Death of a PTA Goddess

by Leslie O'Kane

  We moved the furniture back in place, said good-bye to Nathan, then left. As Stephanie drove, she lectured us on techniques and terminology. I remembered the promenade from my old hideous square-dancing days in school. A male voice with a Texan accent, twanging out the phrase “Now promenade your partner” kept running through my head, which drowned out Stephanie’s words.

  When she paused for a breath, I said, “Thanks for the help, Stephanie, but let’s not forget our primary purpose tonight . . . to see if we can find information about Patty’s murder.”

  “Of course,” Stephanie said. “But what if there are no Carlton PTA board members here?”

  “There will be at least one—Chad Martinez. He had the hots for Patty and could have killed her in his rage when she rejected him.”

  Jim said, “I never can get why you do this, Molly. Why not let Tom do his job and find out on his own if Chad killed Patty in a rage?”

  “Because he’s a policeman, working in an official capacity. People don’t open up to him the way they do to somebody who happens to be in their social circles. We’re far more likely to hear the rumblings of what was really going on than Tommy is.”

  Jim sighed and said nothing. He’d long ago vowed that “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” when it came to my poking into Tommy’s cases, but Jim also forever held on to the hope that I’d desert the amateur sleuthing someday. Nothing would make me happier, because that would mean that nobody I knew had been murdered.

  We pulled into the parking lot of Chad’s dance school, which was located in a strip mall not far from the school campus. Where, come to think of it, at this very minute, my daughter and Adam Embrick were currently watching a basketball game . . . I hoped.

  Stephanie lingered at the door for some reason, and a moment later it was clear that she was waiting for Jim to open it for her, which he did. Stephanie then strutted into the studio ahead of us as a diva might walk onto the stage.

  The room was unexceptional, large and square with a parquet floor. Straight-backed chairs lined the walls. Chad had about twenty students here, mostly elderly women, and they were gathered in three distinct clusters.

  Loath as I was to admit it, Stephanie had been right about my choice of attire. All of the women were wearing dresses, although considerably less formal than Stephanie’s. Ah, well. If Jim and I had to make a run for it, our pants and tennis shoes would make for a quick— and quiet—escape. Then again, it’d be a long, cold trek; Stephanie had driven us.

  Chad left one of those clusters and came over to us. He was dressed in a white silk shirt and shiny, tight-fitting black slacks. He gave me a big smile, which seemed to spread to his little Hitler-ish mustache, and said, “Hi . . . there,” clearly having forgotten my name once again. He shook Jim’s hand, saying, “Good to see you again,” then shifted his focus to Stephanie. “Well, well, if it isn’t Stephanie Saunders.”

  What was this? Could the man only remember the names of blondes?

  Continuing to lavish his attention on Stephanie, he said, “My, my, I never thought you would need instructions from me.”

  “Please. Chad, you and I both know that I could teach this class myself.”

  “Then by all means, be my assistant this evening.” He turned, clapped his hands sharply twice, and announced to the room at large, “It’s time to begin. We’re fortunate tonight to have as our guest a very experienced dancer whom I’m sure you already know—Ms. Stephanie Saunders.”

  She gave a little curtsy and lowered her gaze as if embarrassed by the attention.

  “Oh, please!” I grumbled to Jim. If the folks here did know Stephanie, they sure as heck wouldn’t believe her shrinking-violet routine.

  Chad continued, “Tonight we’ll be moving into the rhythm style of ballroom dance and will work on the cha-cha and the rumba. Ms. Saunders and I are going to demonstrate these marvelous dances for you. Pay close attention.”

  Stephanie took Chad’s arm and strode to the center of the floor with her nose in the air. I whispered to Jim, “At least my jaw muscles will get good exercise tonight as I grit my teeth.”

  Chad nodded to a preteen girl who, if I wasn’t mistaken, was his daughter, and music started. I was distracted when I spotted a familiar face across the room. “Oh, Mr. Alberti’s in this class. I didn’t realize that.”

  “Another suspect?” Jim asked.

