Murder at the PTA (23 page)

“Mom?” Zach ran into the room. “We get to watch another movie, right?”

The chair thudded down, and Marina spread her arms wide. “Come here, my son, and let me bestow upon you the kiss of motherhood.”

He wrinkled his nose and looked like a young male version of his mother. “Aw, quit. I’m too old for that.” Marina’s arms drooped and her lower lip trembled, but Zach only rolled his eyes. “Stop that, too,” he said. “Hey, can we have popcorn during the second movie?”

Marina heaved a loud sigh. “Despite the scorn heaped on my head, I will indeed labor and sweat to bring you corn that is popped.”

“None of that air crap.”

“Young princeling, your wish is my command.”

“Cool.” He ran off, then turned and trotted backward. “Thanks, Mom! You’re okay, even if you do talk funny sometimes.”

“He’s getting so big,” Marina said softly. “A few more years and he’ll be gone, too.”

I was quiet, remembering that sunny September day when I’d taken Oliver to his first-grade classroom. Preschool and kindergarten hadn’t seemed real, somehow, filled with naptime and tambourines and construction paper. First grade was the beginning of Oliver’s true education, and the real start of his growing away from me.

“Well.” Marina pushed herself to her feet. “That’s what motherhood is all about. Love ’em and leave ’em go. Want some popcorn?”

“Sure.” The reason I even owned a stove-top cooker was because I’d tasted Marina’s popcorn. That microwaved gunk hadn’t come into our house for years.

With metallic screeches, she slid aside the cast-iron pan that lived permanently on the range and took the popcorn cooker out of a cabinet. “I’ll make a second batch for us. Garlic, cheese, and just a touch of chili powder.” With her head in the refrigerator, she asked, “You’re not planning on kissing anyone later on tonight, are you?”

My thoughts immediately went to Evan, and my cheeks flamed. “No-o,” I stammered. Rats. There were one or two things I wanted to keep to myself, and Marina would be all over that stutter faster than a first-time mother on a dropped pacifier.

Wildly, I looked around for a subject changer. Marina’s laptop computer sat at the end of the counter, booted up and ready for service. I sidled toward it as Marina came out of the fridge, butter in hand and eyebrows raised. “Hey.” I angled the screen toward her. “You have mail.”

She squinted at the screen. “My reading glasses are AWOL. What’s the subject line say?”

“There are three of them.”

“Read on, my dear.” She sliced off a chunk of butter and put it in a glass measuring cup. “Now that you’re party to my bloggership, there is nothing about me you do not know.”

Without even meaning to, she was making me feel guilty. “Um, the first one is from Lands’ End. A shipment is on its way.”

“New jeans for Zach, winter coat for the DH.”

“Where is he, anyway?”

“The DH,” she said, “is at this moment traversing the state with three other like-minded men. Tomorrow’s plans include setting up a grill in a parking lot at eight in the morning, cooking, and eating vast amounts of fatty foods, then sitting on cold concrete for a minimum of three hours watching young men run, throw an inflated leather object, and collide against one another with sickening thuds.”

“Ah.” I looked back at the screen. “E-mail number two is an advertisement from the Hawaii Visitors and Convention Bureau. How many years have you been trying to get your DH to take you there?”

She counted on her fingers, ran through all the digits, and started over on the right hand.“Too many. Something always seems to come up. New car, college tuition, new roof, college room and board, new carpet, college textbooks, new furnace, college fees, et cetera, et cetera.”

College. I hadn’t put a dime into the kids’ college funds since the divorce. One of these days I’d have to talk to Richard about it—after school let out for the summer, maybe.

“E-mail number three,” I said, “is from a gobbledygook e-mail address of letters and numbers. Why do people do that?”

“What’s the address?” Marina asked hoarsely.

“Are you getting a cold?” I put my finger on the screen—bad Beth!—to help me read along. “It’s 1t94z4a at rynwood dot com. Is that anyone you know? Marina?”

I turned around. Marina was standing statue still, staring out the window. But since it was dark outside, there wasn’t anything to see except her reflection. Her mouth opened, then closed without a sound coming out.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Read it,” she said dully. “Then delete it.”

“But—”

“Just do it!”

