Death of a PTA Goddess

by Leslie O'Kane

  The three couples danced three times apiece. As wonderful and graceful as all of them were, I was practically nodding out. Not wanting to injure myself if I actually did fall asleep and topple over the side of the bleachers, I excused myself and watched the last dance while standing against a gymnasium wall.

  Afterward, I went over to them. Stephanie and Chad took second place in the contest, and seemed very pleased.

  “I thought you two did really well. Especially considering that you were here without your regular partner and really didn’t even practice together.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got to admit that Stephanie filled in for Patty more than admirably. In fact, I’m certain Patty and I wouldn’t have scored as high.”

  “Really?” I asked, surprised that Chad would admit to anything less than perfection from his former dance partner.

  “Patty was an excellent dancer, but she lacked Stephanie’s experience and style.”

  Stephanie released a trilling laugh. “Actually, Molly, Chad and I have been practicing every available minute ever since you dragged me to class with you that night. Besides, ballroom dancing is like riding a bike.”

  “Oh, yeah. Bike riding. I keep forgetting how to do that,” I teased.

  “Well, Stephanie,” Chad said, bowing to her. “Thank you for being such a divine partner.”

  “Thank you, Chad. It was my pleasure.” She gave him a curtsy.

  He searched my face for a moment, then grinned. “It’s Molly, right?”

  “Yes, Chad.”

  He nodded. “I’m a little overly protective of my car. I took another look at that dent your daughter put into my car door and decided it really wasn’t worth repairing.”

  “I’d really rather not feel indebted to you for—”

  He waved off my words. “I mean it. Don’t give the little dent a second thought.” He gave me a little bow. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’d best go chat with my fellow instructors.” He crossed the room.

  Stephanie maintained her smile till he was out of sight. Then she grimaced. “We took second place out of three competitors, and he’s acting as though we won a national event.” She shook her head, then marched off. I rounded the bleachers and saw to my disappointment that Jane, Emily, and Susan had left, and that my coat was the only one still there.

  I put my coat on. It was chilly out as I walked to my car. I put my hands in my pockets and touched what felt like a paper towel. Perhaps I’d stuck it there without remembering. I pulled it out to see what it was.

  In block, handwritten letters were written the words: THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING. BACK OFF!!!

  Chapter 15

  At the End of the Food Line

  In his minuscule office at the police station, Tommy rubbed his forehead and sat for a long moment with his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands. He looked both exhausted and slightly ill. He had already collected the note from me and had sent it on to the lab for analysis. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. Your coat was on the bleachers, unattended. Everyone who was at Patty’s house the night of the murder was there, at one point or another.”

  “Right.”

  “And it was written on a paper towel, which could have come from the men’s or the women’s bathroom.”

  “Right. What do you think the chances are for your getting a fingerprint?”

  “Off a paper towel? Zilch.”

  Tommy looked so tired and forlorn that I found myself wanting to cheer him up. “At least this lets Amber Birch off the hook. She didn’t come to the dance competition at all tonight.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So that cuts the suspects down to Jane, Emily, Susan, Chad, and Mr. Alberti.”

  “You said Stephanie was there, too.”

  “That doesn’t count. She’s not a suspect.”

  “She still had motive, means, and opportunity.”

  “Yeah, but . . . come on.”

  He leaned forward and looked straight in my eyes. “Molly, at this point you are, technically, still a suspect.”

  Offended, I retorted, “Well, then . . . so are you. Do you have an alibi?” Not exactly my wittiest comeback, but I was tired, and, anyway, we can’t all be Dorothy Parker.

  “Yes. I was home with my wife and family. Which is where I wish I were right now!”

  “Well, gee, Tommy. What can I say?” I got to my feet. “Sorry if my quasi death threat has ruined your evening!” I stormed out of his office and drove home.

