Curse of the PTA (13 page)

His head turned, and I saw the jolt of recognition when he saw me. “Beth, don’t—”
But whatever he’d wanted to say was lost in the blare of another fire truck and the
pounding of my shoes on the sidewalk’s dark red bricks.

Ruthie, order pad in hand, was side by side with her latest cook, a young woman with
effervescent energy. Their worried faces made my feet move even faster. Ruthie didn’t
worry about much, and when she did, it was worth worrying about.

On and on I ran, every step an eternity, every step taking me closer to what I was
dreading. What was I going to say to Paoze’s parents if he’d been hurt? How was I
going to tell Yvonne’s family? She was from California, how would I even find them?

I ran, pain stabbing a sword in my side, searing my lungs. But I had to know. I couldn’t
stop. I couldn’t slow down. I had to find out.

On past Flossie, her arms wrapped tight around her body. Patrick had his arm around
his great-aunt’s shoulders, but it didn’t seem as if she was finding much comfort.

But that didn’t make sense. Flossie was the strongest person I knew. She would live
forever. What I’d seen must have been a trick of the light. Yes. No need to worry.

On I went past Glenn Kettunen, hands in his pockets. He looked strange without a smile
on his face. His staff grouped around him, small satellites to planet Kettunen. The
tops of Melody Kreutzer’s and Nicole Reilly’s heads came up almost to his shoulder,
and though the newest agent wasn’t short by any means, he looked small standing next
to Glenn. They stood, watching, spectators at the worst show in town.

I saw them ranged across the front of Glenn’s building, I saw the fading flowers in
their window boxes. I heard their murmuring comments. So many things I was seeing
and hearing and so many of them I didn’t want to see or hear or feel at all.

The raw fear for Paoze and Yvonne.

How could this have happened?

The shouts of the firefighters.

Why hadn’t I been there to help?

The sound of spraying water and the sight of gawkers and spectators being held back
to safety by police.

Please . . .

All my fears and hopes and prayers concentrated into one short word, repeated over
and over again.
Please . . . please . . . please . . .

And then I was there.

I slowed. Stopped. Gaped at the flames shooting to the sky. Blinked away the smoke.
Coughed some out of my lungs.

Yvonne looked around. “There you are. We were about to send a search party after you
two.”

“Paoze . . . ?” I tried to finish the sentence, but couldn’t find the breath.

“He’s over there.” Yvonne nodded at a cluster containing the waitstaff from the Grill,
then, frowning, peered at me closely. “Are you all right?”

Lois arrived, panting. “Whoo-ee. I haven’t run that fast since the day I was running
after my youngest for eating the last piece of chocolate cake. I take it everyone’s
okay?”

“Well, yes, of course we are, why—” Her lips formed a small O. “You weren’t here.
You thought it was the store that was on fire. Oh, you poor things.” She gathered
us into an unusual hug. Yvonne wasn’t given to displays of affection, public or otherwise.
She smothered us with a hard squeeze, then let us go. “Paoze smelled it first. He
went outside and looked around. When he figured out where the fire was, we called
911.”

“You did the right thing,” I said distractedly.

“Before we left, I made sure the store was locked,” she said. “Should I go back and
open up?”

But I didn’t answer. Couldn’t really. Because anything I might have said would have
been drowned out by the crashing down of the flaming roof.

Of Dennis Halpern’s office.

•   •   •

Yvonne, Paoze, and I watched the fire consume what had been an attractive office an
hour ago. We watched the flames reach high and listened to the crackle and roar of
orange tongues reaching out for more.

I hugged myself. “I hope . . .” But I didn’t want to say the words out loud.

Yvonne touched my arm. “No one was inside. That’s the first thing they did—go in and
clear the scene.”

“Hi there, ho there!” Marina joined our small group. “Hokey-malowkey, would you look
at that?” Her long, low whistle was full of awe. “I mean, when was the last time we
had something like this in town? This is just, like . . . wow.”

