Curse of the PTA (10 page)

“Hamburger,” I said. “No cheese, and a medium fry.”

“Drinks?”

“Ice water for both of us.” I cut off Marina’s protest. “That’s it, thanks.”

Marina pouted. “How is it you can take the fun out of being bad?”

“How is it that you want to ruin your health, rot your teeth, and shorten your life
span?”

“Well, if you put it that way.” She put her elbows on the plastic laminate table and
cupped her chin in her hands. “So. Tell me everything Gus said.”

I furrowed my brow. “Well, let me think a minute. First he said ‘Hey, Beth. Come on
in.’ Then he said, ‘Let me get these papers off the chair.’ Then he said—”

Marina uncupped her chin and made a T with her hands. “Time out. Let me rephrase that.
Tell me everything Gus said that I actually care about. And I know you’re just getting
back at me for dragging you out to lunch, so yadda yadda yah.”

I grinned at her. We’d been friends for a very long time. By the time our ice water
arrived, I’d given her a quick summary. By the time our food showed up, I’d given
her all the details, including the fact that Gus had already known what had happened
at the funeral home last night.

Marina drizzled ketchup over her fries while I sprinkled malt vinegar on mine. She
picked up her first fry. “I love you,” she told it, then popped it in her mouth. “Is
there anything better than Fred’s fries? Truly not possible, so don’t try to argue.”
She ate another, practically swooning, then refocused on our conversation.

“So,” she said. “Gus will pass on what we learned to the county cops. Which leaves
us with two conversational points to cover before your overactive sense of duty pulls
you back to your store. One.” She held up her index finger. “Last night.”

I really didn’t want to talk about Staci’s accusations, but I knew Marina wasn’t going
to let me do that.

She pointed a fry at her eyes. “Not red.” She pointed the fry at mine. “Red. You didn’t
sleep for beans, did you? Which means you’re taking Staci’s ravings to heart.”

The salt shaker called to me. A little extra salt wouldn’t hurt, this one time. “I
can’t help feeling that she’s right. Everyone else is telling me it’s not my fault,
but what if they’re wrong and Staci’s the one who’s right?”

Marina bit deep into her burger, rolled her eyes with gustatory pleasure, chewed,
and swallowed. “Then you’d better help find the killer.”

“Isn’t that why we have police?”

“Sure, but you know how understaffed they are. And they don’t have the strengths you
have. Play to them, sweets. Play to them.”

I tried to think of any abilities I might have that would help the police catch whoever
had killed Dennis and came up dry. “I used to think I was good at alphabetizing, but
Yvonne’s half again as fast.”

“Sometimes you are such a putz. Say, and this is the number two thing—have you found
out what’s bugging Oliver?”

I hadn’t, and not for lack of trying. “He claims he’s fine.”

She looked at me over the top of her burger. “Yesterday after school he said he’d
rather stay inside than go out and play.”

I stared at her. “He said that?”

“Afraid so. The other kids went out in the backyard. He stayed inside and watched
reruns of
Phineas and Ferb
.”

The hamburger in my hands, which thirty seconds ago had been the most appealing food
I’d ever seen, smelled, or touched, suddenly didn’t interest me at all. I put it down
and pushed it away from me.

“I’ll talk to him tonight,” I said.

Marina nodded slowly, then started talking about a new lasagna recipe.

I tried to pay attention, but most of me wasn’t listening. Because there was something
wrong with my son, and he wasn’t talking to me.

Chapter 8

T
hat night I sat in the same Tarver classroom I’d sat in a week ago. So much was the
same, yet so much was different. The map of the United States, the skyscraper diagram,
and the pictures of Yellowstone were still there. The teacher’s desk had the same
silk flowers in the same vase, the same books were on the shelves. Even the contents
of the lost-and-found box didn’t look any different.

Yet nothing was the same. Dennis Halpern was dead, irrevocably and irretrievably gone
forever. My instinct was that the blame for that was mine, and I’d have to find a
way to live with the responsibility. There was nothing I could do for his family to
make up for their loss, but maybe, after a while, I could do . . . something.

