Murder at the PTA (2010) bk-1

by Laura Alden

  “Shut up.” His fierce whisper carried a threat that lifted the hair on my arms. He meant what he said.

  I nodded. “Up,” he said again, and this time I stood. So much for all those articles that cautioned against following the orders of an attacker. Point B was always more dangerous than Point A, but in this case Point A wasn’t exactly a place of safety and sunshine.

  We moved out of the study and started an awkward walk down the hall. With one of his hands on my neck like a firm collar and his other hand tight on my upper arm, our feet kept banging into each other.

  For a short moment I debated tripping him intentionally. The scenario played out in front of me like a movie. Potential victim is marched down a hallway, sees an opportunity, trips the evildoer. Evildoer does not release grip on victim as he falls, but he hangs on to the frail neck and uses victim to cushion his crash to the floor. Evildoer’s elbow jabs into victim’s abdomen, knocking the wind out of her.

  Without breath, she cannot run. Without breath, she cannot even scream as Evildoer, in a rage at her efforts to escape, squeezes her throat until there are no more breaths.

  So much for that plan.

  “Keep moving.”

  He pushed me, and I moved forward. It seemed unlikely that he’d lead me straight into a wall, but my experience with bad guys was minimal. The closest I’d come to witnessing a felonious assault was in a parking lot after a Northwestern vs. Wisconsin football game.

  “Oh . . .” I stumbled forward a step and was jerked back upright by Iron Grip. Choking and gasping, I regained my footing and realized the flooring had changed from carpet to linoleum. We’d made it to the dining area, and I’d tripped over the little piece of trim that kept the carpet in place.

  Don’t kill me, I pleaded silently. My children needed me. My bookstore needed me. My siblings needed me—or they might one of these days. My mother would be disappointed at having to plan a funeral for a single daughter. My cat would miss me, the dog will be sent back to the animal shelter, and who would volunteer to be the PTA’s secretary?

  Inside my blanket, which was getting warm and steamy from too many of my breaths, I looked at my last thought. Did the role really mean that much to me? I’d taken it on, thinking I could retire permanently after a year, but there was so much to do. The afternoon Erica had stopped by to give gardening advice, we’d come up with a dozen projects. A year wasn’t enough; two years wouldn’t be enough. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up like Randy, a lifer on Tarver’s PTA committee.

  If I had a life.

  I stood up a tiny bit straighter. He pinched my neck hard, and I sank back down again. Okay, if I couldn’t act brave, I’d try to think brave. Be smart. Pay attention. Pick up clues. Do something useful. All those mysteries and thrillers I’d read must have some practical application. Jack Reacher would have overpowered Iron Grip in an instant, so he wasn’t much use as my role model. Best to stick to my own gender. What would V. I. Warshawski have done in my situation? Sharon McCone, Tess Monaghan, Anna Pigeon? Harriet Vane? Even Miss Marple would be doing something.

  That was it: Miss Marple. She’d be noticing things. I could do that. And why hadn’t I already?

  I wasted half a step in self-recrimination, then tried to pay attention. Was he wearing any cologne? Washed with a scented soap, used a perfumed deodorant, had garlic for dinner? I sniffed quietly. Nothing.

  Sight was no good with a blanket over my head, so what was left? Taste, but all I could get was the metallic and slightly bloody taste of adrenaline.

  “Stop,” he whispered.

  Sound. I could hear. And touch. Maybe I’d be able to sneak a feel of his clothing or even him. How long was his hair? Did he have a beard or mustache?

  A door creaked open. “Down the stairs,” he said. The last s slid into a hiss. I was sure that s would haunt my dreams for years—assuming that I had years left to me.

  “Down,” he whispered.

  I edged forward until the front ends of my shoes curled down over air. Through the blanket I felt for the handrail. The grip was slippery, but I gained a small sense of comfort from the rail’s existence.

  Down one stair. Down another. When I had both feet on the third stair, the door slammed shut behind me. I whirled around and almost fell down the rest of the stairs. I started to shout, but the memory of his threat kept me from calling out. Maybe he hadn’t meant it, but maybe he had.

