Death of a PTA Goddess (8 page)

I wriggled and was soon pushed to the ground. The man in the stuffed suit had pinned my shoulders, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop him, despite Bob’s instructions to “go for his eyes” or “knee him in the groin.”

At length, Bob said, “Let her up,” and shook his head at me. “That’s just not strong enough to fight off a grown man. A sick fish, perhaps, but not a grown man.”

“There’s just no way I can do this. I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“Exactly.” He turned to the class. “You hear that? She doesn’t want to hurt anybody. Which is why your attacker has the advantage on you. Because, I guarantee it, ladies, he
does
want to hurt
you
.”

“Pretend he’s going through you to get at Nathan or Karen,” Lauren called out to me.

We tried it again, and I did as Lauren suggested. A strange sensation overcame me. I had a vision, almost as though in a walking nightmare, in which I could see Patty’s lifeless body. In a blink of an eye, I was Patty, alive and confronted by my attacker. I felt myself getting grabbed on the shoulder, and suddenly I turned into a whirling dervish, barely conscious of what I was doing, except to know that I was punching and kicking with all my strength, throwing elbows and knees as if my life depended on it.

“Okay, good. That’s enough! Stop!”

I heard the voice, but didn’t let it register that he was speaking to me. I had the man down on the mat by now, and was still pounding on him.

“Hey!” my assailant cried. “You’re hurting me, lady!”

My head cleared, and I stopped, realizing finally where I was. Instantly I was horribly embarrassed. “Oh, God. I’m sorry! I must have gotten a little carried away.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t rip off my arm and start beating me with it,” he grumbled as he got to his feet.

“Let’s take a break,” Officer Bob said.

My fellow classmates clustered into conversation groups that seemed to exclude me. At length, Lauren came over and patted me on the shoulder. “My advice worked a little too well.”

“Teacher’s pet,” Susan said to me with a wink and a grin as she made her way past us and over to the makeshift snack bar.

“Just what I always wanted to learn about myself, hey? That I can turn into a violent, crazed maniac.”

“This is news?” Lauren joshed.

“Officer?” Emily Crown asked in a loud voice over the din of conversation. “After our break, can you teach us how to fend off someone with a knife?”

“Absolutely,” he called back.

Some people poured themselves a cup of tea, and some went to the women’s room—probably the tea drinkers at the start of the class. Then Bob declared our break over, and my classmates had their chance to do their own Battle with the Bulge. He then gave us some demonstrations of what to do if the assailant was carrying a knife, which in this case was a mangled Styrofoam cup.

The first step, according to Officer Bob, was to predict which way the assailant was going to move the knife, based on how it was being held, then move out of its predicted path. Then Bob showed us how he could twist out of the path and yet into the bad guy’s body. Bob wound up being able to lock the guy’s knife arm over his shoulder such that he had to drop the knife to concentrate on getting his arm free before Bob broke it at the elbow.

Spoilsport that I sometimes am, I raised my hand and asked, “Isn’t all of this rather in contrast with our first assumption, though, that our assailant is probably stronger than we are?”

Bob frowned. “Yes, but at least the assailant is not going to expect you to strike back. You have the element of surprise in your favor.”

“I’d rather have the element of an armed bodyguard in my favor,” I murmured.

Nevertheless, as we continued the class, Bob got us comfortable with the concept of “changing fear into anger.” We learned to shout “No!” and be the ones to throw the first blow, making sure that this “blow” was one that could immobilize the assailants long enough to allow us to get away. By the time Lauren and I left, I was very glad we’d taken the class.

As we drove home, however, an irony occurred to me. If either Emily or—God forbid—Susan was the killer, she had just learned about “surprise” defensive tactics herself. This whole self-defense effort could be nothing more than supplying tactics and weapons to the enemy.

Chapter 8

Unable to Handle the Tooth

The moment I got home after class, I called upstairs to Karen, who yelled back through her closed door, “Yeah?”

“I want to talk to you for a moment.”

She opened her door and, leaning through the doorway, said again, “Yeah?”

“Are you free tomorrow night?”

“No, I kind of have another date with Adam tomorrow. Okay?”

