Plotting at the PTA (19 page)

“Huh.” She looked at me approvingly. “And here I thought you were being a pushover.”

I wasn’t about to tell her that it had been the beseeching look in the large brown eyes that had convinced me to open the deadbolt. The businesslike reason had come to me just in time.

Paoze poked his head around an endcap of middle grade books featuring the latest big new thing—mermaid vampires. “The water is now hot. Mrs. Kennedy, would you care for tea?”

“Hello? Am I invisible today?” Lois put her fists on her hips. “Don’t I get an offer?”

“Thanks, Paoze,” I said. “But I have some errands to run. That’s assuming you two can manage to work together without someone having to call law enforcement.”

“Hey, we’re the best of friends.” Lois stepped next to Paoze. She slung her arm around his shoulders and clunked her head against his. “Right, kid? Butch and Sundance. Holmes and Watson. Batman and Robin.”

“Robert Parker and Harry Longabaugh,” Paoze said, “were thieves. I do not wish to be associated with the Sundance Kid.”

“Fine,” Lois snapped, pulling her arm away. “You can be Bert and I’ll be Ernie.”

“I prefer to be Laurel,” Paoze said.

“Meaning I’m Hardy?” Lois’s voice went up. “Are you calling me fat?”

“You can be Eddie, if you wish.”

“Who’s Eddie?”

Paoze turned away from her and toward me. Dropped his eyelid—the one out of sight of Lois—in a slow wink. “Eddie is the partner of Vince.” He looked at her askance. “You have not heard of them? I thought everyone knows.”

She tipped her head to one side. “Those names are kind of familiar. Are they guys from some TV show?”

“It is very popular with young people,” he said. “Eddie is a woman, of course. Vince is her partner. Together they solve many crimes.”

Lois nodded. “Okay, I think I’ve heard of it. Takes place in California, doesn’t it?”

He let her have that one. “They are based in Los Angeles, yes, but they travel all over the world. The interesting thing about this partnership is that Vince is much younger than Edwina. Eddie.”

“Yeah? Sounds like a great show.”

“Vince and Eddie work for a shadowy organization of which we know little. When they are undercover many people think she’s his mother, which they use to their advantage. Older women are often underestimated, and mothers even more so, especially by men. They use this knowledge to entrap many criminals. In one episode, she pretends to be in the hospital on her deathbed while Vince finds proof that medications are being stolen by a group including a doctor, an administrator, and a janitor. In another episode, Vince pretends to be lost in the Florida Everglades, which enables Eddie to infiltrate a human trafficking ring.”

Lois kept nodding until he started talking about an episode that had Eddie and Vince hang gliding in North Dakota. He really should have known better.

“Wait a minute,” Lois said. “Hang gliding? In North Dakota? There’s no Eddie, is there? And there’s no Vince. You fooled me. You actually fooled me. I can’t believe it!”

Her howl of outrage was a thing of beauty. Paoze had, at last, suckered her.

I walked out, grinning broadly.

* * *

This time I barely heard the electronic “ding” as I walked into Faye’s Flowers. The shop, already crowded with plants and greeting cards and adorable ceramic objects that would be horrendous to dust, was so packed with people that my claustrophobia kicked into high gear.

I stood a moment, looking at the pine ceiling, breathing in the eucalyptus scent, willing my panic to ebb, and slowly realized that the mass of humanity in the shop was really only three women, that they were shopping together, and that they were on their way out the door, purchases in hand.

They passed me by, chatting as they went. “My sister is going to just fall in love with this frog.” “These soaps smell divine.” “We’ll have to remember to come back at Christmas.”

I waited until the door closed, then moved forward through the store.

Do not be distracted by that shelf of gardening books. Do not allow yourself more than a glance at the scented candles. Do not stop, do not even slow down at the greeting card rack.

I reached the counter without picking up a single item—victory!— but Faye was nowhere to be seen. The counter was cluttered with point of sale items ranging from pens with daisies popping out their tops to appointment calendars, I averted my gaze from a selection of miniature picture frames. “Hello? Faye?”

Her voice came from somewhere in the back. “Be right with you.”

