Mother's Day, Muffins, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “That would be great,” I said. “And you don’t have to say it. I’ll be careful.”

  We said good-bye, and I hung up. “Come on, Rex, let’s go.”

  With a joyful spasm that shook his whole body, he pranced to the back door.

  When we returned a few minutes later, I punched in the code to open the garage and then walked by the van. The new window had been ordered and should arrive tomorrow. But, for now, a clear piece of plastic covered the window, a temporary fix that the repair shop had put in place in case it rained, which was always a possibility in Georgia. After the police had finished, I’d gone back to the school and found Vaughn, who’d brought a cardboard box for me, along with a dustpan. We’d cleaned up the glass from inside the van, then scoured the grass, looking for any tiny pieces that we might have missed, but it seemed all the glass was inside the van, not outside it.

  I went inside the house, hung up Rex’s leash, and then quizzed Livvy on the words for her last spelling test of the school year. An hour later, the kids were tucked in bed and I had an old movie playing on television, the barely audible dialogue filling the quiet house. I was seated at the dining room table going over my “homework” with Rex curled up under the table at my feet. I rubbed my foot along his back as I flipped from one page to the next in Nathan’s homework folder, dutifully scribbling my initials on each page near the letter or number grade.

  Tuesdays were homework folder days, which meant the kids brought home their work for the week, and I went over it. I thought it was absurd that the teachers required that the parents initial each paper. I didn’t need a threat to keep up with my kids’ homework, but it seemed that some parents did because some teachers dropped students’ grades if they didn’t return the homework papers with their parents’ initials.

  I had already gone through both Livvy’s and Nathan’s folders earlier in the evening while they were with me, going over the questions that they’d missed and praising them for their good grades. I signed Nathan’s last homework paper, slid them all back into the pocket, and flipped to the front of the folder, where I recorded the date and signed my John Hancock on one of the last lines of the form. I was glad it was the end of the year and the avalanche of paperwork was tapering off.

  I slapped the folder closed, then pulled Livvy’s folder to me and worked my way through this week’s stack, signing off on all papers. Finished, I stacked the papers and slid them back into the pocket, but something blocked them. The sheaf of papers wouldn’t go in all the way. I removed them and pulled out a folded note that I must have missed earlier.

  It was a piece of white copy paper, folded in thirds and held together with a piece of tape. Folded and taped notes placed in take-home folders were not a good thing. Usually, they were a message from the office about some sort of problem. Livvy and Nathan were both good students. They kept up with their work, mostly, and behaved in class, so we didn’t usually receive notes from the office.

  I smoothed the wrinkles out, worked the tape free, and unfolded the note, expecting it to contain a list of Livvy’s overdue library books or something along those lines, but it was only a few lines of text, carefully hand printed. It read, Back off. Klea was nosy and look what happened to her.

  Organizing Tips for PTA Moms

  Staying in touch with other parents is critical and it’s easier than ever with digital tools. Yahoo Groups allows you to create a group and invite members, then share information through emails and a group calendar. Companies like SignUpGenius and Volunteer Spot provide free online volunteer sign-up forms and reminders, which are sent through emails and texts. The advantage to this type of system is that the contact list is maintained for you through the site. You can easily send an invite to members of the list and not have to weed through long “reply all” emails.

  Chapter Twelve

  Detective Waraday placed the note inside a plastic sleeve. “How much did you handle it?”

  “Quite a bit, I’m afraid. It got pushed to the bottom of the folder, and I ran my hand across it to flatten out the wrinkles.”

  Detective Waraday made a “hmm” sound and read over the note again.

  Rex, now fully awake, was sitting by my knee at the table, keeping a sharp eye on Detective Waraday.

  “And you found it when?” Detective Waraday asked.

  “Just now. I dropped it and called you.”

  Well, I’d actually dropped it on the table and contemplated doing several things, from ignoring it to burning it, but in the end, I’d known I had to call Detective Waraday. I was glad the kids were asleep—and they had to be or they would have popped into the living room at the sound of a deep male voice, expecting to see Mitch, whose job had him arriving and departing at all hours. I was relieved I didn’t have to explain why a detective was at our house.

  Detective Waraday pointed to the folders with their lines of signatures on the outside. “Tell me about these homework folders. Who has access to them?”

  “Livvy is in fifth grade and those students change classes for different subjects, but they have a homeroom classroom. That’s where each teacher sends all the papers for the week. Either the teacher, the teacher’s aide, or a parent volunteer sorts the papers into the files for each student. Once a week, the papers are transferred from the files to a folder and the kids bring them home. I sign off on everything, and it all goes back the next day. I did it last year for Nathan’s class.” It was a fairly mindless volunteer job, but I actually preferred other ways of helping out, like helping with the book fair or Field Day, which were more active and not so monotonous.