And there were a couple of other things that were different. I scanned the classroom,
counting heads. About fifteen things, really, and they were missing.

“Where is everybody?” I asked Claudia.

She glanced up from her perusal of a playground equipment catalog, looked around,
and shrugged. “Running late, I guess.”

A glance at my watch told me I should start the meeting. A look at the clock on the
wall told me I could wait a couple of minutes. And since we were at the school, using
the school clock was the
de rigueur
time.

I made a show of studying the meeting’s agenda, but my mind wasn’t on forming new
committees or on the date for the father-daughter dance. No, what was topmost in my
head was Oliver.

I’d picked up the kids a little early so I could get some dinner into them before
heading to the PTA meeting. On the drive home, Jenna had plugged herself into her
iPod and started bobbing away in the backseat to music only she could hear. A perfect
time for a heart-to-heart with my son.

He was staring out the car window, tapping the glass every time we passed a tree.
There are lots of trees in Rynwood.

“Ollster?” I asked. “Mrs. Neff said you didn’t go outside to play after school the
last couple of days. Are you feeling okay?” I knew he was fine, of course. He was
showing none of his typical signs of illness. No sniffling, no tugging at his ears,
and not even the slightest hint of a cough. But asking was a good way to open the
conversation.

“I’m good.”

He spoke without turning away from the window. I could see most of the left side of
his face, but it was hard to read much from less than half a face.

I almost asked him why he didn’t go outside, but decided on a different approach.
“I thought you really liked to play in Mrs. Neff’s backyard.”

“Yeah. I do.”
Tap-tap. Tap
.

Not a very successful approach. Time for another shot. “Are you having troubles with
any of the other day-care kids?”

“What do you mean?”

Good one, Beth. Ask the kid an open-ended question and he sends you one in return.
“Like, maybe you had a fight with Nathan. Or maybe you and Zach are arguing about
who gets to go up in the tree house first.”

“Oh.”
Tap-tap
. “No. We’re good.”

He was good; they were good; everything was good. Only, clearly, everything wasn’t.

I’d reached out and laid my hand on the back of his neck. “Sweetheart, if something’s
bothering you, please talk to me about it. I’m your mom and I’ll always understand.
Okay, Ollster? You can always talk to me about anything.”

Tap.
“. . . Okay.”
Tap-tap-tap
.

Tap-tap
. “Beth?” Claudia was rapping her pen against the tabletop. “It’s past time.”

I looked up, then out. Five after and there were only a few people out in the seats.
Marina, Tina, Whitney, and Nick and Carol Casassa. Strange.

“Before we start the meeting,” I said, “I’d like to have a moment of silence in honor
of Dennis Halpern. The meeting will begin when I tap the gavel.” I bowed my head and
felt the others around me do the same. My worries and concerns fell away as I ached
for the Halpern family and sorrowed for a life cut short.

Dennis, I am so sorry. So very, very sorry.

When I heard the rustlings of movement, I lifted my head and banged the gavel lightly.
“This meeting of the Tarver Elementary PTA will come to order.” Summer took roll.
“Are there any additions to the agenda?” I asked, and was ready to slide right into
a motion to approve when Claudia said, “I’d like to add ‘Resignation of Secretary
Lang’ to the agenda.”

There was a large gasp. I didn’t know if it came from me, from Summer, or from one
of the five people in the audience. I stared at Claudia, but she kept her gaze on
the table in front of her. So be it. “Summer, please add that item to the agenda.
And, if the board doesn’t object, I would like to move that to the top of New Business.”

In short order, the minutes of the last meeting were approved and the old business
was taken care of. All was done with quiet voices; all was done while the elephant
in the room was growing larger and larger.

“New business item A,” I said. “Resignation of Secretary Lang.” Suddenly I wished
for glasses that I could peer over. “Claudia, do you have something to say?”

