Curse of the PTA (20 page)

“I suggest,” he said coldly, “that you make your accusations after you have some semblance
of proof.”

“No, I . . .” Her mouth opened and shut a couple of times. No words came out, only
small pathetic squeaking noises.

“Leave it to me,” she’d said. “I have ways of finding out,” she’d told me.

“Look, Marcus,” I said, pulling my list out of my purse’s outside pocket. “Here are
descriptions of the people I’d like to know something about.” I pushed the paper over
to him. “I’m sure you’ve heard of kinesiology. Using some of those techniques, I studied
the videos and came up with three people who fit the parameters of actions committed
while under stress.”

Marcus nodded. “Applied kinesiology is gaining ground as a science. There are some
respected researchers doing work in the field. Though it’s not a hard science, of
course.”

“Of course,” I murmured.

He scanned the paper, turned it over and saw the blank back, then turned it over again.
“These are the people you’ve selected as possible suspects?”

Marina pulled a crinkled piece of paper from her own purse. “These, too.”

He lined up the lists side by side. Read them both, then reopened his laptop. As he
tapped on the keyboard, Marina pushed herself forward on her elbows to see what he
was doing. “Good idea,” she said. To me she whispered, “He’s going to the Halpern
website.”

Marcus’s head rotated between the lists and the computer screen, at the speed of someone
watching a very slow game of tennis. “This man”—he pointed at my description of the
man with the short beard and tapping feet—“has been in China for the last month. He
spent an inordinate amount of time during breaks on his cell phone making the arrangements.
This man”—he tapped Marina’s description of the man in the flannel shirt and pocket
protector—“is my cousin, and I’ll vouch for his character.”

He eliminated my description of the man who didn’t blink by saying he’d moved to Montana
the week after the last lecture to take up a career as a fly-fishing guide. Which
left two people.

“These two,” Marcus said, “are possible.”

From my list, the woman with the fierce expression. From Marina’s list, the man with
the horrendously ugly tie.

“One of mine and one of yours.” Marina clapped her hands. “Hooray, we both win!” We
grinned at each other.

“However,” Marcus said, “I’m afraid I don’t know their names.”

Our grins fell to the floor. “You . . . what?” Marina asked. “But you know the name
of everybody you’ve ever met. How can you not know their names?”

He shrugged, the most human thing I’d seen him do. “I didn’t meet any of these people.
It was a lecture, and we weren’t introduced. I have to be formally introduced to someone
to collect a name.”

Marina started to say something, but I jabbed her in the ribs with my elbow. “Thanks
for your time, Marcus. We appreciate it.” I headed for the stairway.

“Now what are we going to do?” Marina said, sending Marcus a stink-eye look of which
he was completely oblivious. “I was sure he’d have those names. What kind of dumb
rule is that, to not learn someone’s name unless they’re officially introduced?”

We started up the stairs, and Marina continued to grouse about the stupid rules of
Marcus’s name game. When she ran out of breath, I finally got a word in. “Don’t worry
about it.”

“
You’re
telling
me
not to worry?” She stopped halfway up the stairs. “Has the world ended and no one
texted me about it? We need those names and we have no way of getting them, and you’re
saying not to worry?”

“That’s right.” I smiled. “Leave it to me.”

Because I had an idea.

•   •   •

I abandoned Marina to her own devices and returned from whence I’d come, back to my
office. Once seated, I pushed aside the stacks of work that were calling my name and
fired up the Internet. In the three seconds it took Halpern’s website to load, a small
mountain of questions piled into my brain.

What if this didn’t work? What if I couldn’t remember how to do it? What if, in the
five minutes since we’d left Marcus, the web designer had uploaded a site revamp and
all the videos were gone? What if . . .

The site came live on my computer screen, links to the videos in full view. “Quit
with the worst-case scenario,” I said out loud. But I never would. Moms the world
over had cornered the market on that habit eons ago and they’d never relinquish their
grip.

