Mayhem, Murder and the PTA

by Dave Cravens

  “That’s not why you’re here,” challenged Mendez.

  “Of course, it is. I’m in charge of a major fundraiser. And I’m concerned that people aren’t going to give money to a school mired in a murder investigation.”

  “What murder investigation?” asked Mendez.

  Parker balked. “The one where the body ended up in the back of my car.”

  Mendez kneaded her hands together again on her desk. “There’s been no official explanation to the public as to how Heller died. The parent who was just here a minute ago didn’t even know Heller had died.”

  “She didn’t know a lot of things. Are you telling me, you’re going to pretend the murder didn’t happen?”

  “No, but I’m not going to shine a spotlight on the bullet in Heller’s forehead.” Mendez leaned back in her chair. “You’ve taken up a lot of my time, already, Ms. Monroe, so let’s cut to the chase.”

  “I told you—”

  “No, you fed me a line.” Mendez stood up from her desk. She stepped forward to meet Parker face to face. “I don’t like being fed lines. Why are you really here?”

  Parker stared Mendez up and down. Gone was any hint of the disheveled woman she’d happened upon mere moments ago. Mendez stood firm, projecting the confidence of an MMA fighter sizing up an opponent, forcing Parker to wonder for the first time – could she take Mendez if it came down to a fight? Despite her manicured nails and stiletto heels, Parker sensed there was a whole other side to Mendez that no one could guess. Former military? Undercover FBI? Former cop? Rugby player? Moonlight Roller Derby skater? Parker’s super mom strength and willingness to pull hair and play dirty suddenly felt inadequate. Still, Parker folded her arms, refusing to be intimated. “You seem to have me all figured out,” said Parker. “Why don’t you just tell me why I’m here?”

  Mendez didn’t hesitate. “You want to know if I had anything to do with Heller’s murder. I didn’t. You want to know if this school is still safe for your children. It isn’t. Not yet. You want to relive your glory days as an investigative journalist and help capture a killer to make up for an embarrassing end to an otherwise distinguished career. It won’t work.”

  Parker swallowed. Fuck you.

  Mendez continued. “But the main reason you are here, is doubt. Doubt that is eating away at the pit of your stomach. Doubt about a certain music teacher who used to work in these halls. Because, should you successfully re-install him, and then discover he had anything to do with Heller’s death? Then you will have screwed everything up and embarrassed yourself – again.”

  Parker clenched her fist. As much as Parker’s ego hated to admit it, Mendez’s assessment was nearly dead on. A little too dead on. “You sure don’t talk like an elementary school principal.”

  “You don’t talk like a PTA parent.” Mendez shot back. “So how did I do?”

  “You missed one thing. The most important thing.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I’m here, because I want to know if I can trust you.”

  Parker’s statement gave Mendez pause. “You can’t.”

  Parker shrugged. “Well then. That’s good to know.”

  Mendez softened her stance. “Have you spoken with Mr. Bernstein? I’m told he wasn’t present at Heller’s funeral either.”

  Parker’s eyes narrowed. You just reamed me. Now you’re trying to help? Confused, she decided to play along. “He’s not taking my calls, and I don’t know where he lives. I was hoping you could help me out with his address. That is, if you can trust me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then I really am wasting both our time.” Parker began to turn for the door when Mendez cleared her throat.

  “I can’t trust any parent,” explained Mendez. “Some parents talk too much. Some not enough. And yet, somehow, with as much as gossip that transpires in this town, often the most important things are left unsaid. I find that shameful. Wouldn’t you agree, Ms. Monroe?”

  Now, what the fuck did you mean by all that? Parker turned back to Mendez. “I feel like you’re trying to say something to me without actually saying it. If so, I would prefer you just--say it.”

  Mendez visibly rolled her eyes. “I said what I said.”

  “Great. Because I can’t tell if the important thing you said was eluding to how other important things are left unsaid, or if there is still something important that you haven’t said.”

  Mendez crossed the room to meet Parker at the doorway. “I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say now, Ms. Monroe. I’m not kicking you out of my office.” Mendez extended her arm to show Parker the exit.