“Well, I just want to say that with the current situation, Summer should resign. Maybe
she can’t be an effective secretary with all this going on, is all I mean.”

Claudia was talking without once looking at Summer. The word “coward” popped into
my head and wouldn’t go away. There was nothing in the PTA bylaws that covered a situation
like this—how could there be? We had policy about the number of unexcused absences
from meetings, we had policy about votes from which we had to abstain. But who would
draft a policy that included suspicion of murder?

“Why exactly,” I said carefully, “do you think Summer is unable to fulfill her duties?”

“Um . . .” Claudia tapped her pen, looked out at Tina, bit her lips. “She . . . might
be . . . well . . .”

I wanted to launch into a tirade about being innocent until proven guilty. To rant
about the evils of gossip and innuendo, not to mention the dangers of slander. Instead
I said, “Since there doesn’t seem to be any valid reason for the resignation of our
secretary, I recommend that the board take no action. Next item on the agenda is the
date of the father-daughter dance.”

And just like that, I squashed Claudia’s preemptive strike against Summer. Maybe I
really could do this presidency thing. It was nice to be able to do something right.
On the other hand, if I was doing okay as president, why were most of our regular
meeting attendees AWOL?

Setting the date for the father-daughter event took roughly three seconds. Now officially
known as the Sam Helmstetter Scholarship Fund Dance, it was always held the second
Saturday in November. Until the storybook had been published, the dance had been the
PTA’s most successful fund-raiser, and it was still important for our finances.

“Okay,” I said, checking the dance off my agenda. A small ache sounded somewhere inside
me. Last year, Evan had taken over when Jenna’s father had been out of town for a
job interview. Evan had worn a tux and made her feel like Cinderella.

I drew a second check on top of the first one. This year Richard would be in town
to take his daughter to the dance, so there’d be no reason for . . . for anyone else
to be involved. Which was good and right and as it should be.

Yes. Just as it should be.

“Next,” I said, “is the allocation of storybook funds.” With my handy-dandy mom-created
peripheral vision, I saw Claudia start to puff up with breath. Before she could form
a word, I leapt into the forming fray.

“I’d like to propose the formation of two committees. A week ago, a preliminary discussion
fell quickly into an argument. In front of a guest.” I sent a hard look to my fellow
board members, then to the audience. Most people had the grace to look embarrassed;
some, such as the person next to me (not that I was naming names), looked stubborn.
Fine.

“That,” I said, “was not the finest hour for our PTA. To prevent another similar and
similarly useless discussion, I’d like to form two ad hoc committees. Two, because
there seem to be two drastically different points of view on how to allocate the money.
And ad hoc, because once the decision is made, there is no reason to continue the
committees.”

Heads nodded. Even Claudia’s.

“Then I’d like to entertain a motion to form an ad hoc committee with Claudia Wolff
as its chair and another with Summer Lang as chair. Claudia’s committee will be charged
with studying sports-related expenditures. Summer’s committee will be charged with
studying fine arts expenditures.”

Randy grunted, then said, “So moved.”

“I’ll second,” Claudia said quickly.

“Discussion?” I asked.

“Who else is going to be on the committee?” Summer asked.

Claudia made a rude noise in the back of her throat. “Whoever you can get to be on
it. Good luck with finding anyone. Tina, you’re on mine, right? And how about you?”
She skewered Whitney with a glare.

Whitney blinked. “Me? Oh. Well . . . I . . .”

“Good.” Claudia nodded. “Give me your e-mail address so I can let you know about meetings.”

“I’ll work on sports funding,” Nick said.

His wife crossed her arms. “And I’ll work on your committee, Summer,” she said. “Be
glad to.”

“Okay, good.” Summer looked at me. “Anyone else?”

I tried to, but didn’t quite, stifle a sigh. If there was one thing I didn’t need,
it was another thing to do. But since this whole two-committee thing was my idea . . .
“If you want help, sure.”

Marina waved her hand. “Me too!”