I played the video that showed the intense woman, then tweaked the
PLAY
and
STOP
and
REVERSE
buttons until the best view of her was displayed. I leaned close to the keyboard,
scrutinizing each button. “I know it’s here somewhere,” I muttered. “Somewhere . . .
ha!” There, in teensy-tiny print, on the obscure seldom-used upper-right part of the
keyboard, was a key marked
PRT SCR
. For “print screen,” a misnomer if there ever was one. Create-a-digital-image-of-what-you-see-on-the-screen-and-then-hide-it-in-an-undisclosed-location
was more like it. I whacked the key, spent a few minutes figuring out where the file
of the screen image had been sent, then printed it. Rinsed and repeated for the guy
with the tie.

Step one, complete.

I slid the pictures into a vinyl-covered clipboard I’d been given at a long-ago booksellers
conference and picked up my purse. Step two was about to commence.

•   •   •

Half an hour later, after I’d made some vague explanation to Lois and Yvonne about
an urgent errand, I walked into the Madison offices of Halpern and Company. I eyed
my surroundings. If I’d had enough money to think about investing in anything other
than a savings account, this place would inspire me to hand over my cash. It could
all be an interior decorator–inspired illusion, of course, but the wood-paneled walls,
subdued lighting, and original artwork spoke of success and trust.

“Good afternoon.” The receptionist, sitting behind a large and very solid dark wooden
desk, gave me a polite smile. “How may I help you?”

My heart warmed to the woman. Anyone who properly used the word “may” was worthy of
respect and admiration. I smiled back at her. “Well, I have a question.”

The woman, her hair in a smooth French twist, nodded. “Answering questions is one
of our favorite things here at Halpern.”

I desperately wanted to ask if the air of somber quiet was permanent or if it was
due to the death of the company’s founder, to ask how the company would manage without
Dennis, to ask if the remaining partners would carry on or if they’d sell to the highest
bidder, to ask if she had any ideas about who killed her boss. Instead, I trotted
out the lines I’d rehearsed during the drive to downtown Madison.

“My name is Beth Kennedy. I own a children’s bookstore in Rynwood, and—”

The woman’s face lit up. “The Children’s Bookshelf? I love that store!”

“You . . . do?”

“Oh, sure. It’s been a few years since I’ve been there, my kids are grown now, but
I’m hoping for grandchildren soon.” Her polite smile slipped into a real one. “My
name is Valerie. Beth, you said?” She held her hand out over the desk.

As I shook her hand, the story I’d so carefully composed fell to bits. No way could
I ask this nice lady to look at the pictures and say I was afraid that these two people
had been sitting beside a friend of mine who had just been hospitalized for a horrible
disease that had an extremely long incubation period and could I have their names,
please, because they should be contacted right away.

“You have a wonderful store,” Valerie said. “It must be great to work with books all
day. Children’s books, especially. Lots of happiness in children’s stories. A few
problems, but no death, no—” She came to a sudden stop.

But I knew where she’d been headed. “No murder?” I asked, as gently as I could.

She studied the desktop. “You’re from Rynwood, so you must know about . . .” Her hands
made a small gesture that told of sorrow and pain and a deep reluctance to talk about
Dennis’s death.

“Yes,” I said. And since I had a similar reluctance to talk about it, because any
more talk and I’d have to mention my role in his appearance at the PTA meeting during
which he’d been killed, and if she was astute in asking questions, I’d end up telling
her that I’d let his killer escape. No, I definitely did not want to talk about it.

All of which meant that instead of the made-up tale of diseases and hospitals, I told
her the truth. “The police have asked for help. If anyone thinks they might know anything
about the killer, we’re to contact them right away.”

Valerie shook her head slowly. “But I don’t know anything. There were detectives in
here, asking everybody questions, but I don’t think any of us here helped at all.”
She looked up at me, her face crumpled with the effort not to cry. “We all loved him.”

“Loved?” I echoed. Maybe Marina had been right about the mistress thing.

“Not
love
love,” Valerie said. “Dennis swore up and down that Vicki was his best and last and
forever wife. No more divorce, he said. He’d finally found the woman he’d been looking
for all his life. I meant we loved him like a brother. An uncle.” She looked unhappy
with her word choice, so I supplied the right one.

“A friend.”