While I waited, I kept my hands in my pockets and my eyes focused on the view out the window. Which wasn’t very inspiring since it looked directly on to the beige vinyl siding of the building next door, but being bored was distinctly better than being lured into purchasing things I didn’t need and couldn’t really afford.

Faye bustled in. “Sorry about the wait. How can I—oh.”

“Hi.” Smiling, I held out my hand. “Beth Kennedy. I was in the other day.”

“I remember.” She used the quick “I suppose shaking your hand is required, but I’d really rather not touch you” grip. “You were asking about Kelly Engel.”

“Yes. But—”

“So what is it today?” Faye put her hands on the counter and leaned forward. She was using all six feet of her height to intimidate, and the technique was working well. “A bouquet of carnations along with ferns, baby’s breath, and what I really thought about Kelly?”

I made an open-palmed gesture, inviting her opinion.

“That girl,” she said tightly, “was a hoity-toity little you-know-what who thought she was better than everybody else.”

Her venom rushed out and hit me with the force of anger held in too long.

“You should have seen how the town turned out for her funeral. All the tears and the sobbing and the wailing.” Faye rolled her eyes. “What a crock. Most of the people didn’t know her and most of the ones who did had been talking behind her back the week before.”

She stopped, and looked at her hands. She made fists, then released them.

“Talking about what?” I asked.

“Oh, all the horrible things girls talk about at that age.” She shook her head, leaving her high school years behind. “How she deserved being dumped by her boyfriend, how she didn’t deserve valedictorian, how she wasn’t that pretty, not really, and why couldn’t the boys see that?”

All very interesting, but not surprising. I remembered my high school years too well, sometimes. “I was wondering about the slumber party. Were you there?”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” She tossed her head back, exposing her slender neck, then brought her head forward so fast that her hair fell in front of her eyes. She shoved at it roughly. “How many times am I going to be asked about that stupid party? Yes, I was there. No, I never left. No, I never saw anyone else leave. Are you satisfied, Miss Nosey Pants?”

Nosey Pants? I briefly wondered if I’d missed a new children’s cartoon. Because thinking about cartoons was preferable by far to dealing with the emotions that were rolling over me with enough speed to pull me down. The ship is in danger, Cap’n! What should we do? Steady yourselves, men. This could be a rough ride.

Faye made shooing motions at me. “Now go away and tell Mrs. Engel that her daughter’s death was an accident. Axe. Ih. Dent.” She enunciated crisply and cleanly. “There’s no mystery to any of it, okay?” Her gaze skittered over the top of me.

“That wasn’t,” I said, “what I was wondering about. What I’m curious about is who else was at the slumber party.”

Her face went quiet for an instant, then started up again. “Who else? You want to know who else?” Her voice went loud. “What I want to know, is what business is it of yours?”

Large parts of me wanted to flee the scene, but a growing, glowing, and heretofore unknown portion of me was ready to face up to the famed Lowery anger. Let her rant and rave, I could take it. Let her smite me with her words, I would not fall back from the blow.

I stood tall. Which put the top of my head at least six inches below hers, but if I tipped my chin up I could look her full in the face without hurting my neck too badly.

“Maude Hoffman made it my business,” I said evenly. “Barb Engel made it my business. Why, after all this time, are you still so angry? Why do you still care so much?”

“Because you’re wasting my time!” She slapped the countertop, sending a slap of piercing sound straight into my ears. “And because you’re still here. Why are you still in my store? Get out!” She charged around the end of the counter, arms pumping, blond hair flying. “If I have to tell you one more time, I’m calling the cops.”

She stood in front of me and crossed her arms, an Amazon handing down a command. “I’ll give you until the count of three to get going.”

If she called the Rynwood Police Department and Gus came over, I’d probably get tossed in jail. If Officer Sean caught the call, I might get off with a disappointed look. Which was a hard thing to take from someone half my age. Either way, I’d be removed from the premises without getting any answers.

“Thank you for your assistance,” I said politely, and threaded my way through the retail maze to the front door, thinking furiously all the way.

Because there was one other thing I knew. It wasn’t a fact, but it was real enough, and it was learned thanks to years of motherhood, PTA meetings, bookstore ownership, and forty-one years of living among human beings.

