Plotting at the PTA Read online

  His voice had an edge that cut at me as surely as if he’d been wielding a knife. I was not a hysterical female shrieking at the sight of blood. I did not see danger at every turn, and I did not routinely call the police when a car drove slowly down my street. I didn’t do any of that, and never had. So why was he acting as if my presence were an irritation and an annoyance?

  “Since I am a taxpaying member of the City of Rynwood,” I said, “it doesn’t seem like it should be too much of a burden for you to answer a few questions.” My words should have come out as a joke, but instead they came out sarcastic and ugly and I wanted to redo them as soon as they left my mouth.

  “Yes, you pay my salary,” Gus said. “So do four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine other people.”

  All the life went out of the room. Of all the things that I wanted—my children to be happy, my mom to stay in permanent good health, my Christmas cactus to bloom at Christmas—none of that came close to how much I wanted to leave Gus’s office.

  “Are you saying you won’t answer my questions?”

  Gus sighed again. “Amy Jacobson died of anaphylactic shock. A severe allergic reaction. She had multiple stings on her face, neck, and arms. Yes, she carried an EpiPen, but she must have panicked. The EpiPen was in her hand, but it hadn’t been used. It was an accident.”

  He spaced out his last words evenly, giving them the import of a commencement speech.

  “When did she die?” I asked.

  “Last Wednesday.”

  “No, what time of day.”

  His mouth tightened. I almost felt like crying. How could that offhand remark about a composer have done this to our friendship? What else had I done? Whatever it was, I hadn’t meant it. Whatever it was, I wanted to take it back. “Gus . . .”

  But he whipped his chair around, putting his back to me. “Amy Marie Jacobson was pronounced dead at”—he opened a filing cabinet drawer and ticked through some folders—“at seven thirty-five p.m. on Wednesday, April fourth. The EMTs were summoned to the scene by a neighbor who spotted Amy lying on the ground. They called 911 immediately.” He paused to turn a page. “Upon the EMTs’ arrival, the EMTs commenced revival procedures, to no effect.”

  Poor Amy, dying scared, frightened, and lonely.

  “The medical examiner’s office,” Gus droned on, “gave an estimated time of death between two and four p.m.”

  I closed my eyes. She’d been lying there for hours before Thurman had found her. All by herself, lying on the ground, useless EpiPen in hand, the day sliding past—

  My eyes snapped open. “Two and four p.m.?”

  “That is correct.”

  “What was the weather like that day?”

  “The . . . weather.” Gus didn’t make his sentence into a question, he made it a flat, uncaring statement.

  “Yes, the weather.” I inched forward in the chair. “Amy never went out in the sunshine. Said it made her break out into a rash. Maybe she was allergic to that, too, I don’t know, but she never would have gone out into bright sunlight voluntarily. Don’t you see? That means—”

  “It means nothing.” Gus slid the folder back into place and shoved at the drawer with the heel of his hand, slamming it shut. He swung back around and met my gaze. “All it means is she went outside during the afternoon. What an unusual occurrence,” he said sarcastically. “Someone going outside.”

  “But it was,” I said earnestly. “For Amy. She never went out.”

  Gus looked at me. “Never?”

  “Well.” I fiddled with the strap of my purse. Amy had talked about doctors’ appointments. And once she’d mentioned going out to buy birdseed. “Not very often, but I know Amy never went out in bright sunlight. If it was sunny and she went outside voluntarily, she’d have been wearing a hat and long-sleeved shirt and probably gloves. We need to know what she was wearing.”

  “We don’t need to do anything.” Gus stood. “What I need to do is get back to work. Don’t you have a store to run?”

  All sorts of sharp answers rushed into my head, ranging from “that’s none of your business” to “what on earth is wrong with you?” I waited for those knee-jerk responses to fade. “Then I can assume you’re not going to look into Amy’s death?”

  “Look into what?” His voice rose, swollen with impatience. “A woman walking outside on a spring day? A woman with a severe allergy dying from what she’s allergic to? Be realistic, Beth. I’m sorry Amy’s dead, but there’s no mystery here.”

