Foul Play at the PTA

She slewed her eyes left and right, but no one in the salon was paying any attention to us. In the back, a fiftyish woman was sitting under a beehive hairdryer and reading True Confessions. The two stylists who worked for Denise were both busy with clients. One was highlighting a teenager’s hair and talking about the latest Lady Gaga news, while the other was concentrating on the curly, full-bodied style her straight- haired client had cut out of a magazine.

Denise spoke into my ear. “You know how everybody says Sam is such a nice guy? I’m not so sure.”

My stare contained total and complete incomprehension. “What do you mean?”

She put her mouth an inch away from my ear. “I think he smoked grass. You know, marijuana?”

“What?” Other words bubbled up in my throat—no, don’t be silly, how ridiculous, how can you say such a thing—but only the one came out. “What?”

“Shhh.” Denise made quieting motions with flattened hands. “Don’t let anyone hear.”

I nodded; the town might not rise up and lynch her for slandering Sam, but she’d have a hard time getting anyone to believe her.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

No, I didn’t. I started to frame a reply of sorts, but she went on without me.

“No one will,” she said. “And if one more person says how nice a guy Sam was, I’m going to scream. No one is that nice. It just can’t happen.”

“But until a little bit ago,” she said, pulling back a few inches from intimate revelations to whispered confidence, “I thought the same thing. That he’s just so nice. Isn’t it funny how your idea about someone can change with one sentence?”

Back to the topic of the easily made—or lost—reputation. I wanted to ask what sentence it was, and by whom it was uttered, but I knew better than to interrupt Denise when she was in full spate. If I diverted the flow, it might never get back to its original path.

“It’s funny,” I said agreeably.

“Yeah.” Denise sighed. “And that’s why I don’t want to spread this around. Maybe I’m wrong about Sam. For the sake of the kids, I hope I am.” She shook her head. “If he was only using, that would have been bad enough. But what I heard makes me think he might have been selling, too.”

“What?”

“Shhh.” Denise made frantic shushing noises. “See why I want it hush-hush? If the rumor gets around, the guy could be scared off, and they’ll never solve the murder, see?”

I wasn’t sure I followed, but Denise’s line of thinking was more along the line of Marina logic. Both had a habit of not letting facts interfere with their conclusions.

“So you’ll tell Gus?” Denise asked.

I got an image of the meeting. I’d walk into his office and tell him I’d heard that someone suspected Sam of selling and using drugs. He’d politely take notes and then, as soon as I’d left, laugh uncontrollably and toss the notes into the trash.

“He’ll want evidence,” I said.

“Evidence?” Her face flashed with indignation. “I have the best evidence of all. Sam’s very own—”

A woman’s shriek rent the air. “Deniiiiise!” The front door banged shut. “You have to help me,” she wailed. “I can’t be seen in public like this, I just can’t!” Though the temperature was up into the midforties, the thirtyish woman wore a knit hat that covered her entire head. Its cheerful strings tied under her chin were a stark contrast to the anguish on the woman’s face.

“What’s the matter, honey?” Denise hurried to her side. “Let me see, okay?” She sounded like an emergency room pediatrician. “Take that off and we’ll take a look.”

Sobbing, the woman untied the strings and, with all of us watching, slowly pulled off the hat.

A collective intake of breath drew all the oxygen out of the room, and I was sure we were all thinking the same thing: That poor woman. I’m so glad it isn’t me.

Her hair was green. Not the bright green you got from the temporary color kids used to paint their hair school colors, and not the green that blondes get from spending too much time in the swimming pool, but a miserable mottled pea soup kind of green that was as unattractive as mold on the last piece of pumpkin pie.

“Oh, honey.” Denise put her arm around the woman’s shoulders and steered her toward the back of the salon. “It’s bad, but I seen worse. We’ll make it better, don’t you worry.” She called back over her shoulder. “Jenn? Call my clients and let them know I have a hair emergency.”

“Sure thing,” Jenn said. “Um, for how long? Midafternoon?”

With a grim visage, Denise studied the green tresses. “Better make it the whole day.” To the woman she said, “C’mon, honey. Let me get you in a chair.”

The salon was filled with head shakes and whispers. There was no way I’d be able to talk to Denise now. Whatever she had to tell me would have to wait. But I was just as glad. I did not want to hear anything bad about Sam. Not an ideal attitude for someone trying to find a killer, but then I never claimed to know what I was doing.

When I returned to the store, a surprising sight greeted me: There were actual live customers browsing among the shelves. Not one, not two, but three people were picking up books and reading their contents. I counted them a second time and still came up with three, and all appeared to be shopping separately.

One, two, three. I smiled contentedly. This would all work out. Some people in Rynwood might stay away from the store because they thought Yvonne was a threat to motherhood and apple pie, but most would be reasonable. And a large share of my customers came from environs beyond Rynwood. How many people in Madison would know—or care—who was on staff?

With a heart much lighter than it had been two minutes earlier, I shed my coat and purse and waded into the fray. Lois had many superpowers, but even she could only be in one place at a time. Offhandedly, I made my way across the store, straightening books and realphabetizing as I went.

I approached Customer Number One, a sixtyish woman who’d laden herself with picture books, graphic novels, and two puppets. A grandmother, I guessed, but after the time I’d asked a gray-haired customer how old her grandchildren were, and she’d snapped that her children were five and seven and that if I had the sense of a toad I’d be able to tell she wasn’t a day over forty-five, I’d taken to asking different questions.

“Hi,” I said. “Could I take those up to the counter for you?”

She gave me a grateful smile. “That would be wonderful. I’m not sure I want them all, though.”

“That’s fine,” I assured her. “We’ll sort it out at the register.”

Arms full, I headed to the counter. The phone rang, and one puppet tumbled to the floor as I tried to bring the goodies in for a landing and answer the phone at the same time.

“Good morning, Children’s Bookshelf. How may I help you?”

“Morning?” Marina asked. “What time zone are you in?”

I glanced at the wall clock. “Pacific. I hear it’s nice in San Diego this time of year.”

“The only time it isn’t nice in San Diego is during forest fire season.”

I picked the fox puppet off the floor and slid it over my hand and made it bark silently. “When was the last time you were in San Diego?” Bark, bark, bark.

“Thou must not underestimate mine travels,” she said airily.

“The only place outside of the Midwest you’ve gone in the last three years is Boston, and that was to take your youngster to college.”

“Mayhap,” she said. “However, travel is not only of the body, but also of the mind. Why let mere flesh keep you rooted in a single place?”

I tried to think of a reply, but soon gave up. Some days I just couldn’t keep up with her. “Did you have something to tell me, or are you just going to be irritating?”

Marina chuckled. “Gotcha. Are you keeping score this month, or am I?”

If we actually kept score, the tally would be a sixfigure number on her side and a big round zero on mine. “Numbers are merely symbolic approximations of reality. I care not for them.”