Foul Play at the PTA bk-2

by Laura Alden

  Ruthie laughed again. “I don’t see you as the waitress type. Now, don’t take offense. Being a good waitress takes a special kind of person. You have to be willing to show people who you really are, and you’re not like that. You keep yourself to yourself. Nothing wrong with that. It’s just not going to get you good tips.”

  I’d never thought about it that way, and she was right. I’d never been comfortable engaging complete strangers in conversations that revealed too much. Marina said I was too uptight, that my upbringing was going to kill every chance of fun I was ever offered, but I liked Ruthie’s interpretation better.

  “So what’s up?” Ruthie asked.

  Frosting crumbled off the roll as I cut it into bits. “It’s about Sam Helmstetter.”

  “Oh, you’re playing the who-killed-Sam game, too?” She smiled, making the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen. “You and Marina? Hey, after last year you two have experience in this kind of thing. Have the police asked for your advice?”

  I peered at her over the rim of my tea mug, but she didn’t seem to be laughing at me. “No,” I said. “But Gus did say he’d pass anything along to the sheriff’s department.” I lifted up the end of my sentence so it sounded like a question. Meaning: Do you suspect anyone of anything? And if so, please tell me.

  “Haven’t heard diddley that makes any sense.” Her face sagged. “People are saying, ‘It’s a darn shame about Sam,’ and ‘The police should be doing something.’ Typical talk.” She shrugged, but sadness showed in the set of her chin. “He never hurt a soul in his life. He was an Eagle Scout, did you know? And he went on so many mission trips to Central America that he ended up minoring in Spanish.” Bewilderment colored her voice. “Why would anyone want to kill a man like that?”

  Ruthie had known Sam his entire life. Had watched him grow from infant to toddler to young man to husband to father. “He shouldn’t be dead.” I put down my fork and put my arms around her. “He really shouldn’t.”

  “I wish I did know who killed him,” she said roughly. “I’d—”

  “Shhhh,” I whispered. “Shhhh.”

  We clung together, held close by mutual grief for Sam: husband; a father of two; not a person to light the world on fire, but after the age of thirty-five, it would be a rare individual who had the spare energy to light more than his own little corner. No, Sam hadn’t been one of those dynamic, perk-up-the-room kind of guys, but he’d been someone you could count on, and really, what mattered more?

  “Sam’s killer won’t be free much longer,” Ruthie said. The quake in her voice belied the confident words. “The police are going to find out who did it.”

  I hugged her tight. “They sure are.”

  And if they didn’t, I would.

  I left the Green Tractor later than anticipated, my departure delayed by Ruthie’s refusal to accept payment for the food. The only reason she took any money whatsoever was because she accepted my suggestion to set up a coffee can collection for a scholarship.

  “I’ll decorate it with the Rynwood High School colors,” she said, brightening up a little. “Wouldn’t it be great if Blake ends up wearing blue and gold, too?”

  Traffic on the street was picking up now that lunchtime approached. I stopped just short of the hardware and stood on my tiptoes so I could see over the colorful display of bathroom sinks.

  “You could just walk in.”

  I jumped, then spun around and looked up—way up—at Evan. “What are you doing out here? Don’t you have a store to run?”

  He smiled down at me and I went all mushy. A year after we’d remet, it still happened every time the man smiled. Well, almost every time. I didn’t mush out when he laughed at my attempts to repair drywall.

  “My excuse is a visit to Debra O’Conner,” he said. “What’s yours?”

  Debra was the bank’s vice president in charge of business loans, and Evan, who’d retired at age forty from a very lucrative career as a corporate attorney, had more money than anyone I’d ever known. Which wasn’t saying a lot, because I’d spent my adult life in Rynwood and didn’t get out much. Still, I couldn’t imagine that Evan needed a loan for anything.

  Part of me wanted to ask why he needed to talk to Debra; another, larger part of me didn’t want to know. My own financial problems were keeping me from getting a decent night’s sleep. If Evan had troubles, I’d never get any rest at all.