  The next morning dawned damp and colorless. I hadn’t slept well, Tommy’s words to me wreaking havoc with my nerves. Nevertheless, I was determined to put some spring back into my step. Today was going to be a nostalgic trip down memory lane, or at least down the school cafeteria line. The PTA was sponsoring a special lunchtime celebration at the junior high. This was an “All-Cultures Day.” Nathan was hoping this meant chips and salsa.

  Just as I drove into the junior high building’s parking lot, I saw Amber Birch parking her car and waited for her. She nodded at me and said, “Hello, Molly.”

  “Hi. Joining Kelly for lunch today?”

  “Oh, you betcha.” She looked less than thrilled with the idea. “Tell me something. Whose stupid idea was this?”

  “To tell you the truth, I can’t remember. The PTA has had it in the works for a couple of months now. I think it was one of those collective stupid ideas that spontaneously generate from committees.”

  “That would explain it.”

  “Do you object to the luncheon in particular, or to the idea of All-Cultures Day?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. But let me ask you something . . . do you suppose that in Mexico and Cuba they have North America Day and serve hot dogs, soda pop, and macaroni-and-cheese from little blue boxes?”

  I grinned at the analogy. “No, I rather doubt that they do. Some of the celebrate-diversity programs at schools are a bit silly, but when I was growing up in this town, we didn’t have any of that. We just lived in our own white, middle-class community, largely unaware of other cultures and peoples.”

  She held the door for me, and an unbidden “Age before beauty” popped into my head. “Yeah,” she said, “but that’s kind of the problem. It’s like we’re doing this to appease our guilt for being members of the privileged class.”

  “Maybe so. The whole issue of cultural representation strikes me as one of those damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don’t scenarios. If you’ve got any suggestions, I know the PTA would love to hear them. I remember what you said about hating meetings, but so do I. Why don’t you come to the PTA meetings, anyway?”

  “Maybe I will.” We headed into the lunchroom in tacit agreement that the discussion was over.

  I found my son in the cafeteria, waiting in line with a tray. Several parents before me had butted in line to join their children, so I did as well. Mustering all my enthusiasm, I said brightly, “Hi, Nathan. This is really terrific.”

  “It’d be better if they just served macaroni-and-cheese,” he grumbled.

  “That wouldn’t be representative of the many cultures of the world.”

  He shrugged. “The cheese could have come from a foreign cow.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “That wouldn’t count.”

  “Whenever we do All-Cultures Day, we leave out America. We’re a culture, too.”

  “This is supposed to be a special occasion. We can hardly have Welcome to Another Day in America.”

  “Why not?”

  “How would we be able to tell it apart from any other day?”

  “I like that. I don’t want things to be different. I like macaroni-and-cheese for lunch. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nutritionally, a lot. Plus, as they say, variety is the spice of life.”

  “I hate spicy foods,” he muttered.

  We were far enough in the line to see our servers. To my surprise, the usual grim-faced cafeteria workers were absent. Instead, Mr. Alberti and Chad Martinez were wielding the serv
ing spoons. Al wore a matador’s hat, and Chad a sombrero.

  Al winked when our eyes met. I said, “Hi, Mr. Alberti. You’re really a jack-of-all-trades at school, hey?”

  “Indeed, I am.” He grinned, swept off his hat, and gave a little bow, revealing the protective shower cap that covered his ring of hair. “Actually, I’ve got a substitute handling my class for this period. Patty Birch had asked me to do this a full month ago . . . to help us get into the spirit of All-Cultures Day.”

  Chad was smiling at me as we spoke. I said, “Nice sombrero, Chad.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I must say you both make very handsome cafeteria ladies.”

  “What can I get for you, señor?” Chad said to Nathan.

  “Two tacos without any meat, lettuce, or tomatoes.”

  “Just the cheese and the shells?” Chad asked.

  Nathan nodded, and Al complied without comment.

  “And for you, signora?” Al asked me.

  Wanting to make up for my son’s finicky order, I said, “How about a small serving of everything?”

  As we left the line, Kelly was sitting alone at the end of a table, looking despondent and picking at her food. I glanced behind me and saw to my chagrin that, although we’d entered the cafeteria at approximately the same time, Amber had dutifully gone to the end of the line.