Faye was lying.

* * *

When I walked into the bookstore, Lois looked at me and frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” I made a beeline for the back of the store, doing my best to send off “Leave me alone” signals.

“Don’t believe you.” Lois dogged my footsteps, followed me into my office, and shut the door behind us. “You’re white as the skin on my legs in April. What’s wrong? And don’t you dare tell me nothing.”

I sat in my chair. Stared at my computer. Saw a blank screen. Didn’t care.

“Um,” Lois said. “Beth, are you okay?”

Her soft voice of concern almost undid me. Maybe I could keep a stiff upper lip against anger, and maybe I could turn my cheek away from a personal attack, but how could I keep from responding to kindness? And if I reacted to her kindness, a reaction to Faye’s hatred would come right after, and I didn’t have time for that.

“I have an idea,” Lois said briskly. “Why don’t you go out for a walk? Clear your head of whatever fuzziness is in there. We need you to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and right now you’re dull-eyed, slack-jawed, and near to drooling.”

I swiped at my mouth with the back of my wrist. Dry. Whew.

“A walk will be perfect.” Lois tugged at my hand. “Go to that park you’re always talking about. Get some fresh air, and don’t come back until you’ve walked off those cookies.” She squinted. “Of course, since it’s already ten thirty, there probably aren’t enough hours in the day for that. But you could get a good start on one of them, yes?”

She shoved my purse at me and I clutched it to my chest. “Lois,” I said, then stopped. What could I say next? That a few harsh words from someone I barely knew were making my hands shake? Or worse than that; I’d almost drowned two nights ago and had been saved by a ghost I didn’t believe in?

“Go.” She gave me a gentle shove. “No coming back until you can put together a complete sentence.”

Since there was no possible way I could do that, I left.

* * *

Outside, the light breeze that had followed me to Faye’s and back had grown into a stiff wind. I’d been afraid of wind for years thanks to a legendary storm in my childhood, complete with hail and falling trees. Today, though, the gust that blew into my face was invigorating me. Intrepid Beth, going out for a walk in weather that would keep most people inside.

I drove home and ran into the house for a jacket. Spot looked up from his dog-hair-covered dog bed.

“Oh, bugger.” I’d promised Evan I’d take Spot with me whenever I went out alone.

It was broad daylight. What could possibly happen?

Most likely nothing.

But I’d promised.

If I took Spot, though, I’d have to bring him back home, and there was a To Do list at the store that needed some serious crossings-off. Taking even this much time away was an indulgence. If I had to bring Spot back, I’d get that much less done.

But I’d promised.

Muttering small annoying thoughts about men, I grabbed the leash from the hook in the laundry room. “Come on, boy. Let’s go for a walk.”

Ten minutes later, we were deep in the park. Dabs of light filtered down through the leaves, dappling Spot with spots of sunlight. “You’re the oddest looking leopard ever,” I told him.

His tongue hung half out of his mouth and he gave me a doggy grin. Clearly, he was agreeing with me.

“Yep,” I said. “For a leopard, you make a pretty good-looking dog. And for a—” A large wasp buzzed close to my face. I swatted it away. “Be a good wasp and go home, okay? I’m sure it’s not far and . . . oh.”

Half a dozen yards in front of me, in the middle of the trail, lay the scattered bits of a fallen wasp nest. Around the light gray papery chunks buzzed hundreds of homeless insects.

I stopped dead and pulled Spot close to my side. If we didn’t advance on their angry sorrow, we’d be fine. If we backed away from the complex remnants that had once been a community, we wouldn’t be targeted.

Slowly, oh so slowly, I edged backward, quickly learning that Spot didn’t like moving that way. He whined, and I looked sharp at the circling wasps. Did they hear? Could they? Hadn’t I read that insects didn’t really hear? Or was it that they heard differently? If they did, would they interpret Spot’s whine as a threat and zoom after us?

“Come on, boy.” I started to spin around, giving the wasps one last glance . . . and the world stopped.

I stood still, one thought and one thought only running around in my head.

Could it be?

Was it possible?

I stared at the nest, thinking, wanting to know the answer, yet not wanting to know. Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out.

“Let’s go, Spot.”