  “You’re not?”

  “And I’m afraid I can’t help you with locating Mr. Bernstein’s address.” Mendez gently used two fingers to nudge Parker into the front office space. “Since he was a former employee, to do so would be a breach of confidence. That is why Oak Creek Elementary keeps all employee records safely locked away in our blue filing cabinet. Have a nice day.”

  Before Parker could even blink, Mendez had shut the office door between them.

  “What the fuck just happened?” Parker looked around herself. The Silver Fox was nowhere in sight. The front office was completely devoid of any signs of life. Parker finally blinked at the sight across the room. “I’ll be damned,” she muttered. Just ahead, stuck in the center of a series of black file cabinets, was a single blue one—with the keys hanging in the upper right corner lock.

  69.

  If Parker hesitated about whether to open the blue filing cabinet, it was only for a second.

  Not knowing how much time she had before the Silver Fox would return, or if some random teacher or parent might happen upon the front office, Parker crossed the room as if she belonged there, twisted the keys and dug into the alphabetically organized files. Her fingers and eyes worked diligently together, as if going into some investigative autopilot mode she hadn’t turned on for months, all the while a tiny little voice in the back of her head screamed at her--

  Are you kidding? Mendez might be setting you up!

  Parker ignored the warning as she thumbed into Bernstein’s file and yanked it. She set the folder down on the top of a smaller neighboring cabinet, flipped to the first page and snapped a picture with her phone.

  Mendez might be calling Fox over right now to catch you in the act!

  Parker snapped another picture. And another. Until all twelve pages of Bernstein’s file were captured. She closed the file and looked to Mendez’s door, which remained shut throughout the entire process.

  Or maybe she really is trying to help you in her own way?

  Parker scanned the room and the nearby hallways. No sign of Fox. All she could hear was the soft whirring of Fox’s desk computer. Parker squinted to see out the front glass doors. No one.

  You’re an idiot, Parker. But since you’re here—

  Parker’s heart raced as she pulled open the drawer to return Bernstein’s file. She poked around and found another name – Joe Ward, aka GI Joe the Gym Teacher. His file was significantly lighter, only a page and a half. Two snaps and it was stored in her phone. Parker stole another quick scan of her surroundings. She detected some bustling down the adjoining hallway.

  You’ve got maybe another sixty seconds?

  Parker snatched Principal Mendez’s file. Click-click! She claimed two more pages, returned the file and eyeballed a pull tab labeled Karen Heller.

  Do you need it? Can’t you just ask her husband about anything you don’t know?

  Out of the corner of her eye, Parker caught movement outside the front glass door.

  Shit.

  Parker took a deep breath. Normally people caught in the act of wrong doing reacted hastily or nervously. Luckily, Parker was well practiced in the art of “belonging somewhere.” She calmly folded Mendez’s file, replaced it in the cabinet and turned to find PTA President Holly strolling in. Parker smiled at her.

  “Ms. Monroe,” greeted Holly. “
I was just thinking about you!”

  Parker casually closed the cabinet door. “Hopefully nothing too awful.”

  Holly let out a small chuckle. She appeared unusually at ease with no tick to tug at her eye. “No, I wanted to tell you I thought your speech at the funeral was, well—brave. But you disappeared.”

  “I tend to smoke-bomb out of those kinds of things.” Parker’s eye caught movement down the adjoining hallway. She slowly moved away from the filing cabinet and toward Holly as the Silver Fox made her way back to the front office. Parker nodded. “But I appreciate that, thank you. I need to run to my next appointment, but don’t think I haven’t forgotten about Boo Fest!”

  Holly smiled nervously. “Yes, it’ll be here before we know it! I was hoping we could meet soon to go over some more of the details.”

  “Slippery When Wet,” Parker shot back as she circled Holly to position herself for the exit.

  Holly winced. “Excuse me?”

  “That’s the name of a Bon Jovi cover band I read about the other night. They’re going to be playing at a bar in town this Thursday. They could be the perfect entertainment for our Boo Fest fundraiser!”