  Detective Waraday tapped the plastic sleeve with the note on the table. Rex’s ears pricked at the sound. “And the classrooms aren’t locked during the day when students are out of them for recess or lunch.” He looked up from the paper. “I found that out last week when I was at the school.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “So anyone—teacher, staff, or student—could have written this note and slipped it in your daughter’s folder, knowing that it would go home to you today. I’ll send it to the techs, but there probably won’t be any distinguishable prints on it since it has been handled so much. But we’ll check.” He rubbed his hand across his forehead as he said, “Someone is not happy with you, Mrs. Avery.”

  A statement like that would have normally “gotten my back up,” a description I’d heard members of Mitch’s very Southern family use, but Detective Waraday said it in a flat tone, not as if he was laying blame. The bags under his eyes made him look almost mature, and the way he’d wearily dropped into the chair at the table indicated that he was tired. I wondered how many hours he’d worked today.

  “I really don’t know who it could be,” I said. “Ms. McCormick did act kind of strange today when I asked her where she taught before she came to North Dawkins. But other than Ms. McCormick and one other person . . . I’m not sure . . . were you contacted . . . ?”

  “A certain person from the school got in touch with me and told me about her . . . um”—a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth—“literary activities, let’s call them. I don’t think this note has anything to do with that.”

  “That’s good. I was wondering because, if she had changed her mind and hadn’t talked to you, then this could have been from her, but since you know about the situation . . .”

  “Yes, the cat is out of the bag, at least where the investigation is concerned. She came forward voluntarily, so I doubt she’d double back and attack you. She doesn’t seem the sort to regret her actions.”

  “No, I agree.”

  “This Ms. McCormick you mentioned who acted odd—what happened?”

  I told him how she’d hadn’t wanted to talk about her other job and how the general impression at the school was that this was her first job. “But when I asked her about it today, she said it was her first teaching job—that she’d only been a substitute before. I got the impression that she wasn’t telling the truth . . . or not the who
le truth.”

  Detective Waraday raised his eyebrows, looking energized for the first time that night. “A possible lie, then. Lies are always interesting. And her name was on that list you spotted in Mrs. Burris’s house.” He didn’t say anything else, but he wrote something in the notebook that he removed from his pocket. “Anyone else upset with you?”

  Noting that he seemed to have changed his opinion about the list from Klea’s house, I said, “No, not unless you count my client I keep canceling on or Peg in the school office, but she seems to be upset with everyone all the time.”

  “An Eeyore,” he said with a nod.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I met her the other day when I interviewed all the teachers and staff. She’s an Eeyore. We have had one at our office. Generally gloomy disposition and always looking on the dark side.”

  “Yes, I think that’s a good description of her.”

  “Melancholy,” Detective Waraday said. “So I don’t know that we should mark her down as an enemy of yours just yet.”

  “She was on Klea’s list.”

  “As was Marie Ormsby.”

  “That’s true,” I said, “But I don’t think Marie is upset with me.”

  Detective Waraday didn’t reply, just made another note, and I had a feeling that he would be chatting with both Peg and Marie tomorrow.

  “I did ask Marie what she knew about Ms. McCormick,” I said, hoping that getting that fact out there now might pre-empt any recriminations from Detective Waraday later. “Marie said that Ms. McCormick was from out of state.”

  Detective Waraday nodded as he studied the note in the plastic sleeve. He tilted it toward me. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”

  I’d had plenty of time after I made the call and waited for him to arrive to study the note. “No. It’s so perfect, it’s almost like it was printed on a computer.” Each stroke of every letter in the hand-printed note was made with precision. None of the letters were higher, lower, wider, or fatter than the others. None of the letters had a stroke that trailed off below or soared above the others. “It does remind me a little of the printing I’ve seen on architects’ drawings, but those have some style . . . or flare to them with some of the strokes extended or angled. This writing is even more precise than that.”

  “Presumably done to disguise the handwriting.”

  “Why wouldn’t someone just have used a computer? Why go to the trouble of handwriting it?” I asked. It was one of the many questions that had been going through my mind while I waited for Detective Waraday.

  “Maybe they didn’t have time. If someone wanted to get a note into the folders, they’d have to slip in the classroom when it was empty. Maybe the person saw their opportunity and took it—a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. And then there is also the fact that most documents created on a computer are traceable even if they are deleted. Perhaps the person knew that and didn’t want any record of these words on their computer, which would be pretty far thinking. But it would also be very wise. With all the school computers linked to the school district’s database, it would probably be more difficult to make sure no record of the words existed.”

  He inched his chair back from the table. “After we check for prints, I’ll send it off to the state crime lab, see what they can come up with related to the handwriting. And then there is your car. I got the message about it this evening. Mind if I have a look?”

  “No, not at all.” I stood, and he followed me to the garage. I flicked on the light, and he moved around to the driver’s side, where he examined the doorframe. I waited in the doorway. Rex positioned himself by my leg.

  “It was a brick, you said?”

  “Yes. It was inside the car.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “Probably in a Dumpster at the school.” I told him how Vaughn had helped me clean up.

  Detective Waraday nodded. “Perfectly reasonable for the officer who arrived in response to your call to assume it was random, but in light of this”—he held up the note—“well, maybe not so random. The brick probably wouldn’t hold fingerprints very well, but I’ll send someone out to look for it tomorrow and canvass the street to see if anyone saw anything.”