  “Yes, anyone who was present at the board meeting is. We’ll have to switch partners at some point tonight. I should chat with him for a while.” I carefully surveyed the remaining faces. “It’s just Chad and Al who were there that night. Somehow I’d gotten the impression that Chad had recruited a couple other board members to this class, but I guess I was mistaken.”

  Meanwhile, Stephanie maintained her Amazing Plastic Smile as she danced, beautifully of course, with Chad. After the demonstration, Chad ordered us to “form couples. Ladies, you can either dance together or sit this first one out.”

  A few of them promptly sat down, but others stayed on the dance floor. Maybe they would take turns leading, as we did in attacker/attackee in last night’s self-defense class. “Try to emulate Stephanie and me,” he further advised.

  The thought of emulating Stephanie gave me some pause.

  After giving us time to spread out, the music—some salsa-sounding instrumental—began again. Jim took my right hand and put his other hand on the small of my back as we assumed a slow-dance position. I had to say that this made me smile. Not counting our earlier attempts in our family room, we hadn’t danced together in a long time.

  I had to fight off the giggles as we instantly mangled the cha-cha. We were bumping knees. Jim shuffled his weight foot-to-foot in time with the music, and I did my Webster’s-on-the-head forward and backward steps.

  “Somehow it looked more graceful when Chad and Stephanie were cha-cha-ing.”

  “Aha,” Jim said, “there’s our problem right there. I’m doing the rumba.”

  “Show me your cha-cha.”

  “Molly,” he said, giving me a sly grin. “Watch yourself. We’re in public.”

  I laughed and saw Chad glance our way. “Let’s just try to keep out of Chad’s line of sight, shall we? Keep other couples between us.”

  We spent the rest of the song doing forward and backward walks according to however we could best escape the instructor’s gaze, with me battling the giggles throughout. Fortunately, Chad’s attention was mostly focused on his own dance with Stephanie. He seemed to occasionally give one-word instructions to those couples nearest him. At least this meant that Stephanie was granted ample time to engage him in conversation.

  From the corner of my vision, I saw a late-arrival enter the room. I looked at her. “Jim, we’re in luck. Jane Daly just came in. As soon as this song ends, I’m going to go talk with her.”

  “That is lucky. I have to pee.”

  I feigned a contented sigh. “I love the way you whisper sweet nothings in my ear when we dance.”

  “I’m a born romantic,” he said with a smile.

  Moments later the song stopped, and I immediately went over to Jane Daly and said hello. She was still stashing her things below a chair.

  “Molly, hi. I’m glad to see you’re still up and moving. I heard that somebody bashed into you on the ski slope the other night.”

  “ ’Fraid so. It was a hit-and-ski. Whoever crashed into me didn’t stop. Probably just some out-of-control kid.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  I flexed my shoulder muscles, the question reminding me that my back and left hip were indeed still hurting a little. “I’m a bit sore, but I always am after I ski, and I’m no more so than usual.”

  “That’s lucky. Chad said it could have been much worse.”

  The incident seemed a strange thing for Chad to have mentioned to her. The two of them didn’t seem all that close, and he gave me so little thought that he couldn’t even remember my name for five minutes. I peered at her rather unattractive f
ace, weighing the possibility that she was lying. Could she actually have known about my minor accident because she herself was the kamikaze skier? Perhaps my reputation had preceded me, so she realized that I was looking into the murder. She knew I’d be up there that night, because she had called me herself. She could have donned a dark ski mask and intentionally tried to wipe me out.

  As casually as I could despite my thought pattern, I said, “I’m flattered that Chad remembered my name for once.”

  She grinned and watched Chad across the room. “Oh, well, he didn’t, I’m afraid. He called you Mona, but I eventually figured out who he meant.”

  I chuckled, relieved that she wasn’t lying; he had been calling me Mona that night, so Jane had heard about my mishap secondhand from Chad. “Figures. At least he cared enough to tell you about what happened to me.”

  “Maybe now that you’re enrolled in his class, he’ll make an effort to remember you.”