I flicked a glance at her, then looked around. “What are you doing here? Where are—”

“Hi, Mom.” Jenna materialized out of nowhere. “Did you know Mrs. Neff got a scanner
for her birthday? You can hear all sorts of cool stuff.”

Oliver bumped up against me. I put my arm around his skinny shoulders and hugged him.
Not too tight, because there were other people around, but enough to let him know
that I was there and always would be.

I eyed Marina. “Your birthday is in February. And you didn’t have a scanner last time
I looked.”

She grinned. “A late present. Noah, here”—she patted the head of a young boy—“wants
to be a firefighter when he grows up. What could I do but get a scanner? And when
there’s a five-alarm fire, how could I not pack up the kids and bring them to see
things up close and personal?”

“This isn’t entertainment,” I said. “This is probably a very sad day for . . . for . . .”

“For who, exactly?” Marina asked. “Dennis is gone, the office was empty, and they’re
containing the fire so it doesn’t spread any farther. Where’s the tragedy?”

She had a point, but it didn’t feel right to turn a building fire into a pursuit of
amusement, even if it was done under the guise of career education.

“Okay,” she said, “there might have been some files in there that were crucial to
someone, but if Dennis Halpern was the financial wizard everybody said he was, I’m
betting everything really important was duplicated and stored off-site in a location
more secure than that secret room in the Pentagon.”

“What secret room?”

“Whichever one is most secret.” She rolled her eyes at my skeptical expression. “You
think they don’t have secret rooms there?”

I let it go and asked about the rest of her day-care kids. Her subsequent description
of two sick children that had been sent home contained way more information about
stomach contents than I wanted to know, but it did explain why she was relatively
footloose and fancy-free. Except . . .

“You should have called to make sure it was all right with me to bring Jenna and Oliver
here. Did you—” I gestured at the boy next to her. Noah was clutching her hand fiercely,
and I couldn’t make out whether his facial expression was one of awe or one of terror.

“Of course I did. And I tried to call you, my sweet, but there was no answer at the
store, and all I got on your cell phone was an invitation to leave a message. Naturally,
I assumed that you were being held prisoner by terrorists who would come after your
children next, so I brought them to safety.” She beamed.

I wondered if she’d made up that story on the spur of the moment or if she’d been
saving it for the appropriate occasion.

“Hey.” Marina scanned the crowd, which was now even larger. “Where’s the new guy?
What’s his name, the one opened that Midwest store.”

“Lou Spezza.”

“Right. Why isn’t he here? Everyone else is.”

I looked around. If there was any business being done in Rynwood this afternoon, it
wasn’t downtown. All the business owners, staff, and customers were watching the fire.
The afternoon was pleasantly warm, and I had a sudden image of the citizens of Gettysburg
watching the battle. Which led me to think of casualties and soldiers and generals
and the effects of heat on men in heavy fire-retardant coats.

“Jenna,” I said suddenly. “I’d like you and Oliver to go get some bottled water from
Mr. Jarvis’s store. As much as you can carry.” I dug into my purse. “Here’s some money.
And buy some of those protein bars, too.”

She took the bills. “Can I get some potato chips?”

“One small bag. Oliver, you can get one thing, too. Everything else is for the people
fighting the fire.”

“Come on, Oliver,” Jenna said. “Let’s go.”

But Oliver didn’t move. He stood still as ice, staring at the fire.

“Oliver?” Jenna asked.

I smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. Only a few months ago, that gesture had me
lifting my hand only a little above my waist. Now I was beginning to think that Oliver
would end up taller than my six-foot brother. “I think we might have another budding
firefighter in our midst. Marina . . . ?”

She saluted. “No need to fear when Marina’s here, Cap’n. I’ll take good care of him.”

Jenna and I hurried down to Randy’s store. He was outside, leaning against a gas pump,
looking disinclined to move. Once I explained what I wanted, he pushed himself off
and came inside.

We hauled three shrink-wrapped packages of bottled water, a pile of protein bars,
chips for Jenna and a brownie for Oliver to the counter, but when we tried to hand
over cash, Randy wouldn’t take it. “No, no. It wouldn’t be right to take your money.”