  “Thank you. That would make me feel a little better.”

  He came inside and headed for the front door. I locked the door to the garage, then followed him to the front door, Rex at my heels. “The brick through your car window could have been random, but this”—he raised the paper and the plastic sleeve caught the reflection of the porch light—“is a threat, directed specifically at you. I suggest you lock up and keep your head down. The farther you stay away from the investigation, the better off you’ll be.”

  “I know. Don’t worry. I’m not asking any more questions. It’s too dangerous.”

  * * *

  And that was my intention. I’d had plenty of time to think things over while I stared at the note, jumping at each little creak the house made. It was just too dangerous to keep asking questions. I had two kids to think of. For their sake, I had to back off. I knew Gabrielle wouldn’t agree, but she’d have to deal with it.

  Despite knowing that Detective Waraday had the note and that the brick-throwing incident was being investigated more thoroughly, I didn’t sleep too well. The next morning, I was afraid that the bags under my eyes rivaled Detective Waraday’s.

  With the temporary plastic covering on the driver’s window pulsating as I drove, I dropped the kids at school, then went to the glass repair shop. It was next door to a shopping center, which contained a gym and a newly opened boutique that sold decorative knickknacks and personal items. While my window was being fixed, I walked over to the boutique to look for Teacher Appreciation gifts for the kids to give to their teachers. I’d been so busy with everything going on at the school that buying gifts for the teachers had fallen completely off my to-do list. I found several cute notebooks embellished with different school themes—math and science problems and the titles of classic children’s stories—and purchased one for each of the teachers, along with some cool pens.

  As I walked back to the window repair shop, the repairman, a guy in his mid-twenties, stepped into the parking lot. He waved and crossed the lot to me. “All fixed. We’re running it through the car wash and will have it out here in a minute. You can pay at the desk inside,” he said, handing me an invoice.

  “So have you had a lot of these types of repairs lately?” I asked as we walked to the office portion of the shop.

  “Vandalism, you mean? Nah, you’re the first we’ve had in, oh, probably two or three months. We see mostly chips and cracks from rocks hitting cars while they are on the road.” He opened the door for me.

  “Thanks,” I said, and went in to pay my bill. Since this was the only repair shop in this area, they’d know if there had been an uptick in vandalism of car windows. It looked more and more likely that the brick through the window had been a random incident.

  I powered the new window up and down a few times to make sure it worked, then set out to mark off the rest of the items on my to-do list, putting thoughts of Klea, bricks through windows, and threatening notes out of my mind. I ran by an ice cream shop, bought some gift cards, and tucked them into each notebook. I’d have the kids wrap them tonight—well, gift-bag them—and we’d be set.

  Then I ran home, switched the load of laundry that I’d started that morning to the dryer, and tossed in a new load to wash. I hit the road again to pick up today’s food for Teacher Appreciation. It was Wednesday, so that meant sub sandwiches were on the menu.

  I swung by the sub shop to pick up a platter of sandwiches, glad that Mia had coordinated all the details, even the payment, beforehand. All I had to do was take the sandwiches and chips to the school.

  A few minutes later, I parked in the school parking lot, as close to the main doors as I could get. I wouldn’t be parking along the chain-link fence anymore. My phone rang. I saw it was Gabrielle and braced myself. “Gabriel
le, I’m so glad you called,” I said. “Quite a bit has happened—”

  “For me, too, honey. That’s why I called. You won’t believe what I found out. Talk about juicy gossip—”

  “I’m not really interested in gossip,” I said quickly.

  “But it’s not any old gossip. This has to do with the school. There are some mighty shady things going on at that school.”

  “Gabrielle, before you say anything else, you should know that I’m done with poking around, trying to find out what happened to Klea.”

  Gabrielle’s rich chuckle sounded through the line. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  “Well, it’s true. A brick was thrown through my van window, and I got a threatening note. I can’t continue to ask questions and snoop around. It’s too dangerous.”

  “What did the note say? Did it demand money?”

  I’d gotten out of the van, slid the side door open, and reached to pick up the sandwiches, but I paused. “Money? No, of course not. The note said I should back off and that Klea was nosy and ‘look what happened to her,’ to be exact. It was a threat.”

  The line was silent a few beats. “Oh. Well. That is a bit disconcerting,” Gabrielle said quietly. Then her voice changed to a more upbeat tone. “But I know you. You won’t let that sidetrack you.”

  “No, I’m afraid it has. I’m done.”

  “Of course you’re not. You only think you are. Now, I have a meeting starting in two minutes, so I can’t talk any longer, but I want to get together with you and discuss this info I have.”

  “Gabrielle—” I sighed as the buzz of the disconnected line sounded in my ear. I picked up the sandwiches, dropped my phone into the van’s console, and locked the van. I’d only be in the school for a few minutes and didn’t need to bring in my purse and phone.

  I was backing though the main door, using my shoulder to open it as I balanced the tray of sandwiches, when a voice near my ear said, “There you are.” I nearly dropped the tray.