  I smiled brightly. “Errands.”

  “Hmm.” He studied me. “If I were still a practicing attorney, I’d say you look guilty.”

  “It’s the light.” I glanced up at the clear November sky. “This time of year it always makes me look as if I’m up to something. Getting close to Christmas and all that, so don’t ask too many questions.”

  “Hmm,” he said again. “I’ll let you go, then.”

  “Okay.” I backed away. “See you later, okay? I mean, I’ll see you. Um, later.”

  I made my escape.

  Down the street and over one block, my favorite hairstylist snicked her scissors shut and dropped them into a jar of green liquid. “There you go, Mrs. Beuhrle,” Denise said. “Better than new.”

  Mrs. Beuhrle, who, no matter what she wore, reminded me of my great-aunt Edith’s sofa, patted her hair and smiled into the mirror. “You do such a nice job. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Promise me you’ll never retire.” She handed over a check, heaved herself out of the chair, and made her way out the door.

  Denise looked at the check left behind and made a sour face. “I’m not retiring any day soon on the tips that woman leaves behind.”

  I laughed. “All part of her plan.”

  “Huh.” Denise dropped the check into the cash register. “She’s just cheap. Do you know the difference between Mrs. Beuhrle and a canoe?”

  “No, I don’t.” I knew the difference between a Dutchman and a canoe, but maybe this was another joke.

  “A canoe can tip.” Denise slammed the cash drawer shut.

  Nope. Same joke.

  “Did you want to make an appointment?” Denise flipped through her book. “I don’t have any early slots until next week, but there’s an opening Saturday afternoon. Want an updo for the dance? Bring Jenna in and I’ll give her a French twist with ringlets. She’ll look like a princess.”

  I tried to imagine my tomboy sitting in a hair salon chair for an hour straight. Couldn’t manage it and tried again, this time with feeling. Still couldn’t.

  “Not this time,” I said. “Put me down for the Tuesday after Thanksgiving.”

  “Pencil or ink?”

  Oh, the commitment. “Ink.”

  “Okeydokey.” She turned the pages. “Did you hear the hot money is on the Stulls for the next divorce in town? Five bucks will get you into the pool. You get a one-week window.”

  “Um, no, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” She scribbled my name and looked up. “Say, are you and Marina poking around again?”

  Flossie was right—one incident could indeed make a reputation. “What makes you say that?”

  “Nothing. I just wondered if you were.” She busied herself with straightening a stack of business cards that had never been straightened in their lives.

  The hair at the back of my neck stood on end. Either Denise had something to tell me or I should have worn a heavier coat. “A little bit,” I said. “Gus said he’ll pass any information on to the sheriff’s department.”

  “He will?” Her face cleared. “So I can tell you and he’ll tell them? Sweet.” She beckoned me close.

  I leaned over the counter, close enough to smell the hair spray on Denise’s stiffened bangs.

  She slewed her eyes left and right, but no one in the salon was paying any attention to us. In the back, a fiftyish woman was sitting under a beehive hairdryer and reading True Confessions. The two stylists who worked for Denise were both busy with clients. One was highlighting a teenager’s hair and talking about the latest Lady Gaga news, while the other was conc
entrating on the curly, full-bodied style her straight-haired client had cut out of a magazine.

  Denise spoke into my ear. “You know how everybody says Sam is such a nice guy? I’m not so sure.”

  My stare contained total and complete incomprehension. “What do you mean?”

  She put her mouth an inch away from my ear. “I think he smoked grass. You know, marijuana?”

  “What?” Other words bubbled up in my throat—no, don’t be silly, how ridiculous, how can you say such a thing—but only the one came out. “What?”

  “Shhh.” Denise made quieting motions with flattened hands. “Don’t let anyone hear.”

  I nodded; the town might not rise up and lynch her for slandering Sam, but she’d have a hard time getting anyone to believe her.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  No, I didn’t. I started to frame a reply of sorts, but she went on without me.