I put my hands on my hips. “That’s what I thought. I found out from Adam’s mother. She was at the self-defense class I took.”

She blushed a little. “Yeah, Adam says his mom is really nosy. I’m sure glad
you’re
not.”

“Oh, I can be big-time nosy when I need to be. Think about it. If I were you, I’d consider circumventing that curiosity of mine by keeping me better informed from here on out.”

She blinked twice, then said brightly, “Mom? I have a date tomorrow night with Adam.”

“Oh, really? That’s great, hon. Where are you going?”

“There’s a basketball game after school that starts at five. Then we’re going out for dinner. Probably just for pizza or something. I’ll definitely be home before midnight.”

“That sounds like fun. Thanks for keeping me informed.”

“No problem.” She gave me a little wave, then shut her door.

“So, everything must be going really well, hey, Karen?” I said to myself. “Oh, absolutely, Mom. I’m having the time of my life in high school.”

When I turned around, Jim was standing in the doorway, watching me, his brow furrowed. “Are you okay, Molly?”

“Sure. All things being relative. But I could use a hug.”

“Me, too,” he said, and pulled me into his arms.

“Oh, and guess what. You’re taking me dancing tomorrow night. And tonight I learned how to do an eye gouge and a nostril rake, so don’t even think about saying no.”

The next evening, Jim came home from work in time for us to grab a quick dinner before our ballroom dance class. Afterward he said he needed to change clothes, then failed to do so, instead sitting on the couch and reading the newspaper while pulling on his mustache. Stephanie, I knew, was not one to patiently wait for others and would flip out if we weren’t ready to go the moment she arrived.

Seeking to hasten things along, I dropped into the seat beside him and said, “Honey, look at my last two cartoons here and tell me if you think I’m losing my sense of humor.”

This was my personal version of a loaded does-this-dress-make-me-look-fat? question, and he knew it. He reluctantly set down his paper, took the drawings from me, and looked at them. He forced a chuckle as he looked at that morning’s creation. A group of people in a museum were staring warily at a man in a uniform who says, “This next exhibit is from a prehistoric sabertoothed tiger. Look for as long as you wish, but remember, YOU CAN’T
HANDLE
THE TOOTH!” The caption read: Having worked as museum curator for many years now, Arnold Tuttle found subtle ways to amuse himself.

Jim then looked at the second cartoon, which I’d drawn the day before yesterday. Not even able to force a chuckle at that one, he said, “ ‘A different drummer,’ eh? Very clever. And funny.” He patted my knee and stood up. “I’d better get ready for the big dance.”

“Okay. Thanks, dear.” Worked like a charm. The doorbell rang, which brought BC, as ever, racing into the room to bark at the door. “Stephanie’s early,” I murmured. She was going to be even less thrilled at the prospect of putting up with BC barking at her than she would at having to wait for us. “Could you take the dog with you?”

He grimaced slightly. “I’ll just be a minute,” he said, dragging BC upstairs as I opened the door.

Stephanie was dressed to the nines . . . or was that the tens? Eights? Never having understood the expression, it was hard for me to remember. In any case, she was wearing a formal dress—a scarlet taffeta gown that, at least, wasn’t floor-length. I bit my tongue rather than ask her if she intended to serve as a bridesmaid after our class.

“Hi, Stephanie. Come on in. Jim’s changing and will be ready in a minute.”

“Don’t you need to get dressed yourself?” Stephanie asked, eyeing my khakis and white T-shirt.

“Get dressed?” I repeated, and looked down at my attire, checking for perhaps a stain down the front. “My clothes aren’t invisible, are they?”

She widened her eyes at me. “
That’s
what you’re wearing tonight?”

I clenched my jaw, but then said pleasantly, “No, Jim is. He and I are swapping outfits in the car.” I called upstairs, “Hey, Jim. What am I wearing tonight, anyway?”

“Pardon?” he called back.

Stephanie rewarded me with an eye roll. “Well, Molly, at least you set to rest that old cliché about being able to dress someone up but not take her anyplace.
You
can’t even get dressed up.”

