Plotting at the PTA (4 page)

“Hey.” Marina knocked on the table in front of me. “Earth to Beth. Did you hear anything I said?”

“What?” I blinked. “Of course I didn’t. What makes you think I did?”

“Well, you agreed to bake twelve dozen cookies for Saturday’s bake sale.”

“I did not.”

“Okay, you didn’t,” Marina said cheerfully. “Now finish putting away your stuff so I can get you alone. If I don’t find out what Claudia did to give you that shell-shocked look, I won’t get a wink of sleep.”

“The last time you didn’t sleep was the night you gave birth to Zach.”

“Yeah, and eleven years later I still haven’t recovered.”

We waited until the room was empty, then walked out together into the mild spring evening. Marina made shocked and angry noises when I told her about Claudia’s campaign to take over the PTA. “We must retaliate!” she shouted, thrusting a fist into air.

Even as I listened to her plans involving protest marches with linked arms, part of me was thinking about Amy. Hearing Claudia and her crew gossip had made me want to stand up and defend Amy at top volume. Only one thing had stopped me—the tight-turtleneck idea that maybe they were right. Maybe Amy
had
wanted to be lonely.

But . . . why?

Marina rambled on and I let my mind wander, coming up with ideas, discarding them, thinking about Amy’s death, circling around and around like a bird in the sky. “Oh.” I came to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

“What?” Marina stopped, too. “You don’t like the idea of using tear gas to break up the inevitable riot?”

“No, I was just wondering . . .”

She rested both hands on her left hip and looked at me through lowered eyelids, a sign that she was going into Southern belle mode. “Mah deah, you must tell me the truth. Have you been listening to me at all?”

“About Amy,” I said. “Do you know when she died?”

“Last week.”

“No, the time of day.”

“No ideah,” she said, still in drawl. “And if Ah could make a comment, your interest in dead people is becoming dangerously close to an obsession. Have you considered getting some help?”

I looked at her.

She held up her hands. “Okay, okay,” she said, back in Midwest-speak. “I might have gotten you involved that first time. And I helped out some last time. But now there’s nothing to get involved
in
.
It was a horrible accident, but that’s all it was.”

Though her consoling tone was probably meant to be comforting, I found no comfort in what she said. “The way Amy died seems a little . . . off, that’s all.” While I didn’t know Amy all that well, I did know that she rarely went outside during the day, and was even less likely to go out in the afternoon, when the sun was strongest.

Marina threaded her arm through mine and started us walking again. I’d parked at her house and we’d walked the three blocks to the school. The proximity made her an ideal candidate for day care. Two toddlers stayed with her all day, and three grade school students—Jenna, Oliver, and another little boy—walked there after school.

“Seems a little off? Off your rocker, more like,” Marina said comfortably. “It’s your overdeveloped sense of justice getting too big for its britches again. I can almost smell it. You can’t stand the idea of a simple accident, can you? You want there to be a reason, and you want to find out what it is.”

She was right, but why did she have to make it sound as if I was too innocent to be let out alone at night? “I just have some questions. What’s wrong with that?”

“Ooo, Miss Defensive.” She patted my arm. “It’s perfectly fine. I don’t want you to be disappointed when there aren’t any answers, is all. Sometimes an accident is just an accident.”

I knew that. Of course I knew that. But if Claudia and her ilk were right about Amy having no social life, I may have been the closest thing she’d had to a friend.

Which meant I was the only one who knew that Amy may have been murdered.

Chapter 4

A
t the store the next morning I shoved aside a stack of returns, ignored e-mail, and focused my math-challenged self on balancing the March accounts. A hideously long time later, I squinted at the computer screen, rubbed my face, and looked at the computer one more time. “Huh,” I said out loud. “Would you look at that?”

“At what?” Lois poked her head into my office.

Her outfit today included what looked like a vintage fifties shirtwaist dress. The small floral print and simple collar brought to mind black-and-white television shows that I’d been twenty years too young to see in prime time. I was willing to bet, however, that no TV homemaker had accessorized her dress with a red scarf wrapped twice around her neck and bright green plastic clogs.