Chapter 16

T
he grass on Amy’s lawn was past knee high. If it didn’t get cut soon, the city would be sending a polite yet firm “mow your lawn soon or you’ll get fined” letter.

A fleeting thought to mow it myself wormed its silly way into my brain and I shook my head to send it back out again. No. Not my responsibility. Not even close.

Spot and I plunged into the green mass. We waded up the drive, around the side of the house, and into the backyard.

Here, where overgrown bushes shaded much of the grass, the lawn looked not so much abandoned as merely unkempt. Which was a good thing, because I needed to take a close look at . . . well, at all of it.

Spot and I stood in the middle of the yard. I turned all the way around, trying to remember if I’d ever heard the details. All I knew was that she’d been found here with an EpiPen and a can of bee killer.

Spot bumped his head up against me and I rested my palm on the soft fur over his eyes. “We’ll do a grid pattern,” I said. “Start over there”—I pointed to the right—“go to the opposite side of the yard, then come back across. If we don’t find anything, we’ll start there”—I nodded at the far back of the yard—“and work back and forth toward the house. See? That way we’ll cover everything at least twice.”

The dog seemed as interested in a leaf tumbling across the grass as in anything I’d said.

“You could at least pretend to listen,” I muttered.

We started in the lilac bushes next to Thurman and Lillian’s house. Their windows were shut and the shades down. I hoped Thurman was doing well and that they were off on an adventure somewhere.

I studied the ground. Leaves, twigs, dried-up pieces of flowers, and nothing else. The over-warm weather had pushed the lilacs to bloom early and their light scent was almost gone.

“We’ll start here,” I told Spot. “Ready, set, go.”

Every few steps I glanced up and re-aimed myself at the garage. Walking, head down, I saw grass, grass, more grass, then the fading white paint of the garage.

Sidestepping two feet, I called, “About face!” I spun in place, moving the leash from one hand to the other. “Forward march!”

Back across the yard we went, marching into the lilacs, looking hard, finding nothing, then back to the garage. Back and forth, going deeper into the dark, overgrown backyard, bushes closing in from all sides. Amy had died in here, it was right here that she’d gasped her last breath, right here. . . .

Suddenly, Spot’s warm and panting presence was a great comfort. I went down on my knees and hugged him tight, then pulled back and looked into his face. His big brown eyes gazed into mine, then he lunged at my cheek with his wet tongue. Smiling, I wiped my face and gave him another hug. “I love you, too.”

Then I stood up and started walking again.

Back and forth, back and forth, searching for something, searching for anything, finding nothing.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

It was on approximately the forty-second trek across the yard, which was about fifteen minutes into the sinking feeling that this was a complete waste of time and that I should have gone back to the store long ago, that I looked at the largest bush, a thick thorny mass whose branches grew low to the ground. “It’s going to be in there, isn’t it?”

Spot looked up at me and didn’t say anything.

“Of course it will be,” I said, sighing. If forty-one years of life on planet Earth had taught me anything, it was that answers weren’t usually found by seeking the easy way out. Which was too bad, really, because it sure would be nice, at least once in a while, to learn something without great pain and agony.

I put my arms over my head and plunged into the darkness.

Sharp scraping of skin, tuggings at hair and clothes, a sudden black panic thanks to a long-ago TV nature show about snakes living in trees, pushing branches back over my head, fighting through, on my knees, looking down, looking, looking . . . and there it was. What I’d hoped to find. What I’d wanted to find.

But now that I’d found the evidence, I realized that I hadn’t really wanted to find it at all.

* * *

The entire weekend I thought about what I’d seen. Throughout dinner with Evan, throughout the romantic happy-ending movie colored warm by a lush score, and throughout our hand-in-hand walk in the warm evening, I kept thinking about Amy. Amy and her killer. Because I now knew, without a single doubt, that she had been murdered. The question was, what did I do with the knowledge?

The obvious answer was to go to the police. But the local police were satisfied that Amy’s death had been accidental.

