t have come within miles of.

“No one remembers Kelly.” Maude’s shoulders curled forward. “Just her parents. And old Aunt Maude.” She sighed. “I’m not sure even her sisters really remember her.”

“That’s . . .” I searched for the right words. Couldn’t find any.

“Yes,” Maude said, her head hanging down. “But life goes on. For some of us, at least.” Her lower lip trembled. “Please tell me you’ll find out what really happened to Kelly. You’re the only one who’ll care enough. Please help me.”

She pulled my hand tight to her chest. I felt her heart beating fast through her thin sweater.
Thud-thud. Thud-thud.
“Maude, I—”

“Please?”

So close, I could see the veins in her neck pounding in time almost with her heartbeat. So close, I could see the texture of her skin. So close, I could see how small red veins were branching out through the whites of her eyes. So close, I could see how badly she wanted me to do this.

But how could I? I was just a middle-aged mom. A bookstore owner. Secretary of the local PTA. How could I tell this good woman that I’d help her when in all likelihood I wouldn’t be able to find out a thing? Her great-niece had died more than twenty years ago. How on earth could I uncover anything new?

“Please?” she whispered.

Then again, how could I not?

I squeezed her hand. “Maude, I’ll—”

“Got her talked into it yet?”

I whirled around to see Auntie May wheeling herself into the room.

“You told her you’d do it, right?” She pointed at me.

“Well, I—”

“Better have.” The left front wheel of her chair rolled on top of my foot. “Maudie needs you. If you don’t help her and she dies without finding out what happened to Kelly, you’ll never forgive yourself. Bet on it.”

“Auntie May, I—”

“Don’t ‘Auntie May’ me, young lady. And don’t give me any song and dancing about being too busy. I see you traipsing down the street to talk to that pretty Evan Garrett all hours of the day. Spend a little of that time working on something constructive and the world would be a better place.”

I felt heat inch up my neck. “That’s not fair, I—”

“Pisher-doodle,” she said. “Maudie comes to you for help and all you think about is your boyfriend. There’s trouble in that, real trouble. What kind of example are you setting for that girl of yours? What kind of mother are you . . . eh? What’s that?”

“I said I’ll do it,” I said loudly.

“You bet you—” Auntie May stopped and cupped her hand around her ear. “Did you say you’ll do it?”

“Yes. I can’t promise anything, but—”

“Oh, goody!” Maude clapped her hands. “She’s going to do it, May!”

“I heard.” Auntie May stared at me so hard I flexed my hands to make sure I wasn’t turning to stone. “No shirking, young lady. Do a good job, you hear? Otherwise you’ll be hearing from me.” She thumped her chest with her fist.

Maude smiled. “She’ll do fine. I have complete confidence in Beth.”

“Hmmph.” Auntie May speared me with a glare.

She would make my life miserable if I couldn’t help Maude. She’d haunt the store like an avenging angel. She’d stalk me on the sidewalks. She’d cackle and point and become the screaming harridan who hovered on the edges of all Rynwoodian nightmares.

But, if I failed, even harder to bear would be Maude’s disappointment.

Maude nodded at me, her kind smile flaming the embers of my deeply embedded and ever present guilt. If love made the world go around, then I was pretty sure guilt was what started the spinning.

“You’ll do fine, honey,” Maude said, still smiling. “I know you will.”

I smiled back.

And didn’t say anything.

Chapter 7

“H
ow was your week?” Evan reached across the table for my hand.

It was a wide table and had a large expanse of white tablecloth between the two of us. Evan’s generous arm length allowed his hand to reach past the halfway point with ease, but clasping his hand required that I lean forward until my chest rested on the tabletop. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t a position in which I wanted to spend a lot of time, either.

“My week? Um, fine, I guess. How about yours?”