  “This is just a drop-in visit. I doubt we’ll come back. I don’t think ballroom dancing is for us.”

  “Us?”

  “My husband, Jim, is here, too.”

  She frowned. “I’d have given anything to get my husband here. I just love dancing. But he refuses to join me. Half the time, I have to dance with other women.”

  “Well, tonight at least, Jim would be happy to dance with you. I’m sure he’d like to have a partner who knows what she’s doing for a change.”

  He returned to the room and joined us. I introduced them. After minimal hinting, Jim asked her to dance just as Stephanie decided to sit one out. She sashayed over to me. “What a wonderful dancer that man is,” she intoned with a sigh, watching Chad across the room.

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “Of course not. As I told you already, Molly, I could teach this class.”

  “I meant, have you learned anything about Chad as a suspect in the murder?”

  “Oh, that. Well, let’s see. Chad is prickly when it comes to his relationship with Patty. I asked him if the two of them ever dated and got the impression that she always turned him down. Also that he blamed Al, not Patty, for the tape, and has yet to forgive him.”

  “I wonder if that’s just a cover . . . pretending to have had a beef with someone other than his victim. Next time you dance with him, find out if he had an alibi for the time from when he left Patty’s place till I returned there myself.”

  She gave her head a little shake. “I think it’s your turn to sleuth from here on out. Chad told me that after the first few dances, he insists that everyone switch partners.” She looked around the room. “Not that there’s much to pick from. Although Jim’s quite handsome, in a down-home sort of way.”

  I had no idea what she meant by “down-home handsome,” but before I could decide if I wanted to know, she asked under her breath, “How’s your marriage going?”

  Testily, I said, “Just fine. Spending a lot of time down-home. Why? Are you on the market?”

  “Of course not. I’m no home-wrecker. I only ask because Emily Crown is a marriage counselor.”

  That surprised me. Emily was so much more talkative than the prototypical good-listener therapist.

  Stephanie continued, “If you’re willing to learn how to dance just to talk with Chad, you might be willing to seek therapy from her.”

  “What a shame none of the suspects are surgeons. I could have an elective appendectomy. Bet I could get all kinds of clues while I’m on the table.”

  She gave me a long look. “It was just a suggestion, Molly. You needn’t get snippy.”

  She was right, but I didn’t feel gracious enough to acknowledge that. “I guess I should dance with Chad, then,” I said, watching as Chad came over to us. His eyes, however, were squarely on Stephanie.

  An elderly woman said, “You two have danced together long enough,” and stepped in front of Stephanie and me to grab Chad’s arm. “They’re playing our song.”

  Chad obliged, and a handful of couples found space on the floor to cut the nonexistent rug. I looked around for Jim. He was still dancing with Jane.

  Stephanie said, “Just like our old square-dancing days.” She giggled a little. “Remember back in junior high, Molly? Nobody would pick you, and you’d be stuck sitting there like the proverbial wallflower?”

  Imitating her phony voice and phony smile, I said, “Yes, I remember, Stephanie. But, for one thing, that was true for several of us, not just me, and, for another thing, shut up.”

  “Oops. I hit a nerve, didn’t I? I always felt sorry for you then. But you grew out of all of your awkwardness. Or most of it, at any rate.”

  “Stephanie, I’m curious about something. Do you ever stop to think how you would feel if someone were to say to you what you say to others?”

  She arched her eyebrows and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Nobody can say that I wasn’t asked to dance or that I’m dressed inappropriately, because that’s never the case. But if I hurt your feelings, I’m sorry.”

  These types of discussions with Stephanie were so much wasted breath. “That’s all right. I’m going back to work, as it were.” I made my way over to Mr. Alberti and asked if his dance card was full.

  “I’d be delighted to dance with you,” he said with a slight, gracious bow. We began to dance, or a reasonable facsimile thereof on my part, although Al was quite good. “My palms sweat a little. I’m sorry.”

  “Everybody’s do, and I hadn’t noticed at all.” Till he brought it up, that is, which was now all I could think about. Suddenly my hands felt as if they were getting waterlogged. Desperate for a subject change, I followed his gaze to an attractive, dark-haired woman in the corner and asked, “Is that your wife?”