And who else could I talk to? I knew a deputy with the sheriff’s department, but she’d defer to local jurisdiction for something like this. “This happened in Rynwood?” she’d ask. “Then I’m sorry, but you need to talk with your own police department. Have a nice day and don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

“Beth?” Evan pushed back a strand of my hair. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Mmm.” No, I wasn’t. I was heartsick that Amy had been murdered, and conflicted about my next course of action. Talking to Sean would be easy, but it wouldn’t create the results Amy deserved. Talking to Gus would be harder than telling my daughter that she couldn’t go to the mall with her friends until she was older. Once upon a time he’d understood. Once upon a time he’d believed in my instincts. And listened.

“What do you say we head back home?” Evan asked, swinging my hand. “I have a nice bottle of wine just waiting to be uncorked.”

“Mmm.”

So all I had to do was get Gus to listen. Of course, the last time I saw Gus, he’d as good as thrown me out of his office and told me to never come back, not in a million years. Or words to that effect.

“A nice Malbec,” Evan said. “And I found a new brand of organic dark chocolate to try. How does that sound?”

“Um . . . nice.”

It would be appalling to face the man who used to be my friend. It would make my stomach hurt and tangle up my tongue so that my words would come out silly or stupid, or both.

So easy to let it go. So easy to disregard what I’d found. So easy to pretend that it didn’t matter.

But it did. Amy had mattered, and her death should be—even in my head I hesitated to say avenged; melodrama was more Marina’s style than mine—should be shown for what it was. Murder couldn’t be swept under the rug. If you tried, it would sit and fester and grow until it filled the room, the house, the whole world.

So I had to talk to Gus.

I had to try.

* * *

The next morning I prepared for church with a trepidation I hadn’t felt since I’d been selected to sing a solo in junior choir. With even a little bit of luck, my upcoming talk with Gus would turn out better than my singing had.

Choosing to talk to Gus at church was, of course, a seriously weenielike decision. I’d wait until after the service when he had coffee in his hand and his wife at his side. The social programming of generations would insist that he answer my questions politely. Perfect.

The plan should have cheered me, but it didn’t. The drive though the morning sunshine should have perked me up, but that didn’t help, either. And when Gus didn’t show up, my spirits drooped even further.

“No Gus?” I asked the choir director.

Kay shrugged and shook her head. “Scale of C please,” she said, and raised her arms.

Milling around in the lounge afterward, I tried to find anyone who knew anything about Gus’s whereabouts. “Nope, haven’t heard.” “Sorry.” “No, and I haven’t seen Winnie lately, either.”

It was true; I hadn’t seen either Gus or Winnie at church . . . well, since Gus and I had fallen out.

“What’s the matter, Beth?” The gentleman I’d asked was frowning. “Have you heard something about the Eiseleys?”

I hadn’t heard a thing. Didn’t know anything, didn’t want to know anything, especially if it had to do with me being the reason Gus and Winnie had left the church.

No. It couldn’t be. I was taking my tiff with Gus much too seriously. Families didn’t leave a church they’d attended for decades because of a minor argument with a fellow church member.

But they did. I’d seen it happen with wretched regularity.

I magicked a smile onto my face, reassuring the man with whom I was talking, but it wasn’t doing anything for me. Because now that I couldn’t talk to Gus at this congenial location, I’d have to do it tomorrow. On his turf.

* * *

Monday morning was so busy that it wasn’t until after lunch that I could take time to slip out. Usually I enjoyed walking through downtown, drinking in the sights and smells of Rynwood, waving at the ever present Cindy Irving and complimenting her on the lush landscaping. Today, however, the sun had heated the world past the point of happiness. August temperatures in May? Ick.

I gave Cindy a limp wave and walked in as much shade as I could find. Trees, awnings; I even slowed for a moment in the shadow of a parking meter. Even using all the precautionary measures I could find, my forehead was still damp with sweat when I opened the front door of the police department.

“Oh . . .” I’d expected to be immersed in a bath of air-conditioning, and what I was got instead was a stuffy and slightly warmer version of outside. My face, already hot, flushed a little hotter.

All the windows were open in an unfulfilled attempt to bring in a cross breeze. No wind, no air, nothing but stifling heat that wanted to knock me to my knees. How could anyone work like this? I peered over the edge of the counter. Maybe Sean had fainted and was lying on the floor, near death from heatstroke. Or would it be heat exhaustion? One was worse, but I could never remember which.

