Death of a PTA Goddess

by Leslie O'Kane

  I held out my hand to shake hers, but she merely stared at it. She shifted her gaze to my face. “Molly Masters. You’re active in the Carlton PTA. What’s going on? First Stephanie Saunders starts interrogating me at the hair salon yesterday. Now you show up here.”

  “Well, you’re right that something’s going on. Stephanie’s a fr—an associate of mine, and we’re trying to help the police investigate our friend Patty Birch’s murder. You’re Denise Goodman, right?”

  She pursed her lips and glared at me, saying nothing. “You must have children in school at Carlton, right? Well, so did Patty, and so do Stephanie and I. We just want to make Carlton a safer place, you know?”

  She took a step backward and said nothing, her features still set in a frown.

  “The thing is, I need to know who exactly you saw accompanying Patty Birch here.”

  “Why is that any of your business?”

  “It isn’t, really, but it’s possible that the man’s wife could have gotten so enraged at Patty after learning of the affair that she killed Patty.”

  She switched on her flashlight and shined the beam right in my eyes. I had to look away as she said in a haughty voice, “I’m supposed to tell you something like that? I don’t know you from beans!”

  I held up my hands, forced to squint at her, although she’d averted the beam slightly. “Fine. Don’t tell me. Just tell the police.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t! I’ll get thrown in jail. Lucinda has a restraining order against me. In fact, I’ve got to get out of here right now.”

  “Fine. I’ll walk you home.”

  She pivoted but said firmly, “Don’t bother. I have nothing to say to you.”

  I balled my fists and followed her. “In that case, I’ll just have the investigating officer speak to you.”

  She lifted her head in defiance and kept up her steady gait. We were now halfway through the woods. “He already did, but I’ve got a lousy memory. I can’t even remember what we were talking about.”

  “You told Sergeant Newton you didn’t remember anything at all?”

  “It wasn’t a sergeant. Just some guy my age who’d made junior policeman.”

  “So your memory isn’t so bad after all.”

  “No, just selective.”

  “Please, Denise.” I caught up to her and grabbed her arm. She jerked it from my grasp as I pleaded, “What if you could put Patty’s killer behind bars?”

  “Then I’d have to testify about how I met her. And I’ll get jailed for violating the restraining order. And this restaurant will get all that publicity, and its business will increase tenfold. No thank you.”

  “Those matters are trivial compared to getting a killer behind bars!”

  She spun around to face me. “Come off it! All I saw was some man stepping out on his wife. I’m not getting involved. Leave me alone.”

  She picked up her pace, and a pine tree bough slapped me in the face. “Damn it,” I muttered, stopping to tend to my eye. Officer Bob had been correct. An eye gouge, even from a pine tree, could stop a pursuer dead in his or her tracks.

  My vision already limited with darkness and now half blinded, I picked my way back through the woods to my car. By then, at least my eye had more or less cleared up. Just as I started to unlock my door, Stephanie’s BMW pulled into the lot.

  I stood with my arms akimbo as she shut off her engine and came toward me. “You’re too late, but thanks, anyway. I already found your Denise Goodman and spoke to her, and she wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “She’s hardly my Denise Goodman.”

  “Well, she sure isn’t mine. The good news is, a police officer spoke to her already. The bad news is, she told me she denied everything to him.”

  “Why?”

  “She doesn’t want to get involved. Even so, the officer will surely have talked to the employees here and gotten a description of the man who came here with Patty.”

  “Let’s hope so.” She sighed. “Come on, Molly. Since we’re here, let’s go in and have some dinner. I’m famished.”

  “So am I, but I’m supposed to go to—”

  “We’ll make it something quick. I’m buying.”

  We went inside. The decor had a strong New England flavor, as though we’d walked into someone’s house on the Cape. Few seaside houses came equipped with a dance floor and full bar, however. A hostess asked us if we were “Two for dinner,” and I interrupted Stephanie’s request for a table by the window to explain that I only had half an hour, and we would prefer to grab something quick at the bar. Stephanie held her tongue, but was clearly less than pleased.

