Death of a PTA Goddess (11 page)

She laughed openly. “Sorry. Just teasing.” She returned her attention to Stephanie. “How old are you, anyway? Forty-three? Forty-four?”

“Thirty-nine!” Stephanie retorted with all due indignation.

Carla chuckled. “For how many years now?”

Determined not to laugh at Stephanie’s plight, I avoided everyone’s gaze by riffling through my purse, as if in search of a pen and notepad. If this was a support group, I would hate to be in a nonsupportive one. After a long pause, Stephanie quietly answered, “Three.”

“And you’ve never once had the boob sweats?” Susan Embrick asked.

“Pardon?”

Jane added, “You know, Steph. Boob sweats. Where they were itching and sweating so badly, you wanted to rip your blouse and bra off and do a chest-press into a snowbank?”

Stephanie lifted her chin and said evenly, “That’s only happened to me once. Despite your colorful analogy, I’m quite certain that was because I forgot to add fabric softener to my whites.”

Emily said gently, “Stephanie, it’s an undeniable fact that, even though we might be unconscious of our hormonal changes, every woman’s body undergoes drastic changes from her late thirties until actual menopause occurs.”

“Well, isn’t that just . . . ducky,” Stephanie said, giving me another glare.

“The thought of a woman raging out of control emotionally because of her menopause is a gross exaggeration, though, right?” I asked, picturing the scenario of a menopausal woman attacking Patty with a knife.

“Ha!” a woman cried. “Tell that to my husband. One time when my hormones were raging, I dumped all his things out the window.” She focused on Stephanie and asked, “Want to know what he’d done to set me off?”

Stephanie said, “I suppose so.”

“He left the toilet seat up.”

“That
is
annoying,” I said.

“At the time, I swore up and down the fact that I’d been having hot flashes every hour on the hour all that day had nothing to do with it. Now, of course, I know differently.”

Jeez. Maybe I was on the right track, infiltrating this group to investigate the murder. “What about you, Emily?” I asked, wondering if she felt a hormonal imbalance had caused the embarrassingly harsh, recorded conversation that she’d later blamed on a bad day. “Has your temperament been affected much?”

“No, but then my husband never forgets to put the seat down.” Everyone chuckled, then she said, “Seriously, no. I’m more inclined to get weepy than angry when I’m hormonal.”

I glanced at Susan’s and Jane’s faces for signs that they were especially uncomfortable with the subject matter, but they didn’t appear to be. It was strange that Jane Daly was even
in
this group, at her age. “Jane, you look quite a bit younger than I am. Aren’t you still in your thirties?”

“Yes, but I had a hysterectomy last year.”

“They automatically give hormones then, don’t they?” I asked.

“Yes, and they truly do work wonders, just as Lynne was saying,” Jane replied.

Lynne must be the name of the thin woman who’d gotten Stephanie’s goat earlier. Now she said to Jane, “That’s not what you said about your HRT last month. Remember? You were talking about how you completely lost control at your daughter’s birthday party?”

Jane blushed. “Oh. Well, in retrospect, I think that was just . . . the sleep deprivation from the slumber party.”

“Sleep troubles,” Susan said, nodding. “Tell me about it.”

“No, no, I mean it,” Jane said. “That was just a . . . onetime thing. My HRT works wonders.”

“So you didn’t talk to your doctor about changing your levels after all?” Emily sounded incredulous.

Jane hesitated for just a moment. “Oh, that’s right. I spoke to her about that already. Right after our last meeting. I’d forgotten.”

“Memory loss is another symptom,” the redhead commented.

“Gosh, but this menopause does sound like fun,” Stephanie said in a deadpan voice. “I’m just tickled pink that you brought me here, Molly. And, apparently, in the near future, I’ll not only be pink, but perspiring profusely.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said, narrowing my eyes at her. We were at long last making a little progress in our investigation, and I didn’t want Stephanie to alienate everyone. Jane, for one, had acted so defensively about her problem temper that she’d fibbed about how her HRT was affecting her mood swings.

Emily said in an authoritative voice, “Last meeting, as you all recall, I asked Mary Beth and Sarah to do some comparison research on calcium-supplement products.”

“Hey zah!” Stephanie muttered under her breath. I was beginning to deeply regret bringing her, but then again, her attitude might just test Emily’s and Jane’s supposition that they had no trouble with losing their tempers.

Emily, sitting beside Stephanie, raised an eyebrow and said to her, “You need to hear this report, Stephanie. Bone loss in menopausal women results in life-threatening debilitation in more than ten percent of women. Even if you’re fortunate enough to beat those odds, there’s a significant reduction in bone density to the overwhelming majority of women over the age of fifty.”