“I can. I just choose not to put on my formal attire for a class.” If only I hadn’t whisked away our would-have-been-barking-at-her dog or passed up delivering my crack about her bridesmaid dress. Too late now. Adopting Stephanie’s arms-akimbo posture as I scanned her attire, I asked, “You’re wearing an evening gown? For a class?”

“Of course. It’s one of my personal rules . . . the right attire for the right occasion. Dance is all about elegance.” She did a little pirouette as a visual aid. “What good does it do someone to learn how to do something in the wrong clothes? Tell me something, Molly. Do you remember your rehearsal for your wedding?”

“Barely.” I did remember that we’d held it in Colorado, and that Stephanie had not been invited.

“Let me guess. You wore something casual to it, right?”

“Yes. And I was comfortable and at ease throughout.” This was going to be a long evening. I was already getting so annoyed as to hope that she would get too close on the dance floor tonight and I could “accidentally” smack her one in the face.

“And did you have any stairs to climb for the wedding processional?”

I sighed. “Point taken. I hadn’t practiced being in a floor-length gown while carrying a bouquet so, yes, I stepped on the hem of my dress on each stair and was practically on my knees when I made it to the altar.”

Stephanie gave me a smug smile.

“Nevertheless, Stephanie, I assure you that I have no intention of ever entering into a ballroom dance competition, or climbing stairs whilst dancing, so it would be a waste of my good clothes to wear anything fancier tonight.”

“Suit yourself,” Stephanie said, giving her blond tresses a haughty toss.

The dog came racing down the stairs, barking fiercely at Stephanie—hurray—and Jim came down the stairs a moment later. He hesitated on the bottom step, looking at Stephanie in her gown. He turned to me. “Am I supposed to be wearing a suit?”

“No, Jim. You see, Stephanie’s dress tonight is the equivalent of the doughnut weights that baseball players use during warm-ups in the batter’s box.”

For some reason, BC lost interest in barking and trotted off to rejoin Nathan in the family room. Thankfully, Jim cut short the conversation by asking, “Am I driving? We can go out through the garage.”

Knowing how greatly she preferred to travel in her classy BMW, I answered, “We’re taking Stephanie’s car. Her thighs are allergic to cloth seats.”

Stephanie laughed, redeeming herself a little in my estimation. “Tell you what,” she said. “Before we go, why don’t I show you a couple of steps so that you don’t make total asses of yourselves?”

I said to Jim, “I don’t know about you, dear, but I was rather looking forward to being a total ass tonight. I could be the left cheek, and you could be the right. Or would that be ass-backward?” I turned to Stephanie. “Which cheek leads when dancing?”

Jim said quietly, “A few pre-class instructions wouldn’t hurt anything.”

My jaw dropped. Jim knew Stephanie well enough to practice avoidance. He must
really
be self-conscious about his dancing to opt for an initial lesson from her.

Leaping to the task, Stephanie said, “We’ll go to your family room. It’s the only area in your house with enough open floor space.” She led the way through our living and dining rooms and down the few steps into our family room.

Nathan was watching television, which Stephanie immediately shut off. “Nathan, help your father move that couch back against the fireplace, and put the dog outside. Your parents are going to dance.”

“They
are
?” Nathan asked with the same incredulity as if she’d announced that we’d sprouted wings and were going to soar along the ceiling. He single-handedly moved the furniture, unceremoniously shoved Betty Cocker out the back door, then sat down on the top step to watch us.

“The floor surface in here is all wrong, of course,” Stephanie said. “The whole point of ballroom dancing is the glide, the effortless movement of the feet across the floor. You don’t want carpeting.”

“Then why is dancing called ‘cutting the rug’?” Jim asked. Which was such a good question that Stephanie ignored him completely.

“As long as you can do reasonably well with the forward walk and backward walk, as well as with your basic alignment and positioning, you’ll be fine.” Humming to herself, she did little dance movements in the center of our family room.

The first dance step simply amounted to taking a long stride with knees slightly flexed. Having used the old-standby posture improver of walking with a dictionary on my head as a teen, I knew how to do this, and Jim, too, did reasonably well. She then showed us how to do the dictionary-on-head walk backward and had us try this side by side.