I looked at her. She beamed at me, and I got the sneaking suspicion that her motives
weren’t as pure as the driven snow.

“Good,” I said. “We have two full committees. Now we need a vote. Those in favor of
the motion, say aye.” There were four “ayes” of differing shapes and sizes. “Those
opposed, say nay.” And silence. “Thank you. I’d like the committee chairs to work
toward getting a solid proposal to this board by the November meeting. I’d like to
see a short-term plan and a long-term plan, in addition to different possibilities
for varying amounts of money.”

Claudia and Summer nodded happily, and I adjourned the meeting. Immediately, Claudia
and Tina went into a huddle. Whitney got up to stand nearby and was ignored. Nick
handed Claudia a piece of paper. “Here’s my e-mail. Let me know when you want to have
a meeting.” He headed out, his wife at his heels, an expression of tense fury on her
face.

Marina watched them walk out of the room. “Apples and oranges have nothing on those
two,” she said. “How is it they stayed married so long?”

“They both like Peter Sellers movies,” I said, waving good-bye to Summer. “Do you
think it’s because of forming committees that hardly anyone was here tonight? Maybe
I should stop e-mailing the agenda around before the meeting.”

“Um . . .” Marina coughed, started to say something, then stopped.

Claudia and Tina laughed, glanced at me, then looked at each other and laughed again.

A tinny rendition of the “Chicken Dance” sounded. I looked at the few people in the
room, trying to guess whose cell phone was ringing. Claudia reached into her purse.
Bingo.

“Or maybe,” I said, shoving my papers into my bag, “maybe it’s me. I’m doing such
a horrible job as president that no one wants to be on the PTA. And the whole town
knows that Staci thinks it’s my fault her dad is dead. Maybe everybody thinks that.
Maybe—”

“I’m really sorry,” Marina said. “It was just a joke.”

I stopped, midshove. There was no possible way that Staci had been joking. Absolutely
zero chance. “What are you talking about? What was—?” I stopped. “Is your face turning
pink?”

A faint tinge of blush was creeping up the sides of her neck, spreading across her
cheeks, and up onto her forehead. There were two possibilities. Either she was having
a hot flash or she was embarrassed.

But Marina was embarrassment-proof. I’d never once seen her blush—not when she’d lost
her bathing suit top at a crowded beach, not when she’d burped loudly during a conversational
lull at the most expensive restaurant on this side of Madison, and not when she’d
tripped and fallen flat in front of a set of gymnasium bleachers packed with basketball-watching
townspeople.

“It was a joke,” she repeated.

“Have you been posting on your blog again?”

A couple of years ago, Marina had started up a blog she’d titled WisconSINs, posting
the comings and goings of Rynwoodites. She’d had fun with it, but the number of her
postings had fallen off after a few months. Save for an occasional resurgence when
something really juicy happened, the blog was essentially silent these days.

She shook her head. “I promised the DH I’d stop that. He’s all uptight these days
about data mining and privacy and stuff.”

Seemed like a reasonable concern to me. “What was a joke?”

Her shoulders hunched forward. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

Uh-oh. Jenna had been the last person to use that phrase with me. She’d been trying
to mitigate my reaction to finding out that when she’d been in the driveway, practicing
hockey stick handling skills, she’d accidentally sent a puck through the back window
of the car.

I crossed my arms. “You can’t make a promise about an emotion. They just happen.”

She put her hands to her cheeks. “How about promising you won’t yell at me? I hate
it when you yell at me.”

“How about telling me what you’re talking about?”

Her chest went up and down as she heaved out a sigh. “Well, this morning, when I was
taking the day-care kids to the park, I ran into Dorrie. Did you know she’s taken
up tai chi? She was on break from the Green Tractor and—”

“What was a joke?” I asked.

Marina sighed. “Dorrie was asking about, you know, last week’s meeting and Dennis
and all that, and I said, joking like—honest, it was a joke.” She stopped and looked
at me. “I said—”