I grew increasingly alarmed as the women presented their findings. Eventually I chose to listen with only one ear—and that ear decided that I was going to have to start taking calcium citrate myself—but I didn’t want to lose sight of the real reason I was here.

After the two women gave their formal presentations, the group decided to take a coffee break. Stephanie, still in a funk, opted to remain in her chair alone in the living room. I, however, went into the kitchen with the others.

Here, the mood was very different. One rather overweight woman was saying through her laughter, “I swear, ever since menopause, it’s like my butt went completely flat, and my tummy went completely round. Stark naked, I can stash the contents of an entire Maybelline cosmetic counter between my tummy and my breasts.”

“And what department store security guard wouldn’t want to write up
that
report?” I interjected before I could stop myself. Fortunately, everyone laughed, including the woman, who took no offense.

As conversation continued, I took the opportunity to mosey up to Emily, who was standing next to Susan. “Is this everyone in your group? They’re all here tonight?”

“Yes. Full attendance.” She added sadly, “Everyone’s here but Patty.”

“That’s pretty remarkable.” To keep the subject matter at least loosely focused on Patty, I said, “I’m impressed by any group of a dozen people that has full attendance. It’s not always this way, is it? Even back when you were meeting at Patty’s house?”

“No.”

“You know what?” Susan interrupted, her voice on edge. “Could we please just not talk about Patty anymore tonight? I’m already having nightmares, and I just don’t want her name brought up. Okay?”

Emily’s bowlike lips parted in surprise, and the color rose a little on her round cheeks. “Absolutely. Of course.”

Susan held my gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Is that all right with you, for once, Molly?”

“Absolutely,” I said, my cheeks warm.

“Good. Excuse me for a minute. I have to take a cigarette break.” She marched out of the room.

“I thought you quit,” Emily called to Susan’s retreating form.

“I did. Unfortunately, I started up again last week.” She fetched her purse from the living room and went out the front door.

Chapter 10

I’ve Seen Skye and I’ve Seen Raine

Susan’s abrupt departure brought a halt to all conversation in the kitchen. “She’s going to freeze out there,” Jane said, shaking her head.

“I’ll go bring her her coat,” I said, and promptly headed into the living room to grab her jacket while I still had a clear recollection of where she’d been seated in the circle. We’d all simply hung our coats over the backs of our chairs. Even though I was willing to honor Susan’s request not to even mention Patty’s name—effectively ending my evening’s investigation—I still needed to talk to Susan about the troubles between her son and mine.

Alone in the living room, Stephanie stared glumly out the window, paying no attention as I snatched Susan’s gray, wool jacket off the chair.

“Steph? Are you okay?”

She shook her head. “I’m getting old, Molly. I know you are, too, but you have less riding on your looks than I do.”

After giving a glance at the kitchen entrance to ensure nobody could overhear, I said quietly in her ear, “We’re here to learn more about our possible suspects. Not to obsess about the Cycle of Life having run roughshod over our bodies.”

She continued to stare into space.

Some partner
she
was turning out to be. Ordinarily, because she hadn’t overheard Susan’s request not to talk about Patty, Stephanie would have been in the best position to dig further. This was just like virtually every team project I’d been assigned to in school. “I’m going outside to chat with Susan Embrick. Keep up the good work.”

I put on my own coat, went outside, and handed Susan hers. She was just outside the door, shivering terribly but sucking on her cigarette as if it were giving her sustenance. “Thanks,” she said, then studied my features for a moment. “Pay no attention to my little outburst a moment ago. It was a nicotine craving, for the most part. Though it does upset me when all anyone wants to talk about is Patty Birch.” She scoffed and shook her head. “It’s so weird, really. All of us on the PTA board suspect one another, and none of us has the balls to admit that.”

I shrugged. “I do.”

She chuckled and ran her hand through her short, black hair. “And we know how you fancy yourself as a premenopausal Nancy Drew.” She held my gaze for a moment. “Do you think
I
did it? Is that why you came out here?”

I leaned back against the wood railing. “No, I came out here to chat with you about your son in junior high.”

“Raine? What about him?”

“He and my son, Nathan, have apparently had some unpleasant run-ins lately.”

She furrowed her brow. “Do they even know each other? I didn’t think they were in any of the same classes. Except maybe phys ed.”

“They aren’t, and that’s probably part of the problem. I don’t think they
do
know each other, but he’s been teasing my son. Apparently with a group of cronies.”

“Damn it.” She stomped her foot. “The old playground bully crap again.” She took a drag on her cigarette, then let out an indignant puff of smoke. “I’m truly sorry to hear that, Molly. We’ve had this problem off and on with Raine for the last few years. I honestly don’t know what to do about it.”