  “Oh! Really? Bon Jovi? Aren’t they kind of – dated?”

  Holy shit, woman, don’t make me punch you in the throat! Parker forced a smile. “What? No! What’s say you, me and some of the other PTA’ers get together, check them out, and we can cram through some Boo Bash stuff over beers? Who knows, you might even have some fun?”

  Holly gently fanned herself as though she were experiencing some kind of hot flash. “Fun? My, yes, fun sounds like fun!”

  “That’s pretty much the meaning.”

  Holly giggled playfully. “Ha! Good one!”

  Parker pushed the glass door open, just as Silver Fox returned to her desk. “So, great! It’s a date. I’ll text you the details. Bye!”

  Parker disappeared out the door.

  70.

  “Call Mom,”

  Parker ordered to her phone as she raced her detestable minivan down the winding highway road. After a few rings, Valerie picked up. “Parker?” Her voice boomed throughout the minivan’s interior. “Where are you? We expected you back over an hour ago!”

  “I’m on my way to Bernstein’s place,” answered Parker as she adjusted the volume. The files she had snapped appeared too small to read comfortably on her phone, so she had decided to print them later, extracted Bernstein’s address and hit the road. “It’s a bit further south than what I was expecting.”

  “Bernstein? I thought he wasn’t answering your calls? Does he know you are coming?”

  “Nope.”

  “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

  “Probably not.” Especially since Mendez practically begged me to look into him with her whole ‘I’m going to say something but not really say it at all’ mysterious, mixed signals kind of way. The principal obviously suspected Bernstein of something. Unless she’s trying to throw me off her own trail. Regardless I need to proceed with caution. “I’m going to text you his address, so you’ll know where to find the body.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mom, I just want to talk with him.” And I’m only half-kidding about the body thing. “Can you pick up the kids from school if I run late?”

  “Of course! Just call me back as soon as you are done, okay?”

  “Deal.”

  Parker’s navigation kicked in as she ended her call. “In five hundred feet, turn left,” instructed the computer.

  Parker eased her minivan to a halt. She peered down the long dirt road that disappeared under a thick canopy of trees. Whatever is down there, it’s remote and secluded. Parker wondered if she should have given the Sheriff the heads up. No, he’d just try to talk me out of it. She drew in a deep breath and stepped on the accelerator. “Alright, Bernstein. What are you hiding down there?”

  The dirt road stretched on for about a half mile before opening up into large ranch style clearing fenced in with long wooden logs. The road ended at a dusty driveway set before a modest two-story wood paneled farm house. Two cars were parked on the sparsely grassed lawn--an older brown station wagon, and a newer Honda accord. To the right of the house was a horse stable and a barn connected by another fence. A massive oak tree stood tall in front of the house and dangled a tire on a rope of twine that swung back and forth due to the efforts of the young Hispanic boy playing on it.

  As Parker pulled up to the house, her eyes met with the boy’s, prompting him to dismount from the tire and sprint to the front door. The door opened, revealing a small Hispanic woman, probably close to Parker’s own age, dressed in blue jeans and a red t-shirt with her long black hair pulled back into a pony tail. The woman ushered the boy inside. She shut the door behind her and approached Parker’s van, while wiping her hands on the dish rag she carried.

  Parker was sure to smile and wave as she parked and exited her minivan. “Hello!” greeted Parker. She pulled out the bouquet of “Get Well” flowers she’d picked up on the way out of Oak Creek.

  The woman eyed Parker suspiciously. “Can I help you?” she asked with a thick, Mexican accent.

  “I’m hoping so. I’m looking for Mr. Bernstein. Does he live here?”

  The woman didn’t offer so much as a nod, instead tracing over every inch of Parker. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Parker Monroe. Mr. Bernstein teaches my daughter piano lessons. I know he’s been sick.” Parker raised up the flower bouquet. “So, I thought I’d stop by to see if he’s okay. Cheer him up.”

  “He very sick.”