A loud
pop
echoed across the kitchen; we both jumped. There was another
pop
and another, and then a flurry of popcorn burst into full flower. Marina started cranking the wooden knob. “Are you going to read it or what?”

I read it, then desperately wished I hadn’t. Once, twice, three times, I tried to speak, but nothing came out. Repeating the words on that screen wasn’t possible. If I spoke them, they might come true.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Marina said. “It can’t be that bad.” With a heaping popcorn bowl in hand, she gave me a friendly hip check and pushed me aside. She leaned close to the screen, squinting, and started to read aloud, but fell silent. Her hands began to tremble.

I watched the tremors grow from a one on the Richter scale to a seven. The popcorn bowl plunged to the vinyl floor with a loud whack, and hot buttered popcorn went everywhere.

“He says—”

“Yes.” I put my hands on her shoulders.

“He says he’s going to—”

“Don’t,” I whispered, and put my arms around her waist. Whoever had sent that e-mail had a vivid and bloody imagination. “Just don’t.”

She gripped my hands hard enough to hurt. “Beth, what are we going to do?” Panic pushed her voice high. “What am I going to do?”

“Shhh.” I put my forehead against the back of her neck. Her whole body was shivering, but after reading the new threat, I didn’t blame her a bit. “Shhh,” I whispered. “It’ll be all right.”

“How can you say that?” The panic was rising, threatening to take her off in its dark, dirty claws. “How can you know?”

I gave her the firmest, sturdiest, most reassuring hug possible. “Because I have a plan.”

A thundering herd pounded up the hallway. When it reached the kitchen, it resolved down to three preadolescents. “Something fell!” “Did you drop the popcorn?”

Marina and I were already back in Mom Mode. Pleasant faces, no sign of fear or anxiety. Happy, happy, happy. “Just a mere slip of the elbow, dear young ones,” Marina said. “Demonstrating once again that anyone can make mistakes,
tu comprends
?”

“She’s talking French again,” Zach said to my children. “I hate it when she does that.”

Oliver looked at the scattered mess. “Does this mean we’re not getting popcorn?”

“Fear not, young friend.” Marina handed me a broom and dustpan. “If yon minion will complete the tidying, the master chef will commence replacement.”

Oliver turned to Zach and whispered, “What did she say?”

“That she’ll make some more,” Zach said.

Jenna headed back to the family room. “C’mon, we’re missing the movie.”

I got the wastebasket out from under the sink and started dumping popcorn into it. “This part of the floor needs a wash.”

Her head was in the fridge. “Don’t bother. I’ll get it later.”

I turned the laptop my way and hit a few keystrokes. “Later the kids will have tracked butter all over the house. It’ll only take a minute to mop up.”

“You’re the best friend in the whole wide world.” Marina shut the refrigerator door and looked at what was in her hand. “Why am I holding this?”

I was willing to bet it wasn’t because she wanted to add oyster sauce to the popcorn. “It was in front of the butter.” Which wouldn’t have made any sense whatsoever in most households, but Marina ran hers with a special brand of logic. “You wanted butter,” I reminded her gently. “For more popcorn.”

“Did you delete that e-mail?” she asked the oyster sauce.

“From the in-box and from the deleted folder.”

She tightened the lid on the jar. “Do you really have a plan?”

What she wanted to know was if I had a way to end the e-mails. If I could help her find a way out of the fear. If I could make it all go away and never come back. For the very first time in our friendship, I needed to be the mother figure.

“Fear not, young maiden.” I headed for the laundry room and a mop and bucket. “Salvation is at hand.”

As I’d hoped, she snorted out a laugh. I went into the laundry room and made rattling noises until I heard the fridge door open again. Softly, slowly, I went one room farther, into the study. Marina’s DH used a wireless server to give all the computers in the house printer access. I tiptoed in and collected the e-mail I’d printed. It was just as frightening when read the second time. I folded the sheet of paper and slid it into my pants pocket.

“Did you find it?” Marina called.

I slipped out of the study and went to find a mop.

T
he next morning I woke to a whispered darkness. “Mom?” came a hushed voice. “Are you awake yet?”

I rolled over, eliciting a protest from the cat. “I am now.”