Watching us, Nathan laughed wholeheartedly. In one sense, we had lucked out—had Karen been home, she would be wearing her omigod-my-parents-are-doofuses expression.

“Jim,” Stephanie said, “you’re doing a duckwalk. Glide. Don’t arch your back or bend your knees quite so far. Very good, Molly.”

She then ran us through some of the standard positions, most of which were self-explanatory. Jim cut her short by saying, “Shouldn’t we go?” Clearly, he’d been annoyed by Stephanie’s duckwalk reference and had lost interest in her private lessons.

We moved the furniture back in place, said good-bye to Nathan, then left. As Stephanie drove, she lectured us on techniques and terminology. I remembered the promenade from my old hideous square-dancing days in school. A male voice with a Texan accent, twanging out the phrase “Now promenade your partner” kept running through my head, which drowned out Stephanie’s words.

When she paused for a breath, I said, “Thanks for the help, Stephanie, but let’s not forget our primary purpose tonight . . . to see if we can find information about Patty’s murder.”

“Of course,” Stephanie said. “But what if there are no Carlton PTA board members here?”

“There will be at least one—Chad Martinez. He had the hots for Patty and could have killed her in his rage when she rejected him.”

Jim said, “I never can get why you do this, Molly. Why not let Tom do his job and find out on his own if Chad killed Patty in a rage?”

“Because he’s a policeman, working in an official capacity. People don’t open up to him the way they do to somebody who happens to be in their social circles. We’re far more likely to hear the rumblings of what was really going on than Tommy is.”

Jim sighed and said nothing. He’d long ago vowed that “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” when it came to my poking into Tommy’s cases, but Jim also forever held on to the hope that I’d desert the amateur sleuthing someday. Nothing would make me happier, because that would mean that nobody I knew had been murdered.

We pulled into the parking lot of Chad’s dance school, which was located in a strip mall not far from the school campus. Where, come to think of it, at this very minute, my daughter and Adam Embrick were currently watching a basketball game . . . I hoped.

Stephanie lingered at the door for some reason, and a moment later it was clear that she was waiting for Jim to open it for her, which he did. Stephanie then strutted into the studio ahead of us as a diva might walk onto the stage.

The room was unexceptional, large and square with a parquet floor. Straight-backed chairs lined the walls. Chad had about twenty students here, mostly elderly women, and they were gathered in three distinct clusters.

Loath as I was to admit it, Stephanie had been right about my choice of attire. All of the women were wearing dresses, although considerably less formal than Stephanie’s. Ah, well. If Jim and I had to make a run for it, our pants and tennis shoes would make for a quick— and quiet—escape. Then again, it’d be a long, cold trek; Stephanie had driven us.

Chad left one of those clusters and came over to us. He was dressed in a white silk shirt and shiny, tight-fitting black slacks. He gave me a big smile, which seemed to spread to his little Hitler-ish mustache, and said, “Hi . . . there,” clearly having forgotten my name once again. He shook Jim’s hand, saying, “Good to see you again,” then shifted his focus to Stephanie. “Well, well, if it isn’t Stephanie Saunders.”

What
was
this? Could the man only remember the names of blondes?

Continuing to lavish his attention on Stephanie, he said, “My, my, I never thought you would need instructions from me.”

“Please. Chad, you and I both know that I could teach this class myself.”

“Then by all means, be my assistant this evening.” He turned, clapped his hands sharply twice, and announced to the room at large, “It’s time to begin. We’re fortunate tonight to have as our guest a very experienced dancer whom I’m sure you already know—Ms. Stephanie Saunders.”

She gave a little curtsy and lowered her gaze as if embarrassed by the attention.

“Oh, please!” I grumbled to Jim. If the folks here did know Stephanie, they sure as heck wouldn’t believe her shrinking-violet routine.

Chad continued, “Tonight we’ll be moving into the rhythm style of ballroom dance and will work on the cha-cha and the rumba. Ms. Saunders and I are going to demonstrate these marvelous dances for you. Pay close attention.”