Jenna and Oliver were with their father, watching the latest Pixar movie for the fifth time, and I was having dinner with Evan. His hardware store was in the black, and as a reward to himself he’d joined the local country club. Not that the hardware store was paying for the membership. As a retail storeowner, I knew the chances of that were zero to negative quad-zillion. It was Evan’s former life that had purchased the hardware store, paid for his condominium, leveraged his vacations, and bought him a new car every year.

I looked around. Everything in the room was done in a big way. Big chandeliers. Big flower arrangements on the accent tables. Big windows with a big view of the golf course. Everything larger than life, everyone good-looking. Or if not good-looking, then dressed as if they were, which was almost the same thing.

A waiter soundlessly laid menus on the table, took our drink orders, and wafted off. I detached myself from Evan’s hand and opened the leather folder.

“My week,” Evan said, paging though the wine list, “was spent listening to reps from three different paint companies, each of whom was trying to convince me to carry their new, improved products. Paint has changed—” He stopped. “What’s the matter?”

“This menu.” I flipped the thick pages. I’d heard about menus like this, but I’d never seen one. “It’s missing some key information.”

“Oh?” The outside corners of Evan’s mouth turned down. “Let me get you a new one.” He looked for our waiter and started to raise his hand.

“Don’t bother. I bet he brings me one that’s just the same.” I laid the menu flat on the table and pointed at the right side of the pages. “See? No prices.”

Evan chuckled. “Priced menus are only given to the club members.”

“I know. It’s just”—I turned the pages, each one looking like a printing mistake—“just weird.”

“That’s how it’s done,” he said, reaching for my hand again. “You know you can order anything you like, don’t you?”

My politeness reflex kicked in. “Yes. Thank you.”

He stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. “I hear a ‘but’ in that sentence.”

“No, no buts.” I put on a smile. “See? All happy.”

Laughing, he squeezed and released my hand. “You always make me laugh. No matter what my day’s been like, you make it better.”

My face went warm and I buried myself in the menu. Most of the words I’d seen before, but pronunciation was going to be a problem. Salmon was easy enough to say, but
Le Filet de Saumon au Beurre Rouge
presented a bit of a challenge. Maybe I could just point.

Evan was still looking at me. “This is okay, isn’t it?” He gestured at our surroundings. “It’s really the golf course I care about. We don’t have to come here again if you don’t like it.”

“I’m fine.” It wasn’t a complete lie. I didn’t feel sick, and I wasn’t angry, or upset, or worried that I’d use the wrong fork. No, I just felt a little . . . itchy.

“You’re sure?”

I looked up and fell deep into his blue eyes. Evan was a kind, thoughtful, incredibly handsome man and I was doing my best to enjoy the places he took me. Okay, it was easy to have a good time at the hockey games, but that was my thing, not his. On a regular basis the two of us ate at restaurants where children weren’t part of the normal clientele. We went to art gallery openings. We’d been to cocktail parties and dinner parties. Though I rarely made a complete idiot of myself, time after time I never felt as if I truly fit in. But how could I explain that feeling to someone who’d always fit in? I wasn’t sure there was any way to make him understand.

“I’m fine,” I said. And, for a moment, smiling into his eyes, I almost believed it.

The waiter advised us on dinner choices, the wine steward helped Evan choose the bottle that would best enhance our meals, and we were left to our own devices.

“Alone at last.” Evan fingered the lapel of his jacket and I had the sudden, horrifying thought that he was going to pull out a ring and propose, right there and right then.

Not in public. Please, not in public. Please don’t turn me into a spectacle. I don’t even like anyone to watch me open birthday presents. I really, really don’t want you to go down on your knee with a restaurant full of people watching. Please . . .

“What do you think of this?” He slid a piece of paper out of his inside pocket and pushed it across the table.

No, not paper. A small-ish, white, rectangular piece of cardboard. White cardboard on white cloth, it was almost invisible. “Um.”

Evan turned it over. “This is from the new paint line that sales rep number two is touting. What do you think?”

I eyed the colors. “They’re, um, nice.”