  Former friend or no, I was not going to let Gus bully me into leaving before I was ready. “What if there is? What if Amy was . . . ?” I didn’t want to use the M word, didn’t want to bring the possibility that close to the surface.

  “If you find evidence of murder, by all means bring it to me.” He pushed at the outside corners of his eyes with his fingers, stretching his eyelids to thin taut lines. “But until then, I don’t see that we have much to discuss.” He sat back down and started shuffling papers.

  I stood, walked a few steps toward the door, hesitated, then turned back. “Gus, is there—”

  “Beth, I’m very busy.” He moved a folder from one side of his desk to the other. Picked up a pen, clicked it on, and started writing on a yellow sticky note. “If you come across any information call the department. Someone will follow up.”

  I almost heard it—the shutting of an imaginary door and the construction of an invisible yet impenetrable wall.

  So this was how men ended friendships. I’d never known.

  For a long time, I stood there, staring at the top of Gus’s close-cropped gray hair. I thought about not leaving until he acknowledged my presence again, until he let me talk to him, until he let me apologize. But he was stubborn, so we’d probably end up in our respective positions until I passed out from dehydration and hunger. Which would probably irritate him even more.

  “Good-bye, Gus,” I said softly, and walked out.

  Chapter 5

  That afternoon, I fluttered the stack of papers in my hand, trying to catch the attention of twenty-five grade school children. “Okay, kids, listen up!”

  Two youngsters focused their attention on me. The other twenty-three, including my son, continued to talk and giggle or look around wide-eyed at their surroundings. It was a large room, paneled in dark-stained wood. Hung on one wall were portraits of long-ago Sunny Rest board members. All men, complete with the requisite dark suits, crew cuts, and glasses so out of fashion they were almost in again.

  “Kids!” I got the attention of one more set of eyes, but that was it. I wet my lips, found the proper position of tongue against teeth, and gave an earsplitting whistle.

  The kids talking to friends whipped around to face me. The kids already facing me put their feet flat on the floor and their hands in their laps. Even the loyal carpooling moms chatting in the back of the room sat up straight.

  All fell silent.

  I smiled at everyone. “Thank you. That’s much better.” Whistling girls and crowing hens may always come to some bad ends, but I’d found the judicious use of a loud whistle a valuable tool. “In a few minutes, Mrs. Judy will be here to take everyone to meet their story partners. Are you ready?”

  Some kids shrugged, some nodded, some stared at me.

  So, not ready. Using my finely tuned Mom Senses, I deduced that they were scared. Reasonable—this was a big new thing. Clearly, I had to take away some of that fear if this project was going to get a good start.

  How, was the question. A nice rousing fight song would be excellent, but Tarver Elementary didn’t have a fight song. If I’d had a decent memory, I might have sung “Climb Ev’ry Mountain,” but the only song I could reliably recall from beginning to end was the theme to Gilligan’s Island, and that wasn’t exactly a song of inspiration.

  “Mrs. Kennedy?” Sydney, a girl with long dark blond hair, stuck up her hand. “What if, well, like, our story partner, um, falls asleep while we’re in there?”

  I smiled at
her, trying to ooze a contagious confidence. “You’ll have either a mother or a nurse’s aide with you. If your partner falls asleep, just ask in a quiet whisper what you should do.”

  Sydney squirmed in her seat. “Okay,” she said. “But what . . . ?” She hunched down in her chair. “What if . . . well, you know.”

  I had no idea what was bothering the girl. I glanced around at the other kids, and nearly all of them were wriggling as if every inch of their skin suddenly needed scratching. I looked at Oliver, but he was busy knocking his shoes together. What on earth . . .

  Then, suddenly, I understood.

  “None of your partners,” I said firmly, “is going to die any time soon.”

  Sydney, whose long hair had come out from behind her ears to cover her face, looked at me between the loose strands. “They won’t?”

  Suddenly all the children were giving me their full attention. Bingo! Three cheers for Beth, who was at last understanding the common fear uniting these kids.

  “No,” I said to the children in front of me. “Each of your partners is perfectly healthy.”