  “So, he is still sick?” asked Parker, wondering how much of the English the woman had fully understood.

  “Very sick. No lessons.”

  Parker smiled. “No, I’m not here for lessons.” She flirted with the idea of speaking to the woman in Spanish but didn’t want to tip her hat on that just yet. “Is it okay if I see him?”

  The woman shook her head. “No, he too sick.”

  Parker noted the gold ring on the woman’s left hand as she continued to play with her dish towel. “Are you his wife? What’s your name?”

  “Imelda,” a soft and familiar voice called from the door, followed by a heavy cough.

  Parker turned to find Mr. Bernstein, wrapped in a bathrobe looking feeble as ever, standing in the doorway with a handkerchief pressed to his red nose.

  “My wife’s name is Imelda,” Bernstein continued in a weak voice. He turned to the woman and spoke his next phrase in perfect Spanish. “This is Senora Monroe. I teach her daughter piano. She’s the one trying to get my job back.”

  The statement finally lit a smile in Imelda’s face. “Oh,” she nodded approvingly to her husband.

  Bernstein coughed up something into his handkerchief. “What on Earth are you doing all the way out here?” he asked Parker.

  “I was worried about you,” she replied. And relieved to see you actually are sick. “I didn’t see you at the funeral. You haven’t returned my calls. What’s a girl supposed to think?”

  Bernstein coughed again, with much more effort than before. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been trying to beat—whatever this thing is.”

  Guilt?

  “We’re hosting Imelda’s extended family in a few weeks,” Bernstein continued. “It’s always a rather grand affair. There is so much to do. And then I heard about Karen. I’m afraid it’s all been a bit too much.” Bernstein stared at the ground, lost in a moment of what appeared to be genuine sadness.

  Imelda only stared quietly at her husband, as if unsure if she should touch or comfort him. Seeing the two of them together highlighted their age difference. Bernstein had to have been in his late fifties, at least fifteen years older than Imelda.

  “Yes, it was quite a shock for everyone,” added Parker.

  “I wish I—” Bernstein stopped himself. He wiped a tear away and looked up at Parker. “Do you want to come in? I’m going to need to rest soon, but
you’re welcome to have some lemonade before you go. I hate to have you come all the way out here and leave with nothing.”

  I don’t intend to. “Lemonade sounds wonderful.”

  Parker stepped into the farm house’s front room, modestly decorated with furniture styled as though it came from the 1970’s, save for the white grand piano in the corner. The baby Baldwin was covered with music books and sheets. Toy trucks, cars and action figures were scattered about the worn carpet floors, yet there was no sign of the boy she’d seen playing on the tire swing. Most curious of all, not one picture adorned any wall or shelf, nor any mirror of any size -- only a few small paintings of the southwest landscape.

  “I can’t believe you drove all the way out here,” exclaimed Bernstein as he settled into a chair. “How did you even find the place?”

  Parker pretended not to hear the question as she studied one of the paintings, a portrait of a Mexican cowboy on his horse, riding toward the sunset. “It’s no trouble, really,” she said. She bent down for a closer look at one of the action figures based off a popular super hero movie franchise. Parker recalled Bernstein saying he and his wife could never have children. “Who was the boy I saw outside?”

  “Oh, him?” Bernstein smiled with pride just as Imelda emerged from the kitchen with two glasses of lemonade. “That’s my nephew—Pedro.”

  71.

  Parker’s memory instantly flashed an image…

  of the elderly grandmother she’d met in the Sheriff’s office weeks ago on the first day of school. What was her name? “Cecilia,” Parker said out loud. “Would she be Pedro’s grandmother?”

  Bernstein’s lips curled into a confused smile. “Uh, yes, as a matter of fact. Do you know her?”

  Imelda emerged from the kitchen with a tray of three lemonade glasses, dripping with condensation.

  “I met Cecilia at the Sheriff’s office,” replied Parker.

  The statement froze Imelda in her steps. “Mama?” she asked with wide eyes, turning to her husband for clarification. “Sheriff?”