“Do you really think so, or are you just being polite? If this is boring, just say the word and we’ll talk about something else.”

“No, I like paint.” What a stupid thing to say. “I mean, these colors don’t offend me.” Though I couldn’t think of a color that would. Some might make me squinch my eyes shut and others might make me feel vaguely ill, but finding a color offensive didn’t seem possible.

“Is that the one you like best?” Evan asked.

I looked down to see my index finger pointing to a shade somewhere between light off-white and medium off-white. “It’s a color worth considering.”

Evan nodded. “Not too dark, not too light. It’s good for public areas.” He talked on about the value of a neutral background for artwork, and I faded away.

Also worth considering was Auntie May’s vague threat. Or was it a curse? Either way, thanks in large part to my fear of a ninety-one-year-old woman, I was about to embark on a journey twenty years into the past.

But how on earth was I going to find out anything about a death that had happened so long ago? Sure, most of the major players were still alive, but how accurate was anyone’s memory at such a distance? I couldn’t remember what I’d eaten for breakfast on Sunday, let alone something that happened when I was still in high school.

Yes, tragic events loom large in a memory, and their edges can stay razor sharp, but isn’t it the pain that lingers longest? Does the clarity include events leading up to the cancer diagnosis? Do the precise recollections include reliable accounts of what your grandfather said the week before he died?

I didn’t know. Sadly, there were an awful lot of things I didn’t know, including the difference between Italian and vinaigrette dressings. Figuring out a way to find out what happened to Kelly Engel was just one more on a long, long list.

“You don’t like it, do you?” Evan asked. “That look on your face is a dead giveaway. Here, how about this one?” He reached into his jacket for another sample.

Then again, making lists was one of the things I did best. Marina, my children, my former husband, my siblings, my fellow PTA board members, and my employees might all make fun of my lists, but how many of them had asked me to put something on a list? Every one of them. Over and over again.

Making a list would help me help Maude. Even if I didn’t unearth anything new, lists would at least be something I could wave at Auntie May. Here, I’d say. I tried, I really tried. I did my best. See all that I did?

“Not that I’m telling you what to do,” Evan was saying, “but if you were going to repaint your bookstore, what color would you want?” He fanned the samples out on the table.

I’d missed the switch from darker shades of pale to bright pastels. “Um . . .”

“Yellow could be a good option.” Evan poked at the color. “Though we’d have to see how it looks under those halogen lights.”

I nodded. “Those lights do funny things. It’s hard to know ahead of time what a color’s going to look like.”

Of course, it was hard to know ahead of time about anything. Impossible, really, without the ability to see into the future. What was Jenna going to be when she grew up? A wife, a mother? Dedicated to her career? What about Oliver? A husband, a father? Good at golf for the sake of his profession?

For that matter, what was I going to be? At forty-one, I still hadn’t figured it out, not really. Growing up, I thought I’d wanted to run a newspaper, like my father. Growing up, all I’d wanted to be—

Be? Or bee?

I rubbed my upper arm, touching the place where I’d been stung by a bee last summer. The bee had been lurking in my dying rosebushes and when I’d pushed leaves around, looking for clues to their illness, it had buzzed out and defended itself. I’d melted an ice cube on the bite and forgotten about it in two days. No need for me to carry an EpiPen, no need for me to tiptoe outside warily all summer. For me, a warm spring day was cause for rejoicing, not for fear.

Poor Amy. What had she wanted to be? Had she seen any of her dreams come true?

Was I nuts to think she might have been killed? Cans of bee killer or no cans, were my suspicions just the daydream of a woman who didn’t have enough going on in her life, a woman who was so bored that she’d manufacture murder out of an accidental death?

Gus thought so. And, if I mentioned any of this to Evan, he’d likely agree with Gus. He’d give me that concerned look, warn me about interfering, and push more paint samples at me. Here, Beth. Let me distract you.