  “Yes. We didn’t realize when we first signed up for this class that Chad would force us to change dance partners so frequently.” Al swung me out for some sort of dance step to the side. Not knowing what else to do, I gestured into the air with my left hand and kicked my left foot out. He swung me back toward him.

  “Jim and I are just here on a trial basis. And I think we’ve been found guilty.”

  “Guilty?” Al repeated.

  “In the trial. It was a stupid pun.”

  “Ah.” Again, he released one of my hands to swing me to his side. This time I did a little John Travolta Saturday Night Fever point at the ceiling, then swung back.

  My lame joke had brought our conversation to a screeching halt. Al was doing some sort of tango step. Mine was more like a severe-bladder-problem strut. After a while, he asked, “You discovered Patty’s body, I hear.”

  “Yes. Did you know her well?”

  “Not really. She came into my classroom a half dozen times to help out. She was a terrific parent. If they were all like that, teaching would be a breeze.”

  Chad and his partner, a smitten-looking woman in her late fifties or so, had pulled up beside us. With my inept dancing we were lucky that, so far, we’d avoided crashing into other couples. I smiled at him, but he shook his head and said, “Watch your balance and alignment during your contra positioning, Mallory.”

  “People have been telling me that my whole life,” I replied. Though they usually call me Molly, I added to myself. As we stepped away, I said to Al, “I guess therein lies the appeal for you men. Some of those terms are fairly male-oriented . . . ‘balance,’ ‘alignment,’ ‘contra.’ You could be working on a car, or staging a coup in a jungle.”

  He merely shrugged. “I got into ballroom dance the old-fashioned way. My wife made me.”

  “I wonder how Chad got into this . . . running a dance school.”

  “The studio used to be his and his ex-wife’s. She got the house. He got the business.”

  “Sounds like he ‘got the business,’ all right.”

  The song ended, and Al was soon swept off by a woman I’d never seen before. Jim, too, was dancing with a stranger. I made my way over to Al’s wife and introduced myself.

  We made small talk, then I said, “Everyone
at high school must be stunned by what happened. Especially in your husband’s class that taped our PTA in action. How are his students handling everything?”

  “He hasn’t mentioned them. He’s pretty depressed these days, and not saying much about anything. That’s why I insisted we come tonight . . . to get him out of the house and get his mind on something else for a while.”

  I’m sure my presence here and questions are hardly helping things, I thought. Could Al have had much more involvement with Patty than he claims? Could that be why he’s depressed? “Did you know Patty Birch at all?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Even to a teacher’s spouse, she was hard to miss. A great mother and PTA president I’m sure, but she was a gadfly at the high school. She was even starting to usurp the authority of the teachers at times. It got to be a joke among them. Someone would ask if they could get the vending machine repaired, and a teacher would crack, ‘Have you checked with Patty?’ ”

  To encourage her to keep talking, I nodded and said, “They had quite the controversy over that tape of the PTA. We never knew if it was really Patty who gave the students the idea for filming us in action like that.”

  She frowned. “Oh, it was her idea, all right. She came to Kevin at the start of the year. He told her he wasn’t comfortable with the idea, and thought that was the end of it, but she must have talked to the students themselves.”

  “Really?” That was hard to believe. It was one thing for her to have simply suggested the project; she couldn’t have known how badly it would backfire. But to spear-head the notion? Surely Patty would have realized that she risked—at the very least—the rancor of her fellow PTA officers. “I wonder why on earth she would have done that.”

  “Maybe she honestly believed she was doing such a bang-up job as PTA president that she wanted her reign captured on film. More likely she just wanted to keep up her self-image as being someone high school students thought was cool. Some parents seem to need—”

  Chad called out, “Change partners.” Mrs. Alberti promptly excused herself to join her husband on the floor, and Jane came over to stand beside me, awaiting a new partner. Stephanie, too, was partnerless, and seemed none too happy about it.