“These are for my children.” I pushed the chips and brownie aside. “At least let me
pay for those.”

He put the bars and the kids’ treats into a plastic bag. “Your kids are good kids.
I’ll treat them just this once. But don’t say anything to anyone, okay?” He winked
at Jenna.

Before I even had to prompt her, she smiled and said, “Thanks, Mr. Jarvis. I won’t
tell, I promise!”

“Thanks, Randy.” I hefted two of the packages of water and the bag of snacks. “I’ll
be sure to let everybody know that you donated these.”

He waved us off, and my daughter and I, laden with the supplies, staggered back down
the street. When we reached Marina and the two boys, I told Jenna to stay there and
slowly went forward until I was within earshot of Gus.

“Chief!” I called. Which wasn’t the smartest way to call for Gus, because both he
and the fire chief turned. I hefted the water. “Fresh from Randy’s store. A donation.”

Gus came over. “Bless you, Beth. You know the fire chief, right? Beth Kennedy, Dave
Lindholm. Dave, Beth.” The fire chief was cut from the same cloth as Gus: short-cropped
hair that may or may not have been gray and weathered features that could have been
anywhere from forty to sixty years old.

We made mutual nice-to-meet-you nods and Gus said, “Here, let me take this.” He relieved
me of the water. “The bag, too? What’s in . . . oh, the good ones with the chocolate-chip
bits inside.” He grinned. “Do I have to share these with his guys?” He tipped his
head at the fire chief.

“Yes,” Dave said. “You do. Either that, or—” The radio attached to the shoulder of
his shirt squawked. He bent his head toward it. “Go ahead.”

“Better call him in,” the voice said.

Dave nodded. “I figured. Thanks, Gary.”

The muscles on Gus’s face went still. “Is that what I think it means?” he asked.

“Yes.” Dave turned to face the ruins of Dennis Halpern’s office, burned down now to
short blackened walls. “There’s a good chance this was arson.”

Chapter 10

T
he next morning, I was in Oliver’s room, making sure he had everything he needed for
the upcoming weekend visit with his father, when the phone rang. I trotted down the
hall into my bedroom and picked up the cordless phone as the fourth ring started up.

My slightly breathless “Hello?” was answered by “Hey, Beth. Gus here. Can you stop
by the station this morning?”

“Stop by?” All my actions from the previous eighteen hours flashed before my eyes.
Had I been distracted while driving and accidentally gone over the speed limit? Run
a stop sign? Maybe bringing food and drink to working firefighters was against some
health code. Or . . .

“And, no, you haven’t done anything wrong,” he said. “Unless you’d like to confess
to something.”

“A perennial guilty conscience, that’s all.”

“Join the club.”

I hung up the phone, wondering what it was he wanted.

“Mom?” Jenna stood in the doorway. She looked over her shoulder, then came into my
room and shut the door behind her. “What’s the matter with Oliver?” she asked, sitting
on the edge of my bed. “He won’t play any games or laugh or anything.”

When she was younger and had a question or a problem or needed comforting, she’d curled
up in the middle of the bed, wrapped up in the shaggy blanket she’d dragged out of
her bedroom. When she was a little older, she’d sat with her back against the footboard,
legs straight out, our feet touching. Now she sat on the edge. I supposed it was a
natural progression, but there was a tug at my heart whenever she did it. How long
before she didn’t sit at all? How long before she didn’t talk to me?

I sat next to her. She leaned against my shoulder, so I put my arm around her and
kissed the top of her head. “I’m not sure, sweetheart. I’ve tried to talk to him,
but he doesn’t talk back.”

“Yeah, I know.”

We sat quietly for a moment. Now would have been a good time to tell her that adults
don’t always have the answers, that growing bigger just means you have bigger problems,
and that not even moms always know the right thing to do.

Instead, I kissed her again. “I’ll ask your father to talk to Oliver.”