  I heard the screech of heavy furniture being slid across linoleum. It screeched closer and closer until it thumped against the basement door. I was blocked in.

  Now what?

  I went up a step, then retreated a step. What could I do when I was virtually blind? The blanket over my head was so thick—

  There are those rare days when a stroke of genius strikes you like a bolt out of the blue and you bask in the glow of smartness. This wasn’t one of those days.

  I pulled the blanket off my head.

  But even blanket-free, I was still surrounded by mostly dark. I felt around for the light switch, and brightness burst around me. Instantly, I felt better.

  I listened to Iron Grip move around the house, opening and closing doors, and tried to figure out what he was doing. His movements didn’t make any sense—not at first, anyway. He had a mission; I was just too dumb to understand.

  He’d been looking for the electrical panel. One loud click and I was plunged back into a deep and endless darkness.

  Chapter 17

  I went all the way downstairs, found a chair, and spent some time scolding myself. If I’d worn spike heels, maybe I’d have had the presence of mind to do a rapid double-stamp backward on Iron Grip’s insteps, send him into fetal-position pain, and run as fast as I could to Marina’s house.

  For a moment I let myself dream that dream. Brave Beth, using her wits to escape her captor, bring a killer to justice, and return peace of mind to Rynwood.

  Hah. Maybe men could maintain fantasies like that. Most women had a firmer grasp on reality. I recalled a bit from a long-forgotten comedian. Girls read superhero comic books as the stories they are; boys read comic books and consider the superhero’s job a career option.

  I wondered what Iron Grip had in mind for me. Then, and only then, did I start wondering why he was here in the first place. As an amateur sleuth, I was making an excellent divorced mother of two.

  If I made the mental leap that Iron Grip had killed Agnes, why on earth would he have come back to the scene of the crime three weeks later?

  If he’d wanted to steal something, surely he would have done his thieving the night he’d killed Agnes. He wouldn’t have been trying to retrieve something he’d accidentally left behind at this late date, would he? What could he have been looking for? Or in the grammatically correct version of my thoughts, for what could he have been looking?

  Heavy footsteps thudded over my head, and I was suddenly and fiercely glad I’d cleaned out the kitchen. He wasn’t going to be drinking or eating anything Agnes had bought. I made a mental note to call Gloria about turning off the water and electricity, assuming I got out of the basement, of course.

  I spent a few unhappy moments speculating on Iron Grip’s plans. I imagined a flowchart. The oval at the top of the chart was the question, “Is he going to kill me?” The “yes” arrow went to the right to a diamond-shaped object around the question, “Tonight?” There should have been more diamonds and arrows leading away from the Tonight box, but even in my head I lacked the courage to draw them.

  Going back up to the “Is he going to kill me?” oval, I drew a “no” arrow.

  I liked this arrow a lot better.

  It ran into a diamond with the question, “Is he going to let me go?” The “yes” arrow went to “When is he going to let me go? Like, tonight, before 8:30? Because the kids always call me before they go to bed.” A yes answer to that seemed unlikely, so I returned reluctantly to the other path leading away from “Is he going to let me go?”

  Because, really, why would he se
t me loose? No one would think to look for me in Agnes Mephisto’s basement—not until it was much too late. I hadn’t left a note labeled “In case I don’t return by Thursday morning, look for me at Agnes’s.” If I were a character in a movie, viewers would have long ago labeled me as TSTL—Too Stupid to Live.

  “Am not,” I said quietly, sounding like a nine-year-old.

  Above my head and to the left, I heard the thumps and slams of drawers slamming and objects dropping. It sounded as if he were doing what I’d been doing—going through Agnes’s files. I almost wished Agnes’s ghost weren’t imaginary. I nearly smiled thinking of the tongue-lashing Agnes would have given the man who’d killed her.

  After an eternity and a half, Iron Grip’s footsteps thumped into the dining area. I followed his path around the table and chairs; past the kitchen counter; through the kitchen; past the door to the basement; out the back door. After a small click as the door shut, there was silence.

