Murder at the PTA (2010)

house—they defrosted it. And so on. People from that far north usually made fun of us downstaters for complaining about a long winter. That Agnes had never once mentioned her hometown seemed odd.

“Did you know she was from Superior?” I asked Randy.

He shrugged and took another cookie.

“Considering the distance,” Erica said, “I don’t think the PTA needs to send a representative to the funeral. It’s too far, and we don’t have the budget. But there are two things we can and should do. One, we’ll all sign this card.” She handed me a sympathy card. “Two, the PTA should phone Agnes’s family with a condolence call.”

“Good idea,” Julie said.

“Appropriate,” Randy agreed.

Only then did I realize my three committee comembers were looking straight at me. My pen made a sudden, deep mark on the legal pad. “Um . . .”

“Thank you for volunteering.” Erica smiled. “Call tomorrow, please.” She pushed a small piece of paper across the table. “Here’s the phone number for Gloria Kuri, Agnes’s sister. Please convey our deepest regrets.”

She nodded; Julie nodded; Randy nodded. I took a cookie.

Well, two.

At the store the next day, the shock of Agnes’s murder had evolved into speculation and sidelong glances at strangers. Lois and I unpacked books and checked the contents against the packing list. Between boxes, she told me about the comments posted on the WisconSINs blog.

“No one’s signing their real names, but I’m sure 28in68 is Bruce Yahrmatter and I know flower girl is Colleen Emery.”

“How?”

She gave me an “Oh, please” look. “Have you seen what Donna drives?”

“You know I don’t notice cars much.”

“You must have noticed the VW Beetle around town, the one with the flowers painted all over?”

Even my car-impaired brain had noticed the purple vintage Beetle with the big daisies. “Okay, but how do you know about Bruce?”

Lois flicked out the blade on the utility knife. “He graduated from high school in 1968 and wore number twenty-eight on every team he played: football, basketball, and baseball.”

So simple, once you knew.

Lois sliced open a box and stood there, clicking the blade in and out, in and out. “Who do you think killed Agnes?”

“Me?” I reached inside the box for the contents list. “How would I know?”

“You must have a theory. Everybody does, and you’re much smarter than the average yahoo.”

“If I’m so smart, why did I forget to order that new Thanksgiving book?”

“C’mon, tell Aunt Lois your guess for the killer.”

“I really haven’t thought about it.” I fastened the contents list to a clipboard. “Ready?”

She cocked her eyebrows. “Puh-lease. You can’t pull that one on me. You’re a mom and you’re scared for your kids. Of course you’ve thought about it.”

“Well . . .”

“Ah-hah! I knew it!”

Truth be told, I’d thought about the killer’s identity on and off ever since Marina’s phone call. How could I not wonder? There was a murderer running free, and it was only natural to imagine yourself inside an episode of Columbo or Magnum, P.I. or NYPD Blue. Though I didn’t think I was overly smart, neither did I think myself completely stupid. So it was disquieting that I couldn’t come up with a single person who might have killed Agnes. Sure, a lot of people didn’t get along with her, but it was a long way from anger over school cafeteria offerings to murder.

“Do you think Gus is reading that blog?” I asked.

“Gus has handed over the investigation to the county sheriff, so I can’t imagine it matters if he reads it or not.”

I gaped at her. “He didn’t say anything when I talked to him yesterday.”

“Not sure it was voluntary.” She snicked the utility knife closed. “Cindy said the sheriff called just after lunch.” Cindy did the landscaping at the police department and had a knack for being around for breaking events. “Forty-five minutes later,” Lois said, “the parking lot was jammed with county vehicles and the conference-room door was shut tight for two hours.” She tossed her head. “Looks as though the county folks think Gus couldn’t figure this out himself.”

Yesterday, it had seemed most of Rynwood thought the same way, but that was before the big guns had muscled in. We could scoff at Gus and his staff, but no outsider had better do so.

“I’m sure the sheriff and his deputies have had a lot of experience with murder.” I unfolded the packing list.

“But they don’t know us.” Lois pulled books out of the box, scattering foam peanuts everywhere. “They may have fancy investigating techniques, but they don’t know Rynwood.”

And to that there was no rejoinder.

Chapter 7

Procrastination can be a useful tool. Sometimes, if you delay long enough, the need to do a task evaporates completely, and you can joyfully feel justified in your procrastination. Of course, there are times when the job hangs over your head and clouds your days, making you miserable with stomach-tightening anxiety. You know you should get on with the task; you know that delaying the icky job isn’t going to make things any easier. You know all that, but you still find reasons to put it off.

So it was Friday, the day after I was asked to call Agnes’s sister, that I tacked Erica’s slip of paper to the bulletin board over the bookstore’s teapot.

“Who’s Gloria Kuri?” Lois peered at the handwriting. “That’s the area code for the great white north. Is she a new writer?”

Since I’d purchased the store, I’d done my best to have events promoting any author who happened to wander by. We also had reading groups where we gave gift certificates to any child who read a book a month. We’d had poetry parties where each child read a poem aloud. Last summer the employees had dressed up as children’s book characters and given a prize to everyone who guessed all of them correctly. Lois’s costume was the hardest to figure, but then not many people dress up as Mike Mulligan’s steam shovel.

“Gloria Kuri is Agnes Mephisto’s sister,” I said. “I was volunteered by the PTA to make a condolence call.”

“And you haven’t yet, have you?” Lois turned, arms crossed over her bright yellow corduroy blazer. “You don’t want to do it, and you’re putting it off.”

“I’ll call today,” I said vaguely. “It’s early. She could still be asleep.”

“It’s ten thirty in the morning.” Lois tapped her watch. “The only day this could be considered early is the first of January.”

“Maybe she works third shift somewhere and she’s sleeping.” Desperation makes you say stupid things. I hated calls like this. I never said the right thing, could never come up with any words of comfort, and had never once felt as if calling did any good.

“Then I’m sure she turns the ringer off while she sleeps. Here.” Lois plucked the slip of paper from the board and handed it to me. “Go call.”

“Now?” I backed away from the fluttering paper. “I can’t. I have to—”

“This will take all of five minutes.” Lois put the slip in my hand and closed my fingers over it. “Go into your office, shut the door, and dial the number.”

“What if it gets busy?” I glanced at the empty store. “I’ll call later this afternoon, when Paoze gets here.”