Foul Play at the PTA

“We don’t need to prove anything beyond a shadow of a doubt,” Marina said. “All we have to do is figure out who did it and let nature take its course.”

“My nature is quite content to leave this to the police.” Mostly.

“And how long will that take?”

As her right eyebrow went up, I thought about what she’d said. How long would it take for the police to find Sam’s killer? Mrs. Tolliver’s attitude could be contagious. The longer the murderer walked about free, the longer the Mrs. Tollivers of the world would consider my newest employee a menace to society. And the longer Yvonne was considered a threat, the longer my store’s sales would suffer.

“Aha!” Marina pounced. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“Am not.”

“Are too. That little line between your eyebrows is a dead giveaway. It’s only there when you’re thinking that I’m right and you’re wrong.”

“No, I think my head is about to explode because of the completely opposing viewpoints in my head.”

“Completely?”

“This side of my brain”—I tapped my left temple—“is committed to safety, security, and obeying authority. The other side”—I flicked my index finger at the right side—“has an affinity for anarchy. Is it any wonder I get a line in the middle?”

“There’s only one solution.” Marina reached for my plate and stacked it on top of hers.

“What’s that?”

“Loose the blood-dimmed tide!”

I stared at her. “You just quoted Yeats.” Sort of.

“That who it was? It’s the only thing I remember from freshman English. That’s where I met the DH, you know. That widening gyre poem was his favorite.”

I didn’t know which was more disconcerting, Marina quoting Yeats, or the idea of her DH even having a favorite poem.

“You’re off work tomorrow, aren’t you?” she asked. “Good. Be ready at ten.”

“For?”

“Anything!” she said gaily, then sobered. “But you’d better wear black. Oh, quit looking like that. You thought there might not be a funeral?”

“It’s been over a week. I thought maybe Rachel decided to have a memorial service later on.” April would be good. The week I was out of town for spring break would be excellent.

“Somebody said they’re short-staffed at the medical examiner’s. Ew, you know?” She made a face. “And no trying to weasel your way out of this. You know we have to go.”

I sighed. “Why is doing the right thing so darn uncomfortable?”

“Because if it were easy it’d be fun, and fun is never the right thing to have.”

“Never?” What a depressing thought.

“Well, hardly ever.” She took the plates to the kitchen, whistling the Gilbert and Sullivan tune from H.M.S. Pinafore . I followed after her, once again surprised at the things that bounced out of her mouth.

I’d hated every funeral I’d ever attended. Too much baggage, too much emotion, too much everything. Marina said it was my own fear of death, and she was probably right, but that didn’t make it any easier to sit through a service.

Marina elbowed me. “Quit squirming,” she whispered.

The organ was playing a quiet meditation as people filed in. We’d arrived early, but Marina had asked the usher for a seat in the back. I’d spent the next few minutes reading the service’s bulletin, then a couple of minutes paging through the hymnal. Then I sat with my eyes closed, thinking about Sam. Which led me to think about Sam’s wife, which sent me to thinking about the children. Which would have made me cry, so in the name of distraction I started inventing itches at the back of my knees.

“Stop that,” Marina said quietly. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”

“You don’t?”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

She ignored my whisper, which showed how smart she was. I hadn’t been looking at her; I’d been studying the church’s stained glass windows, but now I heard an odd scratching noise that didn’t at all belong in a church, let alone a funeral service. Frowning, I looked around to see what was making the noise.

It was Marina, cradling a small memo pad in her left hand. As an usher went past on his ushering duties, she wrote on her pad.

I bumped her with my elbow. “What are you doing?” I whispered.

“Writing down names.” Her voice, though as quiet as it could get, held the “duh” tone.

“What on earth for?”

Our school superintendent and his wife, Mack and Joanna Vogel, went past, and Marina bent her head to scribble. “There’s a good chance Sam’s killer will show up, and I’m bound to forget someone if I don’t write down the names.”

I was appalled. “You’re taking notes?”

“Shh!” Marina shot quick glances all around. “Do you want the whole town to know what we’re doing?”

My best friend was an idiot. “The only time killers make an appearance at the funeral is in movies.”

She watched Randy Jarvis, our PTA treasurer, lumber up the aisle. Writing, she said, “Movies are rooted in reality. The germ came from somewhere, yes?”

“So the movie plot where a suburban husband singlehandedly fights off a small army of terrorists, rescues his wife, and disarms the ticking time bomb before his children are blown to bits is based in fact?”

“You’re just being difficult,” she said. Claudia Wolff and her husband went down on the list, followed by Tina and Tony Heller. “And we have to start somewhere.”

It was a reasonable statement; we did need a place to begin. So why did I feel so depressed? “Oh,” I said.

“What’s the matter?” Marina looked at me, then saw where I was looking. “Who’s that?”

“Pete Peterson. Remember?” I’d run into Pete last year after Agnes had been killed. It was Pete who’d been instrumental in putting the last piece of our investigative puzzle together. Sort of.

“Ah, yes,” Marina said. “Shortish? Balding? All-around good guy who always makes you feel like smiling?”

“That’s him.”

Pete was alone, and the somber face he wore looked wholly unnatural.

Marina studied the back of his head. “You got to watch out for those nice ones. Do you think—”

“No,” I said shortly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She clucked at me. “Just because you laugh at his jokes doesn’t mean he’s not a killer.”

Her logic, though littered with negatives, was irrefutable. “Doesn’t mean he is, either.” But Pete’s name went on the list in spite of my protests.

“Oh, my goodness.” Marina perked up. “Look at that.”

An usher was leading two couples toward the front of the sanctuary. One set I recognized as Bruce Yahrmatter and his wife, the other was—“Is that Dave Patterson?”

Just before I’d met Evan, Marina had tried to set me up with Dave. He was a nice enough guy, but whenever you talked to him he had this awful habit of saying your name over and over. “Hi, Beth. How are you today?” “How’s business, Beth?” “How’s that dog of yours, Beth?” It wasn’t personal; he did it to everyone, but it set my teeth on edge.

“Who’s with him?” I asked.

“Would you believe Viv Reilly?”