  Or, rather, relative silence. In the sudden stillness, my panting, frightened breaths sounded louder than Oliver’s raspy breathing the winter he’d had a bad case of the flu.

  Was Mr. Grip gone? Or had he stepped out to his car for a weapon?

  A shiver started deep in my bones. My teeth chattered as if the basement’s temperature had dropped below freezing.

  “Being scared isn’t going to help you one bit.”

  Agnes—she was back in her ghost form to taunt me. “The suggestion box is open. All ideas are welcome.”

  “You have a brain, don’t you? Use it.”

  “Not much of a suggestion,” I muttered, but the spasms of shivering diminished to mild rattles, and I started thinking.

  He wasn’t coming back with a weapon; with a grip like that, he didn’t need anything else. If he wanted me gone, I would have been dead long since. Since I hadn’t seen his face and hadn’t heard his real voice, I was no threat to him.

  Was he going to let me out of this basement?

  “Why would he?” Agnes asked. “Any additional contact with you increases the chances of your being able to identify him.”

  Even Agnes’s make-believe ghost was annoying. Everyone would be nice after death, wouldn’t they? I pondered this for a moment, thinking about mean Mr. Orton from my childhood. He’d been a cranky old man who yelled at the neighborhood kids if they so much as looked in the direction of his pristine lawn. What would he be like in the afterlife? If he wasn’t still mean, he wouldn’t be Mr. Orton any longer, would he?

  I abandoned that path of thought as too philosophical for my tiny little brain. My time would have been much better spent trying to get out of here. Why had I hidden my car so well? If I’d parked in a more visible location, Marina would have seen it and ridden to my rescue.

  I wouldn’t die here, would I?

  And there it was again: the fear that made my breaths come fast and my stomach hurt, and undoubtedly shortened my life span.

  Of course, I lived in constant fear. This was just on a higher plane. Once upon a time, Richard had started a list of the things that frightened me. He soon ran out of room on the kitchen notepad and went to the computer. I’d started with typical mother fears: that our children would meet with random accidents; that they’d be stricken with deadly disease; that a food I fed them would contain a toxic substance and cause irreparable damage, etc., etc.

  Then I’d moved on to being afraid of tornadoes, of ice storms, of driving in heavy rain, of high winds, of global warming, of random asteroids ramming into our planet. Then came my fears of losing my children’s love, of being crippled by arthritis, of breast cancer, of macular degeneration, of dying alone, of heart disease, of diabetes.

  Richard had looked at me with concern. “Do you have a family history of diabetes?”

  “Well, no.”

  He’d sighed, and I continued with the anxieties. That the Middle East would never know peace, that our country would be attacked by fanatics who’d cobbled together a hearty supply of nuclear warheads, that our children would inherit a world in which violence was the only realistic response.

  Then there were the little nagging fears. That the car would break down and I’d be late dropping the kids off at school. That I’d forget one of Jenna’s soccer games or swim meets or softball games. That by owning the bookstore I was damaging my children’s psyches by not welcoming them with open arms and warm cookies when they came home from school.

  I’d started mentioning my fears of dentist drills and stubbing my toe in the dark when Richard had rolled his eyes and turned off the computer. “How can you look so normal on the outside but be such a mess on the inside?” he asked. “Have you ever considered therapy?”

  I’d tried to tell him that all women worried like this. It was part and parcel of being female. The estrogen made us do it, Officer.

  Agnes made a snorting noise.

  “Well, maybe not all women,” I said.

  A shiver climbed through my body, and I wrapped the blanket tighter around me. I deeply regretted that Marina and I had turned down the thermostat.

  Somewhere out in the darkness lurked a murderer. He’d killed once, and though I didn’t think he planned to kill me, how did I know? Any happy ending I’d hypothesized could easily be attributed to wishful thinking.

  Somewhere out there my children were waiting to call their mother for a bedtime phone-kiss.