“I know of a really good counselor . . . someone Nathan’s seen in the past. I could give you his name.”

While slowly blowing out more smoke, she shook her head adamantly. “Finances are way too tight to burn money on self-proclaimed childhood experts. I’ll just have to threaten to humiliate him by hanging out at the junior high all day with him if this doesn’t stop instantly.”

I grinned at the thought of how any teenager would react to that particular threat. “That will probably bring some quick
short
-term results, at any rate.”

She dropped her cigarette butt on the concrete porch and crushed it with the ball of her foot. “This is interesting, Molly. We’ve got our oldest children dating each other, and our next two fighting. We’ve got quite the tangled family webs here, don’t we?”

“Apparently.”

She bent down, retrieved her now flattened cigarette remains, then opened the door, grumbling, “I sure hope you didn’t murder Patty. It’d be just my luck to have my kid fall head over heels for a murderer’s kid.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

She froze and looked back at me. “
I
certainly did not kill Patty.”

“Neither did I.”

She arched an eyebrow, but held the door for me. We rejoined the group, which had apparently deteriorated into a gripe session about how hard menopause was to endure while living in a society that doesn’t respect its elders. I’m sure the venting was healthy, but it didn’t make for especially enjoyable listening.

During the drive home, Stephanie was still glum and silent. I asked, “Where is little Mike these days? I haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks.”

“Didn’t I tell you? He’s with his grandparents in Europe. They’re on a four-week sight-seeing trip.”

“Wow. He’s missing school all that time?”

She shrugged. “It’s only second grade, after all. He’ll catch up. They brought his textbooks, and they’re going to lots of museums.”

“Your house must seem awfully quiet.”

She clicked her tongue and gave me a long look. “Whatever are you thinking? Molly, my daughter is away at college. My little boy, the light of my life, is gone for a month. I’m already depressed. Do you want me to be suicidal?”

“Sorry.”

She turned back around in her seat and crossed her arms. “We’re not getting anywhere in our prime objective, Molly.”

“I realize that.”

“We’ve gotten to know Chad, Emily, Jane, Susan, and, to some extent, Al. That’s everybody who was there that night, not counting you and me. No one seems to be coming up to us and begging for us to listen to their confession. What good does all of this socializing with these people’s pathetic little groupings do us if nobody reveals anything?”

“None at all.”

She threw up both hands in a gesture of exasperation. “This was all your idea. You’ve done this before. You’ve got to
think
of something now that will force the killer to reveal some evidence here.”

“I’m working on it,” I murmured, deep in thought. I wasn’t quite as ready to declare our entire investigation thus far fruitless. Still, there was another possibility we might have mostly overlooked. Maybe it wasn’t a PTA board member after all. There was one other suspect who had been in the neighborhood that night—Amber Birch.

“Do you ski, Stephanie?”

“No. And I’ve got to tell you honestly that your communication skills would be vastly improved if you didn’t change topics at random.”

“Speaking of which, I recently learned how to gouge a person’s eyes when being attacked.”

Stephanie pursed her lips and remained silent for the rest of the drive.

After school on Tuesday, BC started barking so vehemently out the front window that I finally looked out myself. One of the camera girls from the videotape was standing on our front porch. Even at this distance, it was obvious that she’d been crying. I opened the door and asked, “Can I help you?”

She looked at me. Though she was clearly a bit startled by my opening the door before she’d even rung the bell, she said, “Yeah. My name’s Skye. Skye Smith.” She had a defiant set to her jaw and voice, as if the name should surely mean something of great significance to me, which it didn’t.

“Hello, Skye. It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Molly. I recognize you from your frequent attempts to get funding for the VCR camera.”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” She peered past my shoulder and shuffled her feet a little, but said nothing.

“Is there something I can do for you?” I again prompted.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Is Karen here?”

“No, she’s at a friend’s house, studying.”

Again, she let out a derisive puff of air and muttered, “Yeah, right. Bet she’s with Adam, and that they’re studying
biology
.”

I clenched my teeth. “Trigonometry, actually.” She was at a girlfriend’s house, not Adam’s, but her whereabouts was not Skye’s business. The reasoning behind her unexpected visit and surly attitude was now becoming clear—if bizarre. “Is there a message you’d like me to give my daughter, Skye?”

She started crying, but said harshly, “Yeah, you can tell her that her new squeeze is gonna dump her the same way he did me when things get bad. You can tell her that he knew full well somebody broke into my house and some of my stuff got stolen last week, and that I was all freaked out. He just dumped me ’cuz I was unhappy. All he cares about is having fun. He doesn’t even give a—” She stopped and swiped at her tears. She yelled, “Tell ’em both that my life bites, and I hope they’re happy!”

