Murder at the PTA (11 page)

“How nice for her doctor.”

“Huh?”

“Unsuitable footwear can lead to colds and flu and bronchitis and pneumonia.” Or at least it might. I was going on instinct; that’s what moms do. “Go change. Now.” I pointed in the direction of the stairs, and she began the long trudge to her bedroom.

“Mom?”

I looked past the empty cereal bowls I was still holding and focused on my son. “Yes, Oliver. What is it?” And please don’t bring up the subject of the dog. Not on a Monday.

Oliver tugged at the collar of his shirt and didn’t meet my eye.

Uh-oh. I put the cereal bowls in the dishwasher, then sat on an island stool. I patted the seat next to me. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” I asked in a bad Jimmy Cagney imitation.

His thin shoulders rose and fell.

“Did I forget to kiss Polly the Hippopotamus last night?”

He shook his head.

“Did you forget something?” Oliver often forgot things the minute he walked out the classroom door. While I appreciated his ability to compartmentalize, it meant numerous mornings scrambling to finish projects and find permission slips.

“Oliver?” I glanced toward the stairs. When Jenna came down, we had to leave. “Okeydokey, kid.” I gave him a hug and laid my forehead on top of his soft hair. “We can talk tonight. Right now—”

“I did it,” he said to the floor. “I was bad and now we’ll never get a dog and it’ll all be my fault. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Oliver.” I spoke sharply. It seemed harsh, but it was the best way to handle the boy when he edged into inanity. “Oliver!”

He dragged a hand across his face and his palm came away wet. My heart crumpled, and it took a superhuman feat of strength not to pull him tight against my heart. I had to be both mother and father to my children now, and this was a time for Dad to show up. “Tell me what you did.”

“I haven’t, not for a long time. I haven’t!”

“Okay.” I had no clue what he was talking about—none whatsoever.

“Please don’t be mad.”

How I hated when the kids said that.

“Oliver, just tell me.”

“It’s the . . .”

“The what?”

“The bed.” Jenna thudded into the kitchen. “He wet the bed again last night. Are
these
okay for me to wear?” She lifted her leg and thumped her hiking boot onto the kitchen table.

“Jenna! Get that boot off the table!”

She dragged her heel across the glossy wood, leaving a dark trail.

“Oh, Jenna. Why did you do that?”

Her face took on that dreaded stubborn look. “All you care about is the furniture and what we wear. You don’t care anything about us. Especially me!” She ran across the room and opened the door to the garage.

“Don’t—”

Too late. She was already out the door, slamming it shut behind her. I winced. I recognized it all: the sulks, the slams. At long last, my mother’s curse was coming true. I had a daughter just like me.

“Mommy?” Oliver asked.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“Are you mad?” His big, round eyes looked up at me.

I abandoned the father mode and ran straight back to being Mom. The hug I gave him was as full of love and reassurance as it was possible for a hug to be. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “It’s not your fault you wet the bed. These things happen.”

“They do?” He squirmed out of my embrace. “Did you do it when you were little?”

I decided to fictionalize my childhood. “No, but I had a friend who did.”

“What happened?” A small line appeared between his eyebrows. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. She’s a. . . .” I thought through the friends of my youth and came up empty-handed. Back to fiction. “A police officer.”

“What’s her name?”

The short story was becoming a novella. “Sharon.”

“Here? In Rynwood? Has she found out who killed Mrs. Mephisto yet?”

The garage door opened six inches. “We’re going to be
late
,” Jenna wailed.

“Get your coat, Oliver,” I said. “We’ll talk about this tonight.”

I backed down the driveway, thinking hard. Oliver hadn’t wet the bed in months. Jenna hadn’t had a shouting sulk like that in . . . well, ever. To have the two incidents occur simultaneously made me think there was a single cause. And there was only one way to fix it.

 

I dropped the kids off at school, made a short stop back home to toss Oliver’s pajamas and bedding into the wash and to put some vinegar on the mattress, then headed to the store and the privacy of my office. Any other time I might have been nervous dialing this particular phone number, but today my fingers didn’t quiver at all.

