Foul Play at the PTA

going up, then down. Three was three rings of the telephone, etc., etc.

Marina loved the dreadful thing, and laughed until she cried every time I headed for her microwave at one in the afternoon.

“All right, conclusions.” I drummed my fingers on the table.

“Quit that.” Marina slapped at my fingers. “And tell me what’s bugging you.”

I laid my hands flat. “Someone said . . .”

“Yeeesss?”

“That Sam used marijuana.”

Marina’s eyes bulged. “He what?! That’s nuts. That’s crazy. That’s—” She stopped. “That was Denise, wasn’t it? She tried the same thing on me last week.”

“It’s not true?”

“Puh-leeze. End of the summer Denise overheard Rachel talking to a friend about some baseball tournament. College alumni played a team of police officers, and I guess the grass wasn’t cut right and a lot of guys were complaining.”

I was trying out snippets of conversation. “Sam didn’t like the cut of the grass.” “The grass was bad; the police said it was a crime.” Such a logical explanation, once you knew.

I relaxed, eked out a smile, and tossed my notepad on the table. “Conclusion number one.”

Marina held up her index finger. “Ready and waiting.”

“No one that Sam grew up with, played ball with, or who watched him grow up has the foggiest idea who might have killed him.”

“I concur.”

“Conclusion number two,” I said, and Marina’s middle finger went up next to finger number one. “In spite of Sam leading a charmed life, he was too nice to hate. His high school rivals were invited to his graduation party—and they all came. No one, but no one, hated him enough to kill him.”

“Anything else?”

The harsh faces came back to me. “There’s a lot of anger out there. Everyone from Flossie to Gerrit Kole is barely holding it in check. If the police find a what-do-they-call-them, a person of interest, I worry about his safety.”

“You mean like this?” Marina held up an invisible noose, stuck her tongue out and made a choking noise. “Lynch mob,” she croaked out.

“Put your tongue back in your mouth. You’re creeping me out.”

She made her eyes bulge.

“Stop that!”

Marina dropped the noose and reached across the table to pat my hands. “There, there. I’m sorry for scaring you. How about some milk and cookies to calm your tender nerves?”

I yanked my hands away. “It’s not my fault my sisters made me watch horror movies when I was only six.”

“Scarred you for life, poor thing.” Marina’s face was full of sympathy and understanding. “Older sisters are horrible creatures.”

As she was one, she should know. “Yes, they are.” I cast a glance up at the clock. Time to scamper. “Jenna!” I called. “Oliver! Time to pack up.” I looked at Marina. “I take it your conclusions match mine?”

“Yup. Each and every one of the people I talked to assumes Sam was killed by a random stranger. All want a piece of said stranger before he gets put away.” She smacked her fist into her palm. “For the health of our fair town, the killer needs to be found and put in jail. If not, the med center is going to be diagnosing a rash of ulcers induced by festering anger.”

Fester. I shivered. What a nasty-sounding word.

“What’s the matter?” Marina asked.

I wasn’t about to admit that a word scared me. “Since Sam wasn’t killed by someone from his past, what’s next? We still don’t have a motive and we still don’t have any suspects.” We had nothing, and nowhere to go.

“What?” Marina sat up straight. “Do I detect a smidgen of doubt? An ounce of uncertainty? A dram of disbelief?”

I shook my head sideways. Yes, no, whatever.

“We know one thing.” Marina raised one eyebrow. “We know this: ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.’ ”

A direct quote? Julius Caesar, if I remembered correctly. I gave my head a little shake. “Was that—”

“Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,” she said, “it seems to me most strange that men should fear seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.”

I looked at her curiously. “Aren’t you scared of dying?”

“Everybody is. But like old Julius said, it is strange. We’re all going to die; why are we so scared of it?”

“Easy.” I stood, and as I called again for Jenna and Oliver, the memory of a line in an L. M. Montgomery book came to me. “Because it won’t be what we’re used to. It’s the unknown, and there’s not much scarier than that.”

A loud beep went off above my head and Pavlov’s reaction kicked into gear. Adrenaline coursed through me instantly. I jumped, sniffed the air for smoke, looked for smoke, looked for flames, noted the closest exits, gauged how long it would take to get the kids out—

The clock beeped again.

Seven o’clock.

Marina laughed. “You knew that was going to happen, and you were still scared.”

Jenna, followed by Oliver, came into the room. Both were laden with backpacks that looked three sizes too heavy and both were wearing that “Feed me” look.

“Zip your coats,” I said. “It’s cold outside.”

“Fraidy cat,” Marina whispered.

“Better by far to face our fears and conquer them,” I said, “than allow the worms of doubt to eat through our hearts.”

“What’s that from?” Marina asked, frowning. “It sure sounds like Shakespeare, but I don’t remember seeing it in any of the quote books.” Too late, she slapped her hand over her mouth.

I smiled. Smugly. I’d known all along that she hadn’t been reading any of the plays. The odds of Marina reading Richard II from beginning to end were not nearly as good as the odds of me going to Jenna’s next hockey game in a low-cut slinky gown and four-inch high heels.

“It’s from ‘Ode to Marina’s Kitchen Clock,’ ” I said, “by Beth Kennedy.” After I shooed the kids out the door I poked my head back into the kitchen. “Call me later, okay? I have an idea.”

When I woke the next morning, Spot was nestled up against my feet in a warm, furry brown meat loaf shape. George was perched on the back of the nearby chair, one eye opening and closing every so often. I lay there, savoring the quiet calm, then sat up and started planning my day.

During a long conversation with Marina after the kids were in bed, I’d sat at the computer and made another list. Brainstorming 201, and the central idea was money. Not a very original idea for murder, but things became cliches because they happened so often.

Somewhere between writing my suggestion of “inheritance?” and Marina’s of “hidden treasure?” something went ping.

“Oh,” I said.

“What?” Marina demanded. “You had an idea. I can feel it from over here. You know who the killer is, don’t you? I’m getting an image. Tomorrow you’ll make a citizen’s arrest and save Yvonne from Claudia Wolff and her thundering horde, convene a special meeting of the PTA and have her forcibly removed from the vice-presidency- ship, and when you’re done with all that, find a job for Richard and help him mend relations with Jenna.”

“Why is your fantasy world so much better than mine?”

“Because you have an unlimited capacity for guilt. Next question, please.”

“Why do you have it in for Claudia?”