Foul Play at the PTA

by Laura Alden

  “There she is.” Jenna was waving at a girl in a pink dress that would have fit in nicely at a cocktail party. She was accompanied by a man who wore a pair of dress slacks, a dress shirt, and a hideously patterned tie. “That’s Bailey and her dad,” Jenna said. And she was off.

  A year ago I’d almost worried myself to ulcers over Jenna and Bailey’s exclusionary friendship. I’d gently encouraged Jenna away from being best friends with Bailey, and had been relieved when she started calling Alexis again.

  “What do you think?” Marina dug her elbow into my ribs. “Not bad for a bunch of amateurs, eh?”

  “It’s gorgeous, but—” I stopped, not wanting to cast a stone into the still pond.

  Marina winked. “But how—and more to the point why—are we spending money to decorate a gym for an elementary school dance?”

  “Exactly.”

  She raised her right hand. “The committee members know nothing, I swear it. We got an unsigned letter in the mail with a list of conditions, if you can believe it. Change the name of the dance, put in all these decorations, spike the punch—you know.”

  I stared at her in amazement.

  “We didn’t really spike the punch,” she whispered. “That was a joke.”

  “You kept a secret from me,” I said. “You never keep secrets from me. You told me when Oliver lied for Jenna about who broke the lamp. You tell me what Claudia Wolff says about me. You tell me what you’re getting me for my birthday two months ahead of time.”

  She gave me a pitying look. “There’s a first time for everything, mah dear. Surely, y’all know that.”

  A return to the Southern belle, one of her favorites. I couldn’t speak with a good Southern drawl if my life depended on it. The only accent I could manage was a bad Canadian one, eh?

  “So what do you think of the sign?” Marina waved her arms, conductor style.

  I turned. “Oh . . .”

  “Yeah.” Marina made a fist and thumped her chest. “Gets you right here, doesn’t it?”

  It certainly did. Hanging high over the stage was a wide banner. Painted on the beige canvas were red and orange and yellow leaves with a scattering of brown leaves and acorns. The words, bold black and two feet tall, proclaimed this dance to be “The First Annual Sam Helmstetter Scholarship Fund Dance.”

  “Beats our little Father-Daughter Dance sign all hollow, doesn’t it?” Marina nodded at a stenciled poster board.

  “But . . . who?” I gestured at the sign, at the ceiling, at the whole kit and kaboodle. “This must have cost hundreds. Thousands.”

  Marina shrugged. “Dunno. The letter was anonymous and the money came straight from the bank.”

  “Anonymous? Do you think—”

  “Nope. The Tarver Foundation didn’t have thing one to do with it. You should have heard that snotty-nosed lawyer when I called and asked. ‘The Ezekiel G. Tarver Foundation funds important, truly educational projects. A dance does not come close to the scope of the foundation’s mission statement.’ You’d have thought I was asking if they’d contributed money for a field trip to an AC/ DC concert.”

  That sounded like the foundation, all right. But if not them, then who? “Why would someone donate all that money?” I mused. “Why would . . .” My question trailed off.

  “What’s the matter?” Marina asked. “You look like your last friend just died, and since I’m standing right here I know that’s not true.”

  “What if it was Sam’s killer who sent the money?”

  Marina put her hands on her padded hips. “Once upon a time I thought you were a smart cookie, but now I realize it’s all an illusion. Why, pray tell, would a murderer want to name a dance after his victim? Why do all this?” She flittered her fingers. “Why start a scholarship fund for the kids?”

  “Guilty conscience.”

  Marina looked at me fondly. “You’re projecting again.”

  “I’m what?”

  “Like anthropomorphism. I know you think that Spot of yours is sad about being left alone all day. This is the same thing.”

  “Spot is a killer?”

  Marina made a rude noise in the back of her throat. “That dog wouldn’t know what to do with a squirrel even if he could catch it. No, silly one, I’m saying you’re projecting your emotions onto the killer. If you killed someone accidentally, you’d feel guilty enough to sign over the store and its contents to the surviving family members and work for free the rest of your life.”