Neither one would want me poking my nose into Amy’s death. And it didn’t do to think about what would happen if either one found out what I’d promised Maude Hoffman.

“You did what?” Evan’s eyebrows would zing halfway up his forehead. “Beth, helping people is a commendable trait, but how can you make accurate conclusions about an event more than twenty years old?”

And the new Gus would say something along the lines of, “Don’t be an idiot. Kelly committed suicide. Maude just doesn’t want to admit it. Go back to your kids’ books.”

I didn’t like keeping things from Evan. He deserved better than that. But Amy deserved better than to have her death written off as an accident without more questions being asked. To me, Amy’s needs topped Evan’s.

Plus, I’d made a promise to Maude. And with Auntie May as a glowering witness there was no wiggle room. I was lucky she hadn’t made me swear to deliver daily progress reports.

“I know that smile,” Evan said. “You must like this green the best.”

The thought of my store painted that pale green made me slightly queasy, but I kept smiling anyway.

Because I had half a plan.

* * *

Sunday morning came with a rush of rain. I stood at the kitchen window, listening to the thunder, watching the lightning, wondering what Richard was going to do with Jenna and Oliver. So much for his plans for playing miniature golf. They’d probably end up in front of the television, playing video games and shortening their attention spans by another few seconds.

I, on the other hand, was going to spend the afternoon looking over copies of the papers the story project kids had handed me on Thursday. With only a few short Thursday sessions to go before the stories needed to get to the publisher, I needed to keep on top of the kids’ progress. The height of the stack of paper, however, indicated that I’d be spending more time editing than trying to elicit words to be edited. The children were writing more than anyone had guessed, and I was looking forward to telling Claudia so.

I glanced at the clock. Time to get going.

“Don’t want to,” I muttered, then got into my raincoat, into the car, and backed out of the driveway.

* * *

I slid into my chair just as Kay started warm-ups. Between aaaaa’s and eeeee’s, my left-hand neighbor leaned over. “Where’s Gus?” she whispered, tipping her head toward his empty seat.

“Don’t know.” The words came out a little short. Just before we launched into iiii’s, I added, “Tried calling Winnie yesterday, but no one answered.” The answering machine had clicked on and Gus’s voice had started the spiel. I’d listened to the sound of the old and friendly Gus, and had swallowed down the urge to cry. After he’d said “Please leave a message. We’ll get back to you soon,” the machine had beeped. I’d stood there, phone tight in my hand, listening to myself not talk.

What should I say?

What was there to say?

I’d hung up, not saying a word, feeling like an idiot, feeling miserable. Feeling sad.

And now Gus wasn’t at choir. Gus was always at choir. He could get a gold star for attendance and was punctual to the point of irritation.

I knew the earth didn’t revolve around me. I’d known that from a very young age. Both of my sisters had made that very clear. But it was hard to look at the seat behind me and not think that I was the cause of its emptiness.

Kay ran her fingers through her hair. “That was awful. Let’s run through the gradual anthem and see if we can sound anything like a choir. Tenors, you need to be—” She looked at the tenor section, then looked at me. “Where’s Gus?”

I shook my head and shrugged, shame creeping through my skin. For in addition to being clueless about his whereabouts, I was also glad he wasn’t there.

* * *

The sun came out as the minister made the benediction, a good omen if there ever was one. By the time I got home, replaced the dress, nylons, and pumps with jeans, a sweatshirt, and running shoes, I’d finished thinking through my half a plan.

“And half a plan,” I told George the cat as I polished off the leftovers from last night’s dinner, “is better than no plan at all.”

George, who was sleeping on Jenna’s chair, opened his eyes to small slits, gave me a measured look that clearly said, “If you say so. Just leave me alone,” and closed his eyes.

Spot, on the other hand, was very interested.

“You’re a pretty good dog,” I told him, “but are you good enough to behave properly with strangers?”

Spot barked and jumped up, raking the air with his front paws.