  We took seats at the bar itself, and the bartender put down the glass he was drying and came up to us. “Your friend finally showed up, I see.”

  “Yes, she did. But now we’re pushed for time and need to eat and run, unfortunately.” Though I felt silly for continuing to act like a professional investigator, I couldn’t give up this easily. “Lucinda’s came highly recommended by a friend of ours who used to be a regular here . . . before she died, that is. Patty Birch.”

  He narrowed his eyes, but handed us two small, laminated menus. “The police were asking me about her just last night. Far as I know, she never actually ate here. She would just order a ginger ale or two and use our dance floor.”

  Stephanie immediately said, “Her dance partner was a tall Latino man, right?”

  “No, she was always with some average-looking Joe, about my height . . . five-eight, middle-aged.”

  “He was average looking?” I prompted.

  “Yeah. I gave his description to the police officer. So. What can I get you ladies?”

  “Can you give us a couple of minutes to decide?” Stephanie asked pleasantly.

  “Actually, I really do have to eat and run.” I glanced at the menu and chose the first thing I saw. “I’ll just have an order of potstickers and a glass of water.”

  “Fine,” Stephanie said. “I’ll have the same thing. But make my ‘water’ a glass of your finest chardonnay.”

  The bartender gave us our drinks, then left to put in our order in the kitchen. I said to Stephanie, “Jane’s husband is around five-eight or so. Have you ever met Emily Crown’s husband?”

  She nodded. “He is medium-height, too. And he and Emily are good dancers. They occasionally took classes from Chad.”

  “Mr. Alberti’s off the hook, since I would think the bartender would have mentioned it if Patty’s partner was bald.”

  “Plus his wife wasn’t a PTA officer. Susan’s husband, on the other hand, is even taller than Chad.”

  I frowned and shook my head. “Something’s bugging me about this whole . . . dancing business.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know yet. I feel like I’m overlooking something obvious.”

  She swirled the pale liquid in her wineglass, then took a sip. “I’m sure you’ll come up with whatever it is soon.”

  Our food came, and we focused our attention on that. We each had six potstickers, which Nathan had once described to me as “wontons without the soup.” They were tasty, and I ate quickly, wracking my brain for whatever it was that somebody had said to me about Patty and dancing.

  “That’s it!” I cried, suddenly remembering. I set down my fork and pushed my plate away. “Chad wouldn’t let Jane and Aaron Daly dance at that contest, remember? He felt that his dancers were supposed to represent his studio, and Aaron had gotten lessons from somebody else.”

  Stephanie arched an eyebrow. “So?”

  “So, what if Patty was giving lessons to Aaron Daly here all that time? Remember how he came into the studio and told Jane he’d taken lessons as a surprise to her?”

  She nodded and said thoughtfully, “Which could explain why Patty kept coming here with another man even though, according to your research, she was trying to win her ex-husband back.”

  She smiled and crooked her finger at the bartender, who came over. “Pardon me, I know you’re
busy, but one last question about our friend, Patty Birch.”

  He leaned both elbows on the bar. “Go ahead.”

  “This man that Patty was dancing with . . . was he as good a dancer as she was?”

  “No, it looked to me like she was teaching him.”

  She gave me a triumphant smile. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.” She handed him a twenty and said, “Keep the change.”

  The moment we’d pushed out the door, Stephanie said, “Well, that solves it. Jane Daly did it.”

  “We have no proof of that, Stephanie. All we have is a theory. And even if Denise Goodman sees fit to identify Jane and her husband to the police, that’s still all we’ll have—a theory.”

  She stopped walking, put her hands on her hips, and eyed me. “Rain on my parade, why don’t you!”

  “A plausible theory with corroborating evidence is better than nothing. I’m just saying that it’s not the same as positive proof. Please do me a favor . . . go to Tommy’s house right now and tell him what we’ve learned about Jane Daly. He’ll probably at least be willing to bring her in for questioning, and if she’s guilty, maybe she’ll break down and confess.”

  “Aren’t you coming, too?”