She nodded. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.” But she didn’t sound convinced. And for good
reason. Richard was many things—smart, financially successful, able to speak in front
of large audiences without breaking a sweat—but he scored slightly below average when
it came to extracting confidences from his children.

I felt another tug. Evan would have been a good person for Oliver to confide in. I
could just picture the two of them, their heads together over some project, Evan asking
gentle yet probing questions, Oliver replying in short sentences that grew longer
and longer, until eventually the dam broke and he told all.

I sighed. Had I done the right thing in breaking things off with Evan? At the time
I’d been sure it was, but now . . . now . . .

“Time to get going.” I gave Jenna a hug and passed on the chance to tell her that
being an adult can mean questioning your decisions months and years after they’d been
made.

•   •   •

“Thanks for coming in, Beth.” Gus pushed his rolling chair back and propped his feet
on the edge of a drawer.

I perched on the front edge of one of his two guest chairs. The last time I was in,
they’d been a scratched-up wooden variety with brass-tipped legs and flat arms. This
time they were ladder-back chairs with rattan seats and plaid cushions. Comfortable
enough, but I wasn’t sure they belonged in the office of a police chief. “Where did
Winnie find these?”

Gus’s wife was the uncrowned queen of garage sales. Once I’d asked her how she’d managed
to find a gorgeous coffee table at the garage sale where I’d seen only infant clothing
and plastic dishes. She’d laughed and said garage salers weren’t made; they were born.

Gus glanced at the chairs. “Someplace way east of town. I want the other ones back,
but she says she wants to refinish them.”

He sounded a little irked, so I made a soothing remark about Winnie’s refinishing
expertise, about how when she finished, the chairs would look brand-new and ready
to go for another fifty years of service.

“Yeah, she’s pretty good, isn’t she?” He smiled contentedly, then chuckled. “And that’s
why I wanted to talk to you.”

“About furniture?”

“About your instincts for people.”

I looked at him. “Instinctively, I know that you’re trying to flatter me so I agree
to do whatever it is you want me to do.”

“See, you can read people like they’re open books.”

“Only if the print is large. And pictures help a lot.”

Gus looked at me, no humor in his face. Apparently, he didn’t think I was as funny
as I did. “Last night the investigator called me. The fire was confirmed as arson.”

For a second, there was no air in the room to breathe. I’d spent the rest of yesterday
afternoon and all of the evening trying to convince myself that an arson investigator
was always called in when there was a fire. Due diligence and all that, just doing
my job, sir. But to know for a fact that someone had intentionally burned a building,
that someone had purposefully lit a match and set a structure ablaze . . .

Gus went on. “A cursory inspection indicates a slow accelerant. The fire had probably
been started Wednesday night and took until the next afternoon to flare up hot.”

And had whoever set the fire had been watching? Waiting? Hoping? I shivered.

“You read people,” Gus said. “You watch and you listen and you make those sudden mental
leaps that bring results.”

“I . . .” I didn’t know what to say.

He dropped his feet to the floor and sat up straight. “There’s a firebug in our town.
Maybe it has something to do with Halpern’s murder, maybe it doesn’t. Don’t do anything,
but listen for me, will you, Beth? Watch. We need to get this guy. Anything you think
might be helpful probably will be. Can I count on you?”

Gus was asking me for help. Pleading, really, in a very chief of police sort of way.
What choice did I have?

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll do what I can.”

•   •   •

Friday mornings at the store were typically the second busiest morning of the week.
Saturdays were the hands-down winner, but Fridays ran a close second. Why, I didn’t
know, I just knew it was true.

So between the elderly customers wanting to find the perfect books for their grandchildren
and to whom I was happy to sell armloads of Paddington Bear books (stuffed animal
separate but often a happy accessory), the homeschooling mothers with kids in tow
looking for books that explained chemistry in a way that wasn’t deadly dull, the callers
checking on special orders, and the occasional wanderer-in, I didn’t have time to
think about Gus and his request until almost lunchtime.