  “I’m not the only person with an overdeveloped sense of guilt.”

  “Name ten.”

  “One, my Grandma Chittenden. Two, Gus Eiseley. Three, Oliver. Four—”

  But Marina had already moved on to another topic. “Say, did you hear about Brian Keller?”

  “Um, he decided to leave his share of Rynwood Shredding to Rachel and is going to raise alpacas instead?”

  She made a buzzing sound. “Wrong again. Someone posted on WisconSINs that Brian was in a car accident. Broken arm, which is nasty, but it could have been worse, so don’t get your tender heart all worked up.”

  “What happened?”

  “Who knows? It was dark, it was raining, some yahoo in a van ran a stop sign, and whammo!” She slapped her palms together with a meaty sound.

  I winced.

  “Worst part is the guy who hit him didn’t stop,” Marina said.

  “Why do people do things like that?”

  Marina shrugged. “Scared, probably.”

  My cell phone rang. After fumbling through a collection of toys, small packaged snacks, loose change, and a paperback, I pulled the phone out of my purse and looked at the number. Richard.

  “Beth, is Jenna there?”

  “Somewhere. Where are you? You’re late.”

  “I’m in Atlanta.”

  That didn’t make any sense whatsoever. Though maybe there was an Atlanta, Wisconsin. I knew there was an Atlanta in Michigan; maybe there were Atlantas scattered across the country. “Georgia?” I asked.

  “Of course Georgia. What other Atlanta is there? I got a call on Thursday to come down for an interview on Monday, but when they found out that I golf, I was invited to their company tournament. That was today,” he said pointlessly. “The banquet starts in ten minutes.”

  “A job interview? That’s . . . great.” The implications were too much to process, so I stuck firmly to the one thing I could grasp.

  “It came up quickly. Tell Jenna I’m sorry and—”

  I closed my eyes and thought calming thoughts. “You need to tell her yourself.”

  “Beth, I’m late for—”

  “You could have called Thursday,” I said, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. “You could have called Friday, or even today up until an hour ago. But you forgot, and your daughter is wearing a dress—a dress—bought especially for tonight. You’re her date, Richard, and you’re standing her up.”

  “It’s only a grade school dance.”

  “This is the first dance she’s ever attended.”

  He paused, then repeated, “It’s only a grade school dance.” This time, however, his voice was weak. He’d done his daughter wrong, and he knew it.

  Marina had detected the impending doom and fetched Jenna. “Is that Dad?” She looked around as if he’d materialize any second. “Where is he?”

  In the doghouse, I wanted to say. “Here’s Jenna,” I said into the phone, then handed it over. “It’s your father.” In those three words I wanted to communicate love, understanding, and empathy. But I’m pretty sure the only thing she heard was “It’s your father.”

  She took the phone eagerly. “Dad? How far are you? You won’t believe what they did to the gym. There’s a—” With a suddenness that was heartbreaking, her animation disappeared. “Where’s Atlanta?” Her face was still as a stone. “You mean you’re not going to be here at all?”

  I wanted to turn away from her pain, but I wouldn’t, couldn’t, leave her alone.

  “No!” she shouted
into the phone. “I don’t want to see you on Wednesday. Or next weekend. Or ever. I hate you!” She hurled the phone onto a bale of straw and ran from the room.

  I started after her, but Marina held me back. “Let her cry a minute,” she said.

  “But—”

  She shook her head. “It’s a hard thing, but let her cry. She won’t always have Mom around to dry her tears.”

  I wanted to disagree with her—of course I’d always be there to comfort Jenna, I’d always have a handkerchief and a magical kiss, I’d always have a way to fix whatever was wrong—but part of me knew Marina was right. Somewhere along the line, children have to learn that pain happens and that there’s not always anything we can do about it.

  Well, except for the option of revenge, but that wasn’t behavior I wanted my children to emulate. There was, however, one thing I could do.

  I retrieved the phone, blew off the straw dust, and dialed.