She was reconstructing the cause and effect to best suit her wounded psyche. Karen had said that Adam had broken up with his girlfriend a couple of months ago. “Skye, I’m sorry you’re hurt and going through a bad time right now. I assure you, my daughter is not the cause of your problems.”

“Yeah, right. Whatever.” She turned on a heel and walked away.

I closed the door, then looked down at BC. “A lot of good you did,” I complained to Betty, who was wagging her little tail, thinking she deserved a treat for not barking at Skye. I knelt and petted her. “What should I do, Betty? I have zero experience with this kind of thing. There’s not a whole wealth of information on handling your daughter’s boyfriend’s . . . unstable ex-girlfriend.”

Although BC didn’t answer, I realized that, at the very least, Karen needed to be informed. I called the girl’s house where Karen said she’d be, and she was, indeed, there. She greeted me with, “What’s up, Mom?”

“Nothing major. I just wanted you to know that you got a visit just now. Do you know Skye Smith?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “Yeah. She’s Adam’s ex-girlfriend. What did she want?”

“I think she was actually looking for Adam, but she wanted to spread her misery around a little. She was pretty upset. Has she been bugging you at school?”

“Kinda. She’s a junior. We’re not in any classes together or anything. It’s no big deal.”

No big deal? Her intonations told me otherwise. “Are you almost done studying? Do you need a ride home?”

“Yeah, but Kate will give me one.”

“And she’s had her license for how long?”

“Eight months, Mom. And she lives just across from the Grand Union. It’s like . . . two miles! Jeez!”

“All right. I’ll see you in a few minutes. Okay?”

She hung up on me. I sighed and looked down at my little dog, who’d followed me to the phone and was now looking at me with please-give-me-a-treat eyes. “That went well. Thanks for the advice.”

Karen arrived home a few minutes later. She, like her brother had done yesterday, tried to head straight to her room. This time I was prepared and called out, “Would you like a fruit smoothie?” This was a shameless ploy, but I reasoned that making it obvious that I’d made an effort was half the battle.

Already halfway up the stairs, she hesitated, then said, “Sure,” sloughed down the stairs, and flopped into a seat at the kitchen table. In the process, she’d ignored her beloved dog, which was a very bad sign. I worked silently—not counting the noisy blender—and brought her the concoction a minute or two later. She took a spoonful—my “smoothies” being “lumpies” and therefore not sip-worthy—then said, “I don’t want to talk about Skye.”

“Okay.” I sat down next to her and wracked my brain for any stories of my high school days that might be appropriate, the tactic having worked reasonably well with her brother. My mind was a blank, unfortunately. I just looked at her, hoping I could will her to open up to me.

“What!? Are you just going to sit there and stare at me?”

“How was school today?”

“Jeez, Mom!” She crossed her arms, pouted for a moment, then apparently broke her resolve. “Here’s the four-one-one. Skye and a couple of her friends are just sort of giving me a twenty-four/seven freeze-out. That’s all. My friends are still on my side, and it’s no big deal. Okay?”

“Why is she giving you a hard time? Does she think she’ll win Adam back this way?”

“I don’t know. I mean, he broke up with her just after New Year’s, but she claims she already bought her dress for the prom, so they’re, like . . .” She took another bite of her smoothie, then pushed it away. “It’s no big deal. I’ve got to go study for my test.” Her voice had wavered a little. She rose and headed for the stairs.

The phrase “no big deal” had suddenly become my very least favorite part of Karen’s frequently used lingo. “Don’t you want the rest of this?” I said, holding out her glass.

“Not hungry. Thanks, though, Mom.” She trotted up the stairs, shutting the door behind her.

BC had gone with her, so I didn’t even have the dog to talk to. Nathan had been in the basement for a while now and must have been deeply involved in a computer game to have missed all the stomping of feet and slamming of doors.

“I’m not smart enough to be a mother,” I murmured. I recalled Amber Birch’s plaintive “I don’t know what to do” when we’d spoken about her stepdaughter at the lodge. At least I didn’t have it as tough as she did.

Could she have killed her arch-rival? Or was it Emily, who seemed to have a lot of not-so-deeply buried resentments toward her supposed best friend. Then there was the lovesick Chad. And there was something about Jane’s personality that, I had to say, I just didn’t like. But then, I didn’t know her very well.

I started stacking the newspaper sections that had been strewn across the table, and my vision fell on a small advertisement. I snatched it up and reread it, double-checking, as it seemed so serendipitous. Indeed, tomorrow morning Jane Daly was teaching a little arts-and-crafts class at the store where she worked. This would be a fine opportunity to get to know her better. Against my better judgment, but deciding to honor my agreement to let her help whenever possible, I called Stephanie Saunders and left a message about the class.