Lois heaved a monstrous sigh. “If only Sara were here.”

I looked at her. “Sara never worked on Fridays.”

“Yes, but if she had, if she
did
”—Lois shot me an evil glare—“my feet wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“Or, how about this?” I asked. “You could wear shoes that didn’t hurt your feet.”

From across the room, we heard Yvonne giggle. “No comments from the peanut gallery,”
Lois called. Yvonne’s giggle subsided into quiet snorts.

I’d found it hard not to giggle myself. Today Lois had chosen to wear a bright pink
skirt and paisley pinkish blouse. Both of which were fine, if you liked polyester,
but the shoes she’d found to match the skirt were satin with a small rhinestone heart
clipped on the front. The heels were tall and spiked and not made for a day of retail.

“Where did you get those, anyway?” I asked.

“Back of my closet.” She hitched herself up onto the counter and turned her feet this
way and that. “Far, far in the back. They still look pretty good, don’t they? I always
knew I’d get another wear out of them,” she said with smug satisfaction. “Just think
of it. The shoes my sister made me wear to her wedding lasted longer than the marriage
did. Say, have you heard what I heard about your PTA having a curse on it?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “I’ll be in my office. Give me a yell if it gets busy.”

“Mmm.” Lois was still admiring her shoes, but Yvonne gave me a nod, so I headed to
the back. “Let me know when it’s time for you to go to lunch,” I said. “I’ll come
up front.”

I sat in my creaky chair, wondered if I could commission Winnie to find me a cheap,
uncreaky version, pushed around a pile of catalogs, moved a pile of packing lists,
moved them back. Looked at the stack of invoices. Looked away. Clicked the computer’s
mouse and saw that there were twenty-three e-mails to read.

Bleah.

The whole town thought the Tarver PTA had a curse on it.

Double bleah.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

Prioritize. What needs to get done first? What matters most? Separate the superficially
urgent from the truly important. Think, Beth, think . . .

Gus had said to trust my instincts. Or at least that’s what he had implied. And right
now my instincts were insisting that I was missing something crucial. Par for the
course, since it often took days of finger-snapping forgetfulness for me to remember
to pick up a new bag of cat litter, but as bloodcurdling as the annoyance of a cat
could be, it came up short next to arson. And far below murder.

The other day I’d shied away from something. It had been when I was looking at Halpern
and Company’s website.

It was time to face what I’d closed my eyes to. I fired up my computer’s browser and
got to work.

•   •   •

When I sat back from the computer screen, my back ached, my neck had a crick in it,
and my stomach was shouting for attention.

I glanced at my watch. “Two o’clock?” I jumped to my feet and hurried out to find
Yvonne helping a pair of customers and Lois unconcernedly rearranging the front window
display.

“What happened to lunch?” I asked. “You were supposed to call me.”

She shrugged. “You had that I’m-too-focused-to-hear-you look on your face, so we left
you alone. And it hasn’t been that busy since this morning. What were you doing, anyway?”

Um. “Research.” Gus hadn’t said to keep my observations to myself, but if I told Lois
what I’d found, half the town could know by the end of the day, and that didn’t sound
like a good idea. “Finances.”

“Finances,” Lois said flatly.

“Sure.” I cast about for something to say that she might believe. “Did you know that
Albert Einstein said that the most powerful force in the universe is compound interest?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Benjamin Franklin said that an investment in knowledge always pays the best interest.”

“Good old Ben.” She smiled and shook her head. “How could a man who was so smart about
so many things be so stupid about women?”

The sidebar quotes on Halpern’s pages had saved the day. “Men,” I agreed. “I’m going
down to the Green Tractor to get a salad. Do you or Yvonne want anything?”

Safe and out on the sidewalk, I thought about the financial lectures I’d just sped
through. Sped, because I’d turned the sound off. I hadn’t been trying to gain financial
knowledge, what I’d wanted to see was the people attending the lectures.

Because whoever set that fire might have killed Dennis. And maybe, just maybe, the
killer had attended Dennis’s lecture series.