“Dane County Sheriff’s Department,” said a calm female. “How may I direct your call?”

“I’d like to speak to the officer in charge of the murder of Agnes Mephisto. She was killed in Rynwood two days ago.”

“The sheriff oversees all murder investigations, ma’am, but the deputy in charge of that case is Deputy Wheeler. I’ll transfer you now.”

There was a click, a hum, and then a ring and a half. “Deputy Sharon Wheeler.”

I gasped loud enough for her to hear.

“Hello? Ma’am? Are you all right?”

Her name was Sharon. What were the odds? My multidegreed brother could probably tell me, but then I’d have to feign interest in how he got the answer. “I’m fine. Just a . . . a little frog in my throat.”

“How can I help you?” The deputy sounded busy but helpful. I knew the tone well; I used it myself every Saturday afternoon I worked at the store.

“My name is Beth Kennedy,” I said, “from Rynwood. My children attend Tarver Elementary, the school where Agnes Mephisto was principal. I was just wondering if you’re close to finding her murderer.”

“The investigation is proceeding. The local media will be notified when we have solid information.”

“Do you have
anything
?” I asked. “My son and daughter aren’t sleeping well, and I’m worried about them. If I could tell them the police are close to finding the killer, I’m sure it would make a big difference.”

“I’m sorry about your kids,” Deputy Wheeler said. “We’re doing everything we can.”

“Thank you.” As if a seven-year-old would care about “everything we can.” I squinched my nose at the phone. “Gloria Kuri, Agnes’s sister, is sending me the key to the house. She wants me to clean out the refrigerator. I should have the key by Saturday. Will it be okay to get into the house?”

“The house is no longer a crime scene,” Deputy Wheeler said. “If you have lawful right, you may enter at any time.”

“What if I find something important? To finding the killer, I mean. Should I call?”

“At any time,” the deputy said, and I realized I must have sounded like an idiot. Crime-scene people had probably gone over the house with all sorts of fancy equipment. What was I going to find that they already hadn’t?

“Is there anything else, ma’am?”

Embarrassment heated my face. “Thanks for taking my call.”

“Not a problem. Hope those kids of yours are okay.”

I hung up, thinking that she was just busy, not unfeeling. She probably had children of her own and knew what it was like.

Still, it sounded to me as if this evening’s first chore would be to haul out the vinyl mattress pad.

F
riday night, Richard picked up the kids. While Jenna and Oliver were fastening their seat belts, I told my ex about the wish for a dog and the bed-wetting incident and their reaction to the death of their principal.

“But they hardly knew Agnes Mephisto.” He glanced at the car. “They can’t possibly be that upset.”

“They saw her every day at school. And it’s not as if she died from cancer or a car accident. She was murdered.”

“I think you’re overreacting.”

This was Richard’s standard response to anything he wished to avoid. It covered everything from worry about finding the perfect Christmas present to panic over blood gushing from a child’s nose.

“Could be.” I waved good-bye to the kids. “But if you have to buy a new mattress on Monday, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Saturday morning I was at Marina’s bright and early. I knocked and let myself in. The lady of the house sashayed into the kitchen wearing Capri pants and a fitted blouse with a scarf tied flat around her neck. Another scarf was tied around most of her hair, the ends of her light red mop sticking out the top and flopping around in all directions.

“You look as if you stepped out of a 1950s
Good Housekeeping
magazine,” I said.

“How perceptive of you, daahling.”

“Why the fifties?”

“Don’t you read the obituaries? That’s when Agnes was born.”

My own clothing was well-worn running shoes, jeans unfit to be worn in public, and an aged Northwestern sweatshirt. The purple had faded to a light plum, and half the letters had peeled off, proclaiming that I was now an alumna of NOR WE ERN. “One of us,” I said, “is dressed inappropriately. Wonder who it is?”

“Only time will tell.” Marina smiled grandly. “Shall we?”

I’d parked my car in Agnes’s driveway and walked to Marina’s house. Now we made the journey in reverse. Marina chattered about the Saturday activities of her husband and youngest son, Zach. I half listened to the hiking plans, but most of my attention was on the ranch house in front of us. Beige vinyl siding; brown shutters; juniper bushes in front; maple trees and a fence in back—so average it was hard to believe it actually existed.