I eyed the day’s color combinations. When I first started working with Lois I suspected that she was color impaired in some way. Not true. At least not the way you might think. Lois positively enjoyed the clashing of colors. “That’ll wake ’em up,” she said with satisfaction the day she paired a maroon jacket and blue shirt with a leopard print skirt.

She tapped on my office’s door frame. “Look at what?”

I flapped the bank statement at her. “We have money. The entire first quarter of the year—a notoriously difficult time for retail—this store actually made a profit.”

“One word.” Lois held up her index finger. “Yvonne.”

“Yup.” I tossed the statement aside. Last fall I’d fired a long-term but ineffective employee and hired Yvonne. She had a stunning knowledge of children’s picture books and the magical ability to match the right book to the right customer. A native Californian, she’d survived her first Wisconsin winter with fewer complaints than most homegrown Midwesterners and said she wanted to learn how to skate. I hoped she’d never leave. “Yvonne hand sells picture books almost as fast as I can order them.”

“She keeps on doing that and we won’t have anything for the summer sale.”

“Now, wouldn’t that be a tragedy.” I stood up and reached for my jacket. “A profitable first quarter calls for a celebration, don’t you think?”

Lois, always perky, perked up a bit more. “I hear Alice has a new coconut chocolate chip recipe.”

Alice’s husband, Alan, ran the Rynwood Antique Mall while Alice baked what the
Wisconsin
State Journal
called “the best cookies in the world.” So far, no one had disputed the claim.

“Then coconut chocolate chip it is.” I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out my purse. “There’s another stop I have to make, but it shouldn’t take long.”

Lois clutched at her stomach. “But I’m hungry now!”

I skirted around her agony and headed to the front door. “You can distract yourself by dusting the light fixtures.”

“Old women like me shouldn’t be up on ladders,” she called.

“If you’re that old, maybe you should stop playing basketball.”

“What, just when I’m getting good?”

I ignored her and headed out into the morning. The bright sun stung my eyes and the world turned white while my pupils did their best to adjust. I could almost see where I was going. Kind of. In a few more steps I’d be fine. . . .

A pair of man’s hands saved me from walking straight into a light post. “Hey, sweetheart, watch yourself.”

Sweetheart? But even before I finished stiffening at a stranger’s touch, I recognized the voice and relaxed. “Evan. How are you this morning?”

My vision cleared and I saw tall, handsome, charming Evan Garrett smiling down at me. His dark blond hair, going gray at the temples, curled down to his collar. I reached out to give one lock a friendly tug. “Headed for the barbershop? Seems as if you said on the phone the other night that you had an appointment.”

“Yes, ma’am. You?”

“Antique Mall.”

“What kind of cookies are you after?”

I put up my chin—way up—to look at him. My average height didn’t pair well with Evan’s generous vertical distribution. “Why are you assuming I’m after cookies? I’ll have you know that I’m considering the purchase of . . . of a Hoosier cabinet for a display case.”

He chuckled and we fell into step. “You’re still a horrible liar.”

It was an accurate statement, but I felt vaguely insulted. As in, surely by your age you should be able to eke out a half-decent lie. As in, what’s wrong with you that you can’t manage a little equivocation?

We stopped outside the Antique Mall. Evan took my hands and they disappeared inside his. “I’m looking forward to this weekend,” he said.

This weekend . . . this weekend . . .

“You can’t remember, can you?”

Luckily, he sounded amused. “Not completely,” I said. “We were going to . . . do something.” Richard had the kids this weekend, so Evan and I had made plans. Of some sort. To go somewhere. And do something. I just had no clue what it was. After a week at my mother’s with her constant dribble of suggestions of ways to improve my child-rearing skills, what I wanted was a weekend on the couch with a book, a constantly full bowl of popcorn, and a purring cat.

“Silly Beth.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead. “I have tickets for the last Minnesota Wild hockey game of the season.”

Then again, the couch would be there when we got back from the game. “Can I wear my jersey?”

He kissed me lightly on the lips. “You can wear whatever you’d like, my hockey-loving friend.” He opened the door and I gave him a sketchy wave as I walked into the store. Two steps inside, I stopped and looked over my shoulder.