She swallowed. “He was our boss, but he was our friend, too. And if any of us knew
anything about his murder, we would have told the police already.”

I opened my clipboard and slid the two pictures across her desk.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“Both of these people attended the lectures that are up on your website. One or both
of them might have something to do with Dennis’s death.”

Valerie’s eyes thinned as she studied the pictures. “Right. I’ll call the police and
let them know.”

Ah. That hadn’t been my plan, exactly. It might be the right one, but I spun out the
future conversation in my head. Valerie would talk to the sheriff’s office, and they’d
call me and ask why I thought these two people had anything to do with the murder.
I’d have to say, “Well, Officer, it’s like this: I’m a mom, and I can tell when people
are lying or uncomfortable and these two people . . .”

There wasn’t a chance in a kazillion that I’d be taken seriously. What I needed was
a teensy bit of evidence. But how to tell Valerie that? There was only one way. The
truth.

“Um . . .” I explained the dilemma, but toward the end, when she could see where I
was going, Valerie started shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you. They’re clients, and it’s confidential. I’m really
very sorry.”

I’d suspected as much. Maybe I should have stuck to the disease story. I thanked her
for her time, picked up the papers, and turned to go. But before I got halfway across
the room, Valerie asked, “Are you on Facebook? You know, that social media site?”

“Sure.” The bookstore had a very active presence. I posted regularly about author
signings, new books, and sales of all shapes and sizes.

“Halpern and Company is on Facebook,” she said. “And we have a lot of friends.” She
arched her eyebrows. “A
lot
of friends.”

Light dawned. “It’s good to have friends,” I said, a grin spreading wide.

Valerie’s crumpled look returned. “Yes, it is.”

I wished there was something I could do to ease her pain, but there wasn’t. “I’m so
very sorry,” I said quietly. And left.

•   •   •

That evening, the phone rang while my hands were covered in egg wash and bread crumbs.
“Jenna, could you get that, please?” I asked.

My daughter was at the kitchen table, chewing on the end of a pencil eraser. A week
earlier, she’d announced to her startled mother that she wanted to get her homework
done before dinner instead of after, and would it be okay if she did her homework
in the kitchen instead of up in her bedroom?

The phone rang again. “Jenna,” I called a little louder. “Answer the phone, please.
My hands are all gooey.”

“Oh. Okay.” She slid off the chair and walked over to the phone. “Kennedy residence,
Jenna speaking.” After a moment, she plopped the receiver back into its home and went
back to her homework.

“Wrong number?” I asked.

“No one there.” She shrugged. “Mom, if the prefix ‘dis’ means the opposite of whatever
the rest of the word is, how come ‘parage’ isn’t a word?”

“Because the English language was made to torture middle schoolers.”

“Hardy har har.” But she said it with a smile. “Do you—” The ringing of the phone
interrupted her. This time after she answered, she said, “Sure. She’s right here.
Hang on a second, okay?” She clunked the cordless phone onto the table. “It’s Mrs.
Neff.”

I put the boneless chicken breast on a wire rack, quick-washed my hands, and had them
half-dried on a towel by the time I picked up the phone. “Did you call just a minute
ago?”

“Non, mademoiselle.”

“Since when did you start speaking French?”

“I am practiced in ze language,” she said in what even I knew was a horrible accent.
“I have many words in ze French. Croissant. Baguette. Champagne. Merlot. Éclair. Quiche.
Crepes.”

“I notice that your French is heavy on the pastries.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Heavy is the word.”

“How about this word? Genius.”

“A lovely word,” she said, “especially when applied to me.”

“Nope. Elsa Stinson and Kyle Burkhardt.”

“Who are they?” She stopped. “Wait a minute. Are they . . . ?”

“Yep. The names of our suspects.”

“How did you do that so fast?” she demanded.

“I have my ways.”

Marina started to sputter. I enjoyed the sound for a few sputs, then took pity on
her and explained. “It took me half an hour of looking at tiny pictures to get Kyle’s
name. Five minutes later, I had Elsa’s.”

“I get Kyle,” Marina said quickly.

“What are you talking about?”