“Be right with you.” The voice was polite, male, and headed my way. It was also the voice of Gus.

I backed up, putting one hand behind me, looking for the door handle, finding it with my hip. I turned in preparation for a quick exit, but I wasn’t quick enough.

“Sorry about the broken air conditioner, and the wait.” Gus and his footsteps came into the room. “We’re short-staffed today and—oh. Hello, Beth.”

The top half of my body turned around, but the bottom half remained pointed in the outward direction. “Um, is Officer Zimmerman around?”

“No.”

That was too bad. I’d convinced myself that I could get Sean to listen to me. Now I had no choice. I hated when I didn’t have choices. Of course, I didn’t always like having choices, either, especially in the grocery store. Was I a horrible mother if I didn’t take the time to study the numerous brands of paper towel? Was I neglecting my children if I didn’t research the pros and cons of the newest variety of peanut butter? Grocery stores were full of temptation and guilt and wouldn’t it be nice if you could just order groceries online?

“Do you have a question?” Gus asked.

“Sean’s okay, isn’t he?” I glanced at the counter. I hadn’t seen him down on the floor, but maybe he was behind the desk where I couldn’t see him.

“Vacation. Do you have a question?” Gus asked again. The consonants came out clear and strong. “A real crime to report?”

I searched for something to say. Surely there was a topic the two of us could discuss that would establish some common ground. Get a firm base first, then move on to more troublesome topics. At least that’s what the management articles said.

“Didn’t see you in church yesterday,” I said. “We missed you and Winnie both. How is she these days? I haven’t seen her in weeks, it seems.”

“Winnie’s fine! Leave her out of this.”

I blinked. Gus rarely raised his voice, not even when doggedly running after miscreants and ne’er-do-wells. “Um, I’m glad Winnie’s doing okay.” And what a dumb thing to say that was.

Gus glared at me and I began to take a serious interest in my shoes. Which, now that I looked at them, were in dire need of polishing. It was rarely a good idea to look at your own shoes.

“Since you don’t seem to have anything to say,” Gus said, “I need to get back to work. Have a good—”

Then it all came blurting out. “I went back to Amy’s. I found something. Proof that she was murdered.”

“Amy Jacobson’s death was an accident.”

“How sure are you?” I edged forward, but still kept one hand on the doorknob. “Absolutely positively one hundred percent sure? Sure way deep down inside?”

Gus’s shoulders rose and fell. “What, exactly, did you see?”

He was using the patient voice. I’d hated that voice when my brother used it, hated when my former husband used it, and now I was hating it all over again.

“A broken wasp nest.”

Gus gave me a look. Not the one I’d been hoping for, the aha-that’s-the-missing-piece look, but more a what-is-she-talking-about expression accompanied by a side order of slipping tolerance.

“A wasp’s nest,” he said.

“And it was broken.” I waited for him to arrive at the inevitable conclusion, but he didn’t seem to go anywhere. “Don’t you see? Someone tossed that nest into Amy’s backyard with the intent of having the wasps sting Amy. This proves it was murder.”

Gus didn’t move. Didn’t blink, didn’t even breathe, as far as I could tell. “It proves nothing,” he said, “except that there’s a wasp nest in the yard, much like every other yard in town. Why are you so intent on murder?”

“Because she was so allergic to stings that she would have had any wasp, bee, or hornet’s nest removed as soon as it got started.”

“New or old nest?”

A question! He’d asked a question! Maybe he was listening to me, maybe he was taking this seriously. “I’m not exactly an expert on wasp nests.”

“Me, either. No one here is, if you can believe it.” Gus spread out his arms to include the entire building.

“Maybe you could call the university and talk to an entomologist. Get him to come take a look?” I felt around in my purse for my notebook and pulled it out. “I’ve been taking notes and—”

“This isn’t a TV show,” Gus said, his voice going loud. “And the answers aren’t always what we want them to be. It was an accident.”

“And why are you so insistent that it’s not murder?” My voice was getting loud, too. “Why can’t you see another point of view? Are you always so right that you can’t take a second look at your conclusions?”