  Oh, my sweet Jenna.

  Oh, my darling Oliver.

  “Now what do I do?” I asked the empty air.

  “What do you think?”

  I could wait and hope for rescue. It would come, eventually, but when? Or I could shout and scream and yell in hope that someone would hear me. But who? And even if someone heard something, would they think to call the police?

  Maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop being afraid. An excellent idea. Why hadn’t I though of it earlier? I said it out loud. “It’s time to stop being afraid.” Though I waited for Agnes to make a comment, she was quiet this time around.

  But I still felt the fear licking at my ankles and threatening to run up my legs and into my heart where it would take hold forever.

  Okay. If I couldn’t stop being afraid, I could at least do something. If I were busy, maybe I wouldn’t have time to be afraid. But before I did anything, I had to wait a little longer. Time played tricks on people. My father had once collapsed at home from what turned out to be his first heart attack. Mom called 911 immediately and for weeks went on and on that it had taken the EMTs “at least half an hour!” to arrive. My sister Kathy finally called to check. The first responders had arrived in four minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

  Since Mom had provided half my genetic material, the possibility of similar time expansion was strong. Even though it felt like hours since Iron Grip had left, maybe it was only five minutes. Maybe he was outside, waiting for Marina’s neighbor to finish walking the dog.

  Once again, I considered my options. Once again, I didn’t come up with anything good.

  I counted seconds in my head. One one thousand, two one thousand. Ten times I counted to sixty thousand. Ten minutes. The steady rhythm calmed me and cleared my mind. I counted out another ten minutes, then another ten. He’d been gone for at least half an hour—long enough. First things first, I decided.

  “Help!” I yelled. “Hellllp!”

  My shrieks brought no assistance. The night was too cold, the basement too soundproof, my screams the wrong frequency—for whatever reason, I was on my own.

  “You had to try,” Agnes said.

  I nodded in the dark. “Would have been silly not to.” It was nice to have some support, even if it wasn’t real. “Do you have any ideas you’d like to share?”

  But here she was silent.

  Ah, well. It was probably best that I stopped talking to myself, anyway.

  Once upon a time I’d carried a small pocketknife. Then one day, a small Jenna reached into my purse, dug out the knife, and pried out the knife’s short, sharp blade. I’d
immediately taken it away from her, thrown the knife in the wastebasket, and carried the wastebasket into the garage.

  Too bad. Even a small knife would have been handy right now.

  I banged on the door with my knuckles. Banged on it with the heels of my hands. Kicked at it with my toes. Kicked at it with my heels. Banged on it with my fists. All I got for my efforts was a nice collection of wood splinters.

  That was when I started to cry.

  I don’t know how long I cried. I’d like to say it wasn’t very long. I’d like to say only a tiny tear escaped before courage reasserted itself. I’d like to say the intrepid spirit of my homesteading ancestors surged forth and brought me strength and innovative ideas for escape.

  What actually happened was that I sobbed long and hard enough to exhaust myself. Right there at the top of Agnes’s basement stairs, leaning against the door, I fell asleep.

  When I woke up, disoriented and with a stiff neck, I heard something. No, not something, but someone.

  Iron Grip—he was back.

  As quickly and as silently as I could, I tiptoed down the stairs. Faint moonlight washed through the windows—enough light to let me pick my way across the room. My breaths were rapid and shallow.

  He was back. He’d come back to finish me off. What was I going to do? I had to defend myself somehow. There had to be a way.

  I made my way to the workbench. Surely there’d be something here I could use. Too bad the workbench was in the darkest corner of this dark room. I need to find something sharp, something heavy, something . . . anything. . . .

  Furniture screeched.

  Wildly, I felt for something that would save me. And I had the element of surprise on my side, didn’t I? He didn’t know there were tools down here. Not that I was finding anything bigger than a screwdriver, but there must be something. . . .

  More screeching. The door opened. Light bounced down the stairwell and onto the far side of Agnes’s hockey memorabilia.

  “Hello?” called a male voice. “Is anyone down there?”