  “No, he’ll listen better if this comes from you than from me, and I promised I’d judge the contest tonight. Provided, of course, that plenty of other judges are there and Jane Daly’s nowhere near.”

  There were only three cars in the parking lot at the fair by the time I arrived. I got out of my car slowly and reluctantly, wishing there were more people around. Just in case Jane Daly truly was the killer, I didn’t want to take any chance of winding up with her in an otherwise empty building late at night.

  The warm air inside the exhibition hall bore the pleasing scent of wood chips and potpourri. The woman guarding the front door was not Jane. I showed her the card identifying me as a judge and asked, “Is Jane Daly here?”

  “No, she’s not.”

  “Is she supposed to come here tonight for any reason?”

  “No, she worked this morning. Can I give her a message?”

  “That’s okay. Thanks.” I breathed a little easier and made my way over to the section where the works of eighteen-and-under artists were displayed.

  I soon saw what Karen meant about my decision being difficult. The artwork was outstanding. Here I was, judging work way beyond my own ability level by artists less than half my age. What was I supposed to say to a sixteen-year-old who could somehow make a flower-covered garden come so alive, or a portrait look so haunting? Well, your work is good, yes, but I get to rule that you’re not worthy of a blue ribbon because I can draw a pair of funny-looking rabbits in tuxedos with arched eyebrows and pink noses in the air, saying, “Pardon my impertinence, Sir Fluffy Foo-foo, but didn’t you wear that very same ecru-colored cumberbunny to last year’s banquet?”

  As I made my way down the aisle feeling a sinking hopelessness at having to decide, the final entry stopped me in my tracks. It was a watercolor portrait of Patty Birch. Because of the medium, the colors had a faded, ghostlike feel, which added to the effect. It was an extraordinary painting, but so were many that I’d seen, and it was excruciating to have to decide whether or not my judgment was tainted by my added desire to see Kelly win.

  I agonized over the decision. Ultimately, I decided to award her with first place. Furthermore, I vowed that I was not going to feel guilty if some partiality had crept into my judgment, because I’d tried my best to be fair . . . at the fair. I awarded the other ribbons, including the second- and third-place ribbons.

  Afterward, I felt that I’d earned the right to see the other exhibits, although I’d gotten the impression that my fellow judges had already left. As long as the door was unlocked, the lights were on, and Jane Daly wasn’t around, I was in no danger of getting trapped inside for the night.

  The next aisle featured paintings by the adults, and they were no better than the ones that I’d judged. One immediately caught my eye, because it was so unsettling—a naked woman shown from the waist up, screaming to the heavens. What was particularly remarkable was that the work wasn’t a painting at all, but rather was a mosaic made with tiny plastic beads glued into place. It was hard to imagine somebody taking such painstaking effort and expense to build such a hideous image. The judge, apparently, must have shared some of my misgivings, for the artist had only been awarded a red ribbon. I looked at the name card that identified the artist: Jane Daly.

  “Oh, crap,” I muttered to myself.

  “I’d like to think it’s better than that,” a woman’s voice said from directly behind me.

  I gasped and turned slowly. Jane Daly had somehow sneaked up behind me and met my gaze with dagger eyes. It was all I could do not to scream and step back.

  “Hi, Jane.” I gestured at the portrait. “This is a remarkable piece.”

  She continued to glare at me. “I would expect a fellow artist to appreciate the emotions that my work expresses, if not the subject matter.”

  “Oh, it does indeed express a lot of emotions. Your work depicts total despair, for one thing.”

  She crossed her arms and looked at her portrait. “I wasn’t sure if I should really exhibit that here or not. Obviously my judge couldn’t relate to it. Can’t say that I’m surprised. I started work on this last year, when Patty won with a reproduction of van Gogh’s Sunflowers made entirely out of M&M’s.” She chuckled. “My mosaic doesn’t exactly belong in this country-kitsch fair, along with all the knitted mouse-head golf club covers or the little-piggie oven mitts, and cranberry muffins . . . and walnut preserves.”