  Half an hour later I’d explained the ugly facts of job hunting to Jenna (“It’s not as if your dad wanted to go to Atlanta, honey”), washed off her tears, and led her out of the restroom to which she’d fled. We’d arrived early to help schlep the goody bags, and, as we approached the gym, we saw a long line of men and girls snaking out into the hallway. The girls were hopping from one foot to another in their dance dresses; the men, dressed in everything from jeans and T-shirts to suits and ties, were talking and joking with each other while they looked in their wallets.

  “They all have their dads with them,” Jenna muttered.

  Normally I tried to squash her sarcastic comments, but I let this one go. She had a right to be angry.

  Summer materialized at my side. “Hi, Beth.”

  “Looks like a great turnout,” I said. “We should make a lot of money for Sam’s fund.”

  A light hand touched my elbow. “Beth?”

  I looked around. And up. “Evan, you look great!”

  The kind, thoughtful man had interpreted my panicky phone call as the emergency it was. Not only had he turned off the college football game he’d been watching, but he’d tossed aside the bowl of popcorn he’d just popped, and changed out of the sweatpants and sweatshirt he’d been wearing.

  “Wow.” Summer looked at him from the perfectly formed knot in his bow tie to the pleats in his tuxedo shirt to the sharp creases in his black trousers to his shiny shoes. “I mean, wow!” She gave me a wide grin and slipped away.

  My dejected daughter had wandered, slump-shouldered, up the line to talk to a friend. I called her back. “Jenna, I have a surprise for you.”

  She turned, and her eyes went wide. “Mr. Garrett? Are you going to a wedding?”

  He moved swiftly to her side. “I heard of your distress and have come to offer my aid.” He went down on one knee and took both of her hands in his. “Jenna, will you be my date for the dance tonight?”

  My daughter—my athlete, my tomboy, my nothing-bothers-me kid—actually giggled. “You’re silly.”

  He held one of her hands to his chest. “Please, mademoiselle, say yes.”

  Red-faced, shy, and stammering, she said the only thing possible. “Y-yes.”

  “With that one word you have made my evening an unforgettable one.” Evan kissed the back of her hand, and, in one smoothly elegant motion, rose to his feet and twirled her in a circle. “Come, let us dance the night away!”

  The line parted to make way for Evan and Jenna, dancing together as if they’d been practicing for weeks. Just before they spun out of the doorway and into the gym, Evan looked back at me, smiled, and winked.

  It was a magical moment, a scene I knew I’d play over and over again in my memory. I wanted to laugh with joy and to cry with happiness. My mouth hurt from smiling so wide, and the warmth in my heart felt as if it would last forever.

  Another light hand touched my elbow. “Beth?”

  “Pete! What are you doing here? I didn’t know you had a—” My next word should have been “daughter,” but the letters forming on my lips were about to sound more like “wife.”

  Pete Peterson, stocky and balding, nice guy extraordinaire, was the owner of Cleaner-Than-Pete’s, a cleaning service out of Madison that took care of everything from vandalism to murder scenes.

  “Beth, I’d like you to meet my niece, Alison.” Pete put his arm around the girl’s shoulders. “She and her mother just moved to Rynwood. Alison, this is Mrs. Kennedy.”

  Niece. No wonder he’d never mentioned a daughter. I smiled and held out my hand. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Alison, who was already showing her uncle’s trend to stockiness, also had his merry eyes. Her curly locks might have come from that side of the family, too, but it was hard to tell from what little remained of Pete’s hair. She shook my hand. “Are you Jenna’s mom? She’s nice. She’s not in my grade, but she helped me pick up the books I dropped once.”

  Pride in my daughter swelled my smile a little wider. After we exchanged a few more pleasantries, she saw a friend and, after asking Uncle Pete’s permission, ran after her.

  “Nice girl,” I said.

  “My sister’s kid.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his wrinkled khaki pants.

  I wanted to ask about her father—and if Pete had been a woman, I would have—but I kept my questions to myself. Cross-gender friendships have more rules than the official 112-page NFL rule book.

  “That your boyfriend?” he asked, looking in the direction Evan and Jenna had taken.