  “Let’s go sit next to Kelly Birch,” I suggested to Nathan.

  “Okay. But the girls have their own tables, usually.”

  “We’ll start a new trend of bipartisanship along gender lines.”

  “Huh?”

  I reached her table and said, “Hi, Kelly. May we join you?”

  “Sure,” she said. Nathan was looking a bit embarrassed, so I quickly opted to appease him and sat next to Kelly. He sat directly across from me.

  Neither child said anything to each other. I said, “I was hoping to see you here, Kelly. How are you doing?”

  She shrugged. “I’m okay, I guess.”

  “Good.” I wracked my brain to come up with another topic of conversation. “Are you entering any of your artwork in the crafts fair this weekend?”

  “I dunno.” She shrugged and stirred her spaghetti with her fork.

  “Why wouldn’t you?” Nathan asked. “You’re the best artist in the whole school.”

  She smiled shyly. “I’m not really. But thanks.”

  By now, Amber Birch had gotten her food and started to head toward us. Kelly mumbled, “Oh, jeez! Who told her she could come!”

  Thankfully, Amber didn’t seem to hear the remark and maintained her smile as she approached our table. “Hi, Kelly. Your dad got tied up at work, I’m afraid, so I offered to take his place.”

  “Lucky me,” Kelly said, her vision riveted to her plate.

  “Have a seat,” I said to Amber, gesturing at the spot beside Nathan and across from Kelly. “The food’s not half bad.” Which was not to say that I’d decided which half was good.

  Nathan said to Kelly, “My mom’s judging the youth competition at the fair. You’re sure to win.”

  I hastened to add, “I did this last year, too, and, just so you know, I never look at the names of the contestants until after I’ve made my decision. But Nathan’s right that you really should enter.” I turned to Amber and explained, “We’re talking about the arts and crafts fair.”

  “What about entering one or two of your watercolors, Kelly?” Amber asked. “That one you did for your mom, of the daffodils, remember? That’s just stunning.”

  Still avoiding her stepmother’s eyes, Kelly said, “I can’t show that one. It was Mom’s. It belongs in her house.”

  An awkward silence fell over us, and we all pretended to be too concerned with eating to talk. Amber said, “I wish they had a multicultural salad here.”

  “Me, too,” I said. Instead, my plate was an international incident waiting to happen to my stomach— Chinese egg rolls, tacos, Spanish rice, spaghetti, French bread.

  Nathan said, “Hey, Kelly. Listen to this.” Nathan forced a burp. “That’s a multicultural burp.”

  To my surprise, Kelly laughed, as did Amber. Amber started chatting about the troubles she’d recently had trying to use a snowboard for the first time.

  “I’m gonna go outside,” Kelly interrupted. “See you later.”

  “Bye, Kelly,” Amber said. She sighed and met my eyes. We couldn’t talk freely with Nathan here. She looked at him and said, “Nathan, I got the chance to watch your skiing last week. You’re really good.”

  “Thanks!” Nathan beamed.

  She turned to me. “Your son’s a natural on the slopes. Has he ever thought about joining a ski team?”

  “Yeah, right,” Nathan grumbled.

  “He’s got the wrong parents for that, I’m afraid. Neither Jim nor I are enough into skiing to fork over the money for season tickets, and I just can’t see driving him round-trip two-plus hours a few times a week for training.”

  “I could drive him myself when I go up. Or we could all go. You could take some lessons from me.”

  “Maybe,” I said, not meaning it.

  Al, who’d been replaced behind the counter, came over to our table. He said to us, “It all seems to be going well, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely. I’d say it was a success.”

  He looked around the room. “Yes. And it’s nice for me to get a peek at my future students.”

  “My son, Nathan, is in the eighth grade.”

  “Ah.” He rocked on his heels and smiled at Nathan. “Do you enjoy studying history, Nathan?”