There he went, the stunningly handsome Mr. Garrett, the object of many a female swoon, a member of a group I’d always labeled the Beautiful People. With his looks and money, he could have had his choice of women. I wasn’t the only one who wondered why he chose to date a slightly dumpy, mousy-haired bookstore owner and divorced mother of two. Marina said I should quit being so hard on myself and take a closer look at what Evan was seeing, but no matter how hard I looked in the mirror, all I saw was a slightly dumpy, mousy-haired bookstore owner with a warped sense of humor.

I watched Evan until he was out of sight. Then I bought a big bag of cookies and pushed open the glass door that sent me back into the fresh air. But instead of turning left and walking back to the bookstore, I turned right.

* * *

“Good morning.” A young man in uniform sat behind the front counter of the Rynwood Police Department. “Can I help you?”

Budget cuts a couple of years back had necessitated the reduction of the department’s staff. No longer did we have seven full-time law enforcement officers. No longer did we have a part-time receptionist. What we had were four full-time officers, all of whom took their turn at the front desk, answering phones and responding to complaints.

It had taken a period of adjustment, but the thick silver lining was how approachable all the officers were, and with that approachability, residents were growing more comfortable with confiding in the officers. The downside to the whole thing was the city council acting as if the improved rapport had been their plan all along.

Since I was a horrible judge of people’s ages, my guess of the new officer’s age as fourteen was probably wrong. “Is Chief Eiseley in?”

The youngster nodded. “He’s in his office. If you want, just go on back.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

I went down the short hall. Just before I reached his office door, I came to a slow stop as I tried to think what I was going to say.

Gus and I weren’t getting along. We’d had a significant difference of opinion on Sunday. Some might even call it an argument. I’d intended, but forgotten, to call Winnie and ask for advice about approaching her husband, and the idea of talking to Gus suddenly seemed like a bad one. Maybe he hadn’t heard me. Maybe I could silently reverse direction and—

“Hello? Come on in, whoever’s out there.” The wheels of his chair squeaked and I heard him stand up. “I won’t bite.”

I inched forward. The toe of my right shoe entered the doorway first, followed slowly by my right knee, then my right shoulder. Finally, I leaned around the door to look at Gus. “Good morning.”

“Oh. Hello.” Gus sat down. “Morning.”

The greeting came half a beat late. Yes, Gus was still angry at me. Without being asked, I sat in his guest chair, my purse and the white bag of cookies on my knees. With the heels of my hands, I pushed down on my legs and stopped the nervous bouncing for almost two full seconds.

“What do you need, Beth?” Gus asked. “I have a lot of work to do.”

Gus always had time to talk. He was the epitome of the friendly neighborhood policeman. He chucked the chins of babies and patted the heads of dogs, but to look at him now you’d think he didn’t have a sympathetic bone in his body. You’d think stopping to have a nice little talk with him was the worst idea you’d had in a long, long time.

“Well?” He folded his hands on his desk. Suddenly he looked a lot like my junior high principal.

Unfortunately, there was no graceful way to retreat. If I were a better liar, I’d come up with a story about seeing a shadowy figure skulking in the alley behind the store. Or say I was considering a children’s book festival in August and would someone from the police department be willing to spend an hour reading aloud?

“Beth—”

“It’s about Amy Jacobson,” I blurted out.

His gaze sharpened. I slid forward on the chair, readying myself for flight.

“What about her?” he asked.

“I was just . . . wondering.”

His shoulders rose and fell. Gus had actually sighed at me. My mouth hung open. Gus occasionally sighed, but not
at
someone. In all the years I’d known him, he’d never once shown impatience. Not with the preteens who’d pulled out all the daffodils on Main Street just for the fun of it, and not with elderly Mrs. Furbisher, who’d driven the front end of her Cadillac through the wall of the grocery store. Flossie, the equally elderly store owner, had volubly demonstrated extreme impatience, but Gus had radiated such a sense of calm and understanding that peace had quickly descended.

“Please don’t tell me,” Gus said, “that you think she was murdered.”

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?”