“Good.” Oliver turned on the overhead light, blasting the room with too many lumens. Before my eyes un-squinched, he’d jumped onto the bed and settled down as he had so many other mornings; his back against the footboard, feet out straight, a stuffed animal on his lap. Today’s animal choice was a large dog of an unlikely shade of navy blue.

“When are we going?” Oliver wiggled his feet. “I’m not hungry. Can we skip breakfast?”

“No,” I said automatically. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” My brain, fuzzy with too little sleep, tried to remember what today’s big event might be. It was the store’s Halloween party, but that wasn’t until afternoon. I rubbed my eyes. Focusing was difficult because I’d stayed up late trying to figure out who’d sent that e-mail to Marina.

When we’d come home last night, I’d called Sara, my part-time helper, on her cell phone. “What’s up, Mrs. Kennedy?”

“Sorry to call so late, Sara.” Since it was past ten, I’d debated about calling at all.

“Late?” She laughed. “We’re getting ready to go to a party. Want to come?”

Ah, youth. I didn’t miss it. “Then I won’t keep you long. A while back, you said there are ways you can find out who sent an e-mail.”

“Sure. It’s really easy sometimes.” Sara’s minor had something to do with computers. More than once she’d tried to explain, but my eyes always got glassy somewhere in her second sentence.

“Great. Can you tell me how to do it?”

“Oh. Wow. Well . . .”

Clearly it wasn’t
that
easy. “Never mind. I’ll just—”

“No, hang on a sec.” Her voice went far away. “Kayla, where’d my laptop go? No, it’s not on the couch. . . . There it is.” She came back. “Mrs. Kennedy? Hang on.” She tapped at the keyboard. “Got a pencil? Here’s a Web site that’ll walk you through the basic steps.” She told me the URL. “If you have troubles, bring the e-mail to the store and I’ll help you out, okay?”

I’d thanked her and hung up. I wanted to take the e-mail to Gus, but Marina had threatened her own unique brand of terror if I did any such thing. The best remaining choice was to try and figure out on my own who sent it. In the wee hours of the morning, I determined that the sender’s IP address was a string of meaningless numbers and that the sender had a computer name of dh4cln.

Well, yee-hah.

The victory was hollow at best, and I’d trudged up the stairs, trying to beat down the feeling that I’d failed Marina.

Now, Oliver was banging his feet against the mattress, jouncing my bladder a little past comfort. “All I want is cereal.” He held the stuffed animal at arm’s length and flew him left and right. “You’re going to get a brother, Big Nose!” He pulled the dog to his chest, hugging it tight.

Right. Today was Dog Day.

Jenna came into the room. Dressed in her favorite weekend jeans and a Door County sweatshirt, she was ready for action. “I can’t believe you’re not out of bed yet. We’ve been up for
hours
. All the good dogs will be gone if you don’t hurry.”

I pulled the covers over my head and gave them the cue. “Can’t. I’m stuck.”

Jenna giggled. “I’ll help unstuck you.”

“Me, too!” Oliver shouted. The kids launched themselves at me. The next few minutes were a glorious riot of tussling and tugging and hugging and laughter and, even if they didn’t know it, an outpouring of love. For, oh, how I loved my children.

 

Three hours later, the love was wearing thin.

Hands on hips, I stood in the animal shelter’s dog wing, looking around at dozens of caged canines. “I can’t believe you two have rejected all of these dogs.”

“It’s not me.” Jenna stood with her hands on her own hips. “It’s him.” She pointed at the only full sibling she’d ever have. “Every dog I like, he hates.”

Oliver’s lower lip was pushed out as far as it could go. “Every dog I like,
she
hates.”

“That’s because you only like dumb ones.”

“I do not.”

“Do, too!”

“Kids,” I warned. After one final round of do-not-do-too, they subsided. I looked at the ceiling, hoping to find divine guidance, but saw only white acoustical tile. In after-school specials this would have been a happy family outing.

“Since you two can’t agree,” I said, “I’ll pick the dog.”

The attendant smiled weakly. “That’s a wonderful idea.” She gestured at the plethora of doggy life. “We were fortunate enough to get a very generous donation from an anonymous donor a few years ago, and not only did we have the money to build this new facility, but now we have the staff for training.”