  Sydney’s intelligent face started taking on a questioning cast. She started raising her hand.

  “They need help, sometimes,” I added hurriedly. “After all, they’re at Sunny Rest for a reason.” As in, duh. “But none are in danger of dying any time soon.” Or so I fervently hoped.

  “That’s right.” The activities director, Judy Schultz, stood in the doorway, her stocky softball-player frame filling it nicely. She grinned at the kids. “No dying allowed for the next six months. It’s not on the schedule.”

  Sydney nodded seriously. “Thank you.”

  Problem number one solved. Onward and upward. I flapped the sheaf of papers. “Does everyone have their notebooks? Hold them up, please.” Twenty-four kids held up PTA-purchased spiral notebooks.

  Oliver sat on his hands and looked glum. Poor Oliver. The school had decided that story project students shouldn’t be any younger than nine. At eight, Oliver hadn’t made the cut, but he’d wanted to come along, “Just to watch,” he’d pleaded. I’d let him, but twenty minutes in, I was questioning my decision.

  I handed one paper, a list of questions to ask the residents, to each child. “Does everyone remember the name of their resident? Sienna?”

  “Um, Mrs. Parker, I think.”

  “That’s right. Sydney?”

  “Mrs. Burgoff.”

  I checked the names against my own list, ticking off each one. When I’d crossed off the last, I turned. “Mrs. Judy, are we ready?”

  “They’re rarin’ to go,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe how much the residents are looking forward to this.”

  Behind Mrs. Judy was a smiling column of nurse’s aides. Young and old, mostly female with a smattering of males, all were dressed in cheerfully colored scrubs. In less time than it takes to tell, each aide collared two children and trotted off with them to environs unseen, the PTA moms trailing behind.

  “Well, that’s that.” Mrs. Judy dusted off her clean hands. “Got anything else you want me to do?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Judy and I turned, for I wasn’t the one who’d answered. It was the diminutive Auntie May, aka May Werner, aka the terror of Rynwood, Wisconsin. At ninety-one years old her memory of every embarrassing incident in anyone else’s life was sharp and clear. Maybe she couldn’t always come up with the name of her latest whippersnapper of a doctor, but she could recall in great detail the lukewarm chicken dinner she’d been served at the Ladies Auxiliary luncheon in 1952.

  One of her favorite things in life was to catch people lying. The possibility of hearing Auntie May’s cackle of delight and ensuing “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” had kept falsehoods in the entire town to a minimum for decades.

  I didn’t want to think about what would happen to Rynwood when there wasn’t an Auntie May around, so instead I thought about her bright purple wheelchair. Every warm day, she convinced an aide to push her the two blocks downtown. After cookies at the Antique Mall, her favorite stop was, for better or for worse, the bookstore.

  “I need a kid to do a story,” Auntie May pronounced, thumping the arm of her wheelchair.

  Judy and I exchanged glances. Both of us had been pleased last month when Auntie May had opted out of the story program. “Don’t need no one to tell my story,” she’d snapped. “I can tell my own. Say, did I ever tell you about the time I caught little Mackie Vogel skinny-dipping?”

  I’d backed away, stammering excuses. The image of our staid and portly school superintendent swimming in the buff wasn’t one I wanted burned into my brain.

  “Kid.” Auntie May was pounding. “Story. What part don’t you two understand?”

  “May,” Mrs. Judy said, “the residents are already matched with students. We don’t have any children left.”

  “What about him?” Auntie May stabbed a gnarled finger in Oliver’s direction.

  “He’s here to keep me company,” I said. Oliver was doing his best to be invisible, but Auntie May was nothing if not persistent.

  “I need a kid,” she said, “and he’s a kid. Yours, isn’t he?” She skewered me with a look. “Thought so. What’s his name? Bring him over here.”

  Mrs. Judy angled herself between the wheelchair and Oliver. “Now, May—”

  “Kid,” Auntie May commanded. “Come here.”

  My son slid off his chair and slouched across the room. I tried to catch his eye—I wanted him to know that I wouldn’t let the old bat eat him—but he was too busy studying the floor to see my encouraging look.