  “No one will,” she said. “And if one more person says how nice a guy Sam was, I’m going to scream. No one is that nice. It just can’t happen.”

  “But until a little bit ago,” she said, pulling back a few inches from intimate revelations to whispered confidence, “I thought the same thing. That he’s just so nice. Isn’t it funny how your idea about someone can change with one sentence?”

  Back to the topic of the easily made—or lost—reputation. I wanted to ask what sentence it was, and by whom it was uttered, but I knew better than to interrupt Denise when she was in full spate. If I diverted the flow, it might never get back to its original path.

  “It’s funny,” I said agreeably.

  “Yeah.” Denise sighed. “And that’s why I don’t want to spread this around. Maybe I’m wrong about Sam. For the sake of the kids, I hope I am.” She shook her head. “If he was only using, that would have been bad enough. But what I heard makes me think he might have been selling, too.”

  “What?”

  “Shhh.” Denise made frantic shushing noises. “See why I want it hush-hush? If the rumor gets around, the guy could be scared off, and they’ll never solve the murder, see?”

  I wasn’t sure I followed, but Denise’s line of thinking was more along the line of Marina logic. Both had a habit of not letting facts interfere with their conclusions.

  “So you’ll tell Gus?” Denise asked.

  I got an image of the meeting. I’d walk into his office and tell him I’d heard that someone suspected Sam of selling and using drugs. He’d politely take notes and then, as soon as I’d left, laugh uncontrollably and toss the notes into the trash.

  “He’ll want evidence,” I said.

  “Evidence?” Her face flashed with indignation. “I have the best evidence of all. Sam’s very own—”

  A woman’s shriek rent the air. “Deniiiiise!” The front door banged shut. “You have to help me,” she wailed. “I can’t be seen in public like this, I just can’t!” Though the temperature was up into the midforties, the thirtyish woman wore a knit hat that covered her entire head. Its cheerful strings tied under her chin were a stark contrast to the anguish on the woman’s face.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” Denise hurried to her side. “Let me see, okay?” She sounded like an emergency room pediatrician. “Take that off and we’ll take a look.”

  Sobbing, the woman untied the strings and, with all of us watching, slowly pulled off the hat.

  A collective intake of breath drew all the oxygen out of the room, and I was sure we were all thinking the same thing: That poor woman. I’m so glad it isn’t me.

  Her hair was green. Not the bright green you got from the temporary color kids used to paint their hair school colors, and not the green that blondes get from spending too much time in the swimming pool, but a miserable mottled pea soup kind of green that was as unattractive as mold on the last piece of pumpkin pie.

  “Oh, honey.” Denise put her arm around the woman’s shoulders and steered her toward the back of the salon. “It’s bad, but I seen worse. We’ll make it better, don’t you worry.” She called back over her shoulder. “Jenn? Call my clients and let them know I have a hair emergency.”

  “Sure thing,” Jenn said. “Um, for how long? Midafternoon?”

  With a grim visage, Denise studied the green tresses. “Better make it the whole day.” To the woman she said, “C’mon, honey. Let me get you in a chair.”

  The salon was filled with head shakes and whispers. There was no way I’d be able to talk to Denise now. Whatever she had to tell me would have to wait. But I was just as glad. I did not want to hear anything bad about Sam. Not an ideal attitude for someone trying to find a killer, but then I never claimed to know what I was doing.

  When I returned to the store, a surprising sight greeted me: There were actual live customers browsing among the shelves. Not one, not two, but three people were picking up books and reading their contents. I counted them a second time and still came up with three, and all appeared to be shopping separately.

  One, two, three. I smiled contentedly. This would all work out. Some people in Rynwood might stay away from the store because they thought Yvonne was a threat to motherhood and apple pie, but most would be reasonable. And a large share of my customers came from environs beyond Rynwood. How many people in Madison would know—or care—who was on staff?

  With a heart much lighter than it had been two minutes earlier, I shed my coat and purse and waded into the fray. Lois had many superpowers, but even she could only be in one place at a time. Offhandedly, I made my way across the store, straightening books and realphabetizing as I went.