  In the line ahead of us, men were laughing and tossing bills onto the table where Summer was taking money. Tickets were five dollars, but additional donations were accepted with thankful smiles.

  “Top that, Eric!” a man said.

  “I’ll see your hundred and raise you fifty.” A bill slapped down. “What do you say, Dan?” the tallish man asked. “Put your money where your mouth is, pal.”

  Testosterone flourished in the most unusual places. Sometimes I truly felt sorry for men. At least women were only ruled by their hormones one week out of the month. “Boyfriend? Um . . . I suppose he is,” I said. “Evan Garrett. He owns the hardware.”

  “Seems like a nice guy.”

  Pete sounded a little funny, and I felt compelled to explain. “My ex-husband was supposed to be here tonight, but he was called out of town. Evan stepped in at the last minute.” I shifted from one foot to the other. Evan was my boyfriend, for lack of a better word. Why the delay in calling him that? And here was a better question: Why was I feeling so awkward about discussing him with Pete?

  If I’d been a better person, I would have spent some time sorting out my feelings. Instead, I decided to enjoy the dance and shoved it all to the back of my head.

  We stood there, inching forward in line, listening to the men ahead of us laugh at something Eric had said. Whoever Eric was. Through the bookstore and the PTA I knew most of the Tarver mothers, but I knew only a few of the fathers.

  Summer reappeared. “Erica’s here. Is this a good time to talk about, you know, my idea?” Since the last PTA meeting, the two of us had had numerous phone conversations about her brainstorm for a January fund-raiser. I’d told Erica that Summer had a new moneymaking idea, and Erica said we’d talk about it at the dance.

  I glanced at my watch. Somehow it was already seven o’clock. In front of us, the line dematerialized with that suddenness that sometimes happens in crowds. I laid down the admission fee—and a little extra—then headed into the gym. “See you later, Pete,” I tossed over my shoulder.

  He waved back amiably, and I decided not to worry about him. Whatever I thought I’d heard in his voice must have been a trick of the acoustics, was all.

  Moving away from the dancing and speakers turned a notch too loud, Summer and I and Erica found a small oasis of near quiet between a bale of straw and a screen made of barn wood.

  “So I hear you two have another fund-raising idea.” Though Erica was smiling and was dressed semi-casually in dress pants, low heels, and a silk
shirt, both Summer and I straightened as if we’d been called up in front of a judge. Erica swung her steady gaze to me. “Beth. How are the preparations for your story session progressing?”

  “Um, things are coming along.” Slowly. So slowly, in fact, that you could say I’d done nothing at all. “I’m finalizing the . . . the outline.”

  Erica lifted her chin a fraction of an inch. She didn’t believe me. “You’ll bring a solid plan to the December PTA meeting?”

  I nodded. “You bet.” Who needed sleep, anyway?

  The sharp eyes shifted to Summer. “I hear you’re ready to head up a new project.”

  “Yup!” Summer chirped, sounding as if she’d never been nervous in her life. “Beth and I were doing some brainstorming about what we could do when it’s cold and snowy and windy.”

  “Anything in January would be good,” Erica said, nodding. “It’s a slow time for Tarver PTA activities.”

  “How about if”—Summer pointed at the far corner of the room—“there was a windmill over there?” Nodding toward the stage, she said, “How about a little hill right here? And a standing bear over there?”

  Summer laughed at the blank expression on Erica’s face. “Miniature golf! What do you think of a mini-golf course?”

  A loud squeal erupted behind us. A girl in pale purple was jumping up and down, tugging on her father’s hands. “Ooo, I love mini-golf! Daddy, can we come?”

  Erica’s face took on a pensive cast. “Hmm.” She looked at the girl, who was now telegraphing the news to all her friends. She looked at the gym. Finally, she looked back at us. “Get it down on paper and bring it to the next meeting. If you want to do this in January, be ready for a lot of work.” It sounded like a warning, but if so, it was delivered with a smile.

  A PTA mother hovered. “Erica, do you have a minute?” The two headed off, and Summer and I grinned at each other. If Erica was behind the project, odds were good that it would happen.