  He reached the side of the purple wheelchair. Since I’d never seen Auntie May standing up, I had no idea how tall she was, but if her birdlike frame was any indication, she’d never reached five feet tall. My son was on the small side himself, and the top of his head was just above the top of hers. He looked slightly down into her eyes.

  “Hi,” he said. His voice shook only the slightest bit and I wanted to cheer his courage. “My name’s Oliver,” he said. “What’s yours?”

  And then he smiled.

  When Oliver gives out his real smile, it’s a thing of beauty. First, the ends of his mouth curl up, giving a hint of what’s in store. Then those ends move higher and higher, the curve of his mouth deepens, his lips part slightly, and, finally, his whole face shines with goodness and purity and light.

  Auntie May sucked in a breath over her loose dentures. “Well, well, well,” she said. “Bet you’re the apple of your momma’s eye.”

  Oliver watched her, his head tipped slightly to one side. “What’s your name?”

  “May Werner.” She held out her hand. “But you can call me Auntie May. Now, I need you to write out a story. Can you do that?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so? How old are you?”

  “Eight years and eleven months.”

  Auntie May chortled. “Still young enough for months to matter. Ha! Can you write a half decent sentence?” He nodded. “Then you’re my boy.” She slapped him on the shoulder and he rocked back on his heels.

  “But I don’t have a notebook,” he said, recovering his balance. “Or a pen. Or the questions.”

  “Patooties, that’s not a problem.” She glanced around. “Judy, Beth. Get this young man what he needs. There’s a story to be told.”

  “Last week you said you didn’t need your story written out,” Judy said. “What changed your mind?”

  “Who said we’re talking about my story?” Auntie May cackled and thumped Oliver on the shoulder again. “This gentleman’s going to be writing the biography of my friend Maude.” She twisted her head around and looked behind her.

  For the first time, I noticed that someone had come into the room behind Auntie May. Someone with apple cheeks and snow white hair. Someone with a lace-trimmed handkerchief tucked into the sleeve of her pink cardigan.

  “Now, May,” she said. “There’s no need to browbeat people. You can catch more
flies with honey than with vinegar, you know.”

  Auntie May made a snorting noise of disgust, but didn’t say anything; Maude smiled like a cherub might if it were a female octogenarian in a wheelchair, and Judy and I looked at each other and nodded. Maybe, just maybe, this would work out.

  * * *

  That night at dinner, there were two parallel conversations. In my left ear, I was hearing a minute-by-minute recap of Jenna’s first hockey lesson. In my right ear, I heard Oliver’s interpretation of his first visit with Maude Hoffman.

  “Mom, you wouldn’t believe how fast Coach Sweeney is. He has skates made just for him. Do you think if I got my own skates made I’d be able to go faster?”

  “Mom, Mrs. Hoffman was born in 1825. That’s really, really old, isn’t it?”

  I swallowed a bite of pork chop. “Jenna, you play goalie. You don’t need to skate like Coach Sweeney. And Oliver, Mrs. Hoffman was born in 1925, not 1825.”

  They blew past my motherly comments.

  “Yeah,” Jenna said, “but maybe really good skates would make me a better goalie.”

  “Being born in 1925 is still really old,” Oliver said. “I bet Mrs. Hoffman is one of the oldest people in the world!”

  I speared a piece of broccoli. Eddie Sweeney played in the National Hockey League for the Minnesota Wild, but he’d had a knee injury and hadn’t played since January. His NHL contract allowed him to give clinics, and the first Sweeney Youth Hockey Workshop was here in Rynwood.

  Jenna had been overjoyed that one of her heroes was coming to her town. “That means we’re special, right?” she’d asked. I didn’t tell my daughter that the determining factor for Sweeney’s decision was probably the cheap ice time at Rynwood’s Agnes Mephisto Memorial Ice Arena.

  Oliver was waiting for a response to his statement. “Not many people get to be as old as Mrs. Hoffman,” I said. “But there are people who are older. Auntie May, for one.”

  “She’s mean,” Jenna said.

  “Take one, please.” I held out the tray of fresh vegetables. “Why do you think she’s mean?”