  I approached Customer Number One, a sixtyish woman who’d laden herself with picture books, graphic novels, and two puppets. A grandmother, I guessed, but after the time I’d asked a gray-haired customer how old her grandchildren were, and she’d snapped that her children were five and seven and that if I had the sense of a toad I’d be able to tell she wasn’t a day over forty-five, I’d taken to asking different questions.

  “Hi,” I said. “Could I take those up to the counter for you?”

  She gave me a grateful smile. “That would be wonderful. I’m not sure I want them all, though.”

  “That’s fine,” I assured her. “We’ll sort it out at the register.”

  Arms full, I headed to the counter. The phone rang, and one puppet tumbled to the floor as I tried to bring the goodies in for a landing and answer the phone at the same time.

  “Good morning, Children’s Bookshelf. How may I help you?”

  “Morning?” Marina asked. “What time zone are you in?”

  I glanced at the wall clock. “Pacific. I hear it’s nice in San Diego this time of year.”

  “The only time it isn’t nice in San Diego is during forest fire season.”

  I picked the fox puppet off the floor and slid it over my hand and made it bark silently. “When was the last time you were in San Diego?” Bark, bark, bark.

  “Thou must not underestimate mine travels,” she said airily.

  “The only place outside of the Midwest you’ve gone in the last three years is Boston, and that was to take your youngster to college.”

  “Mayhap,” she said. “However, travel is not only of the body, but also of the mind. Why let mere flesh keep you rooted in a single place?”

  I tried to think of a reply, but soon gave up. Some days I just couldn’t keep up with her. “Did you have something to tell me, or are you just going to be irritating?”

  Marina chuckled. “Gotcha. Are you keeping score this month, or am I?”

  If we actually kept score, the tally would be a sixfigure number on her side and a big round zero on mine. “Numbers are merely symbolic approximations of reality. I care not for them.”

  “Nice.” Faint applause noises came through the phone. “What I called to say is this.” She paused dramatically. “Are you ready? Brian Keller didn’t kill Sam.”

  As revelations go, this one wasn’t stunning. Roughly one hundred percent of the interested p
opulation had reached the same conclusion days ago. “Glad to hear it.”

  “I knew you would be,” she said. “Could I have a drumroll, please?”

  “No.”

  “Now, Beth,” she said patiently. “All good theories must be released with proper fanfare.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so. Drumroll, please.”

  Sighing, I pulled the fox off my hand and tapped the phone’s receiver with my fingers, simulating a drumroll with as little effort and embarrassment as possible.

  “Is that the best you can do?” Marina demanded.

  I kept tapping.

  “Okay, okay. This time I really do know who killed Sam.”

  While Marina wasn’t likely to posit that an alien from another galaxy had sucked the life force out of Sam, she could have come up with something almost as unlikely. “Great. Shall I notify the media?”

  “Sam was killed by . . .”

  She left the sentence unfinished, so I finished it for her. “The butler in the library with a candlestick.”

  “Do you want to hear this or not?”

  Only if the killer was a complete stranger. If he was someone I knew, well, no, I didn’t want to hear.

  “Okay, then,” she said into my silence. “Sam was killed by a jealous husband.”

  The idea was so unlikely that it was ridiculous. I started laughing. “Come on, Marina, you don’t really believe that Sam was . . . you know.”

  “Of course not,” she said indignantly. “The man didn’t have an adulterous bone in his body. But what if some poor misguided soul thought Sam was having an affair with his wife? What if Sam, nice guy that he was, stopped to help a woman change her car tire. What if she was so grateful that she sent him a card? What if her husband saw it, and he’s the wacked-out type who can’t stand if his wife so much as breathes in another man’s direction? Ergo, he killed Sam.”

  As ludicrous as her theory was, there was a warped logic to it. And if morning talk shows were any reflection of reality—which they weren’t—then she actually had a valid point. There was only one problem.