We climbed the concrete steps to the front door. I took Gloria’s key from my purse, inserted it into the dead bolt, and stopped.

“What’s the matter?” Marina leaned close. “Is it stuck?”

I’d always wondered if I could sense where a murder had taken place. Was anything left behind? Maybe a piece of tormented soul would chill my blood. Maybe there’d be a silent cry of anguish that only certain ears could hear. Or maybe—

“Let me try.” Marina brushed my hand away and unlocked the door easily. “You must have been turning it the wrong way, silly.”

We stepped inside and into a dusky gloom. “Eww.” Marina blew out a breath. “Stinks in here.”

Marina marched to the nearest window, unlocked it, and pushed the frame high. “I don’t care if it is twenty degrees colder outside than in. This stink has got to go.” She circled the room, opening drapes and windows.

I flipped on the light, flooding the room with a wash of light, and stood transfixed.

Marina opened another window and brushed her hands. “There. Hey, what’s the matter?”

I stared at an amoebalike stain on the carpet. The stain and its accompanying smell were organic; a cloying odor that made the back of the throat feel as if it were coated with gunk. Agnes had died right there, leaving behind a spot made up of things I really didn’t want to think about.

“Oh, ick.” Marina wrinkled her nose. “That’s where this ranky stink is coming from. Why on earth didn’t Agnes clean it up?” Marina’s thoughts caught up with her words. “Oh,” she said, and sat down hard on the couch. We stared in silence at the spot where Agnes had breathed her last breath, where she’d left her last mark—literally.

I supposed I’d been in hospital rooms where people had died and I’d passed crosses on roadsides put up to mark the location of fatal traffic accidents, but those were different, somehow. This had been someone I’d known. The last beat of her heart had faded away on the very floor at my feet. I stared at a single marble bookend that sat on the coffee table; its mate was in the hands of the police.

“Well.” Marina rocked herself forward and to her feet. “This isn’t getting the eggs fried. You want I should clean this up?”

I gave her a grateful look. “You don’t mind?”

“Don’t be a goose.” She gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Now. Where do you think Agnes kept her vacuum cleaner?”

We went from living room to dining room to kitchen, both of us skirting the stain with as wide a berth as possible. Next to the garage door, we found a closet full of cleaning supplies.

“I’ll vacuum the . . . the living room,” Marina said. “And there’s some carpet spot cleaner. You clear out the fridge. We’ll be done with the nasty chores in a tick.” She trundled the upright vacuum cleaner across the linoleum and soon had it running at full volume, sucking up the last pieces of . . .

I rubbed my eyes. Sometimes a vivid imagination was a curse. I took a deep breath. We had three hours; I needed to get to the store by eleven. Standing here being creeped out from what had happened to Agnes wasn’t very productive. I rolled my shoulders to loosen the tension in my neck and got to work.

The closet was stocked with cleaning supplies, but there was something funny about it. I stood there, looking at the cans of powdered cleanser, the toilet bowl cleaner, and the furniture polish, trying to figure it out. Only when I saw the aging can of Glass Wax did I catch on. There was nothing new. Agnes didn’t stock anything in her closet that had been put on the market in the last thirty years. No plug-in air fresheners, no premoistened cleaning cloths, no dryer sheets.

Weird.

I found a box of garbage bags and pulled one off the roll, wondering what I’d find in the refrigerator. I tried and failed not to think about the B horror movies Marina had forced upon me. Eyes mostly shut, I opened the door.

A quart of milk, a carton of sour cream, a bag of lettuce, eggs, and assorted condiments. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. There was no reason for severed hands to be in Agnes’s refrigerator, but you never knew.

I dumped the liquids and near-liquids down the drain, ran the disposal, and was filling the garbage bag when Marina reappeared, pushing the vacuum cleaner ahead of her. “I sprayed the spot remover,” she said. “It needs to set for a while. Need some help?”

In my hands were jars of mayonnaise and pickle relish. “It seems a waste to throw away perfectly good food.” I looked at the jars, considering options.