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  Al’s gaze shifted to Amber, and he snapped his fingers. “I just placed your face. We bumped into each other at the school last night. At the dance competition.”

  My heart quickened. Was it my imagination, or had Amber blanched? “You were there, too?” I asked.

  “Just for a minute. I’d been speaking to a counselor at the junior high, saw a poster advertising the dance, and decided to peek in on it before I went home.”

  Nathan got to his feet. “Save my seat, Mom. I’m gonna go back and get another taco.”

  Amber rose, as well, but said to Mr. Alberti, “Why don’t you take my seat?”

  “No, thanks. I’d better get back to the high school. Good seeing you again, Molly, and meeting your son.”

  “Sure thing,” I muttered to Al, too unnerved at the realization that Amber, too, had been at that blasted competition and could have left me that note.

  She said, “I’ll give serious thought to becoming active in the PTA. It might just be the best thing for me, to get out of my rut in this town.”

  “Great.” I watched her leave, then pushed my tray away. My stomach was suddenly feeling a bit queasy. No wonder someone had taken the ludicrous risk of writing me a threatening note. None of the suspects had been eliminated, and whoever wrote it was successfully messing with my head!

  Just as Nathan returned with his second helping, Susan Embrick arrived at the cafeteria, camcorder in hand. I waved. She came over to our table, gesturing for a large boy a couple of tables down from ours to come with her. Undoubtedly this was Raine Embrick. He made a face, grumbled something to the three other oversized boys at his table, then obliged, carrying his tray of dirty dishes. Although some of his facial characteristics resembled Adam’s, Raine was not as handsome and, to my best estimate, must outweigh him, despite being three grade levels behind.

  Susan gave her son a pat on the shoulder. “This is my son, Raine. This is my friend, Molly Masters, and her son, Nathan.”

  He nodded and said, “Hello,” in barely audible tones, not looking at either of us.

  “You two know each other, right?” I said to Nathan, urging him with my eyes to say hello.

  “Yeah. Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  Nathan stood up and grabbed his tray. “I’ve got to get to class.”

  “Yeah,” Raine said. “Me, too.”

  “Ha
ve a good afternoon, Nathan,” I called after him, getting up to stand beside Susan.

  We watched the boys leave, more or less together. Two Nathans could fit into one Raine, possibly with plenty of room for Karen.

  Susan said, “At least they’re somewhat on speaking terms.”

  “Yes. Nathan hasn’t said anything more to me about any troubles, so let’s hope it stays that way.” Quickly changing subjects, I said, “Are you done with your videotaping?”

  “Almost. I filmed most of the classrooms this morning and just have to get some footage of the cafeteria, then we’re recorded for all posterity.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be riveting. By the way, did you take the tape that Adam made to the police?”

  She stiffened a little. “No, but I really don’t see that it’d be any help in their investigation.”

  “Probably not, but still . . . they can judge that for themselves.”

  “You’re right. I’ll try to find it and get it to them. Just . . . don’t mention anything to your friend Tommy, in case I erased the recording. Okay?”

  “Erased it?”

  “Taped something over it.” She gestured with her camera. “We’ve run out of blank tapes for the camera, so we’ve been reusing them. That recording was made back before Christmas, so it could well be gone by now.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Maybe I was unduly skeptical, but my instincts were warning me that all was not right.

  She grabbed my arm and said conspiratorially, “I guess it’s official, now, that Adam and Karen are going to the prom together. Exciting, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Adam seems like a terrific guy.”

  “He is, and, again, I’m just so relieved that Adam’s developing a more mature sense of what type of girl he should be dating.”

  “Well, I have to say that Skye rubbed me the wrong way, too.”

  “Oh, that reminds me . . . did Emily ever find you last night?”

  “Pardon?”

  “She said she had to take off, but that she had a question about your latest fax for our group. None of us knew where you went.”

  “I was standing right against the wall, in back of the bleachers. My coat was still there, wasn’t it?”

  She looked at my charcoal-colored wool blazer, which I’d been wearing last night when someone stuck a threatening note in my pocket.