  There’s such a thing as walnut preserves? Jane seemed to be in no mood to discuss such matters, and, truth be told, I wasn’t, either. Whether or not she actually was Patty’s killer, I was now nervous in her presence.

  I glanced around me. There was nobody else in the immediate area. “The guards are probably ready to lock up now. I guess I’d better be going.”

  “So do you like it? My self-portrait? Would you have given it a blue ribbon?”

  I looked again at the mosiac. “It’s very good, plus unusual. But you’re right. It’s too disconcerting to be a big crowd-pleaser at a little local fair like this.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Would you give my painting a blue ribbon?”

  “I doubt it. The piece isn’t my taste.”

  She nodded and sighed. “I appreciate your honesty. Frustrating, really, when I think about it. You know, Molly, until Patty came along, I had won Best-in-Show honors six years running. Do you have any idea how hard that is? Out of more than a thousand entries each year, different judges each time, to win the very highest honor six times in a row? I mean, it’s like . . . I was the Michael Jordan of the Carlton Fair.”

  “Yes, you were. Good for you, Jane. It’s very impressive.”

  “Then, two measly years, Perfect Patty wins the honors. And I’ve got to tell you, Molly, that first year, I allowed her to win by deliberately not entering my very best pieces. Everybody just . . . kneels down before her and heaps praises on her and acts like I never even existed. Even though I won this thing six times, and she only won it twice.”

  “I can imagine how that must feel.”

  “So now I’m free. The weight’s off my shoulders. I can enter whatever I want in the contest, but . . . it’s like I lost all my creativity, all of a sudden. I look at my work over the year, and . . . I’ve got nothing to show for it.” She gestured at her mosaic. “I mean, come on. The Carlton judges are hardly enlightened enough to bestow honors on a portrait of a naked woman screaming, now are they?”

  For some reason, she started to cry.

  A chill ran up my spine. “I’m really sorry, Jane. I’ve got to get home soon. My—”

  “What am I going to do?” Jane said through her tears.

  Was there anybody else here? Other judges? The guard must still be here. The place now had an eerie, deserted feel to it.

&nb
sp; She sniffled. “Did you see the way my husband danced with me, at Chad’s studio?” Jane asked, forcing a smile.

  Oh, my God. Why would she mention that now? “Yes, and he obviously loves you a lot to . . . take lessons for you.”

  She dried her eyes and nodded. “Yes, he does.” She gave her head a shake. “I’ve got to get home and get dinner going. Can I walk you to your car?”

  I wanted to keep a safe distance from her. “Oh, no, I . . . think I might have left something over in the section I was judging. My extra ribbons.”

  She pursed her lips and shuffled off toward the door.

  My heart was racing. I listened to Jane’s heels across the concrete floor and breathed a little easier when I heard the gymnasium-style door open and shut behind her. I pulled my keys out of the pocket of my jeans. I would give Jane a minute’s head start, then get my cell phone out of my glove box and let Tommy know that, evidence or not, I was now certain that she was the murderer.

  Save for my own pounding heart, the building appeared to be empty. At the top of my lungs I called out, “Is anybody here?”

  My voice seemed to echo slightly among the rafters, but there was no answer.

  I headed for the exit, then stopped. There was always the chance that Jane would be waiting to mug me right outside the main exit. I decided to go out through the rear exit instead.

  I hurried my pace. The door was bolted. I tested the knob, but it was locked. Damn! I would have to go through the main exit after all.

  I started to jog down the main row. I stopped short. Jane Daly was standing alone next to the double doors, which had been chained and padlocked from the inside.

  Chapter 19

  No Exit

  I struggled to hide my fear. “Jane. You . . . didn’t leave.”

  “No, and I told the guard I’d lock up tonight, so it’s just you and me.”

  She had one hand hidden behind her back. I prayed that she wasn’t holding a deadly weapon, but knew my prayers were unlikely to be answered. Trying to sound relaxed, I said, “I’m ready to go now, so you can let me out.”

  “Drop the routine, Molly. Neither of us is that good of an actor.”