Murder at the PTA (2010)

“You’re worse than a teenager with a term paper.” She took hold of my shoulders and turned me around. “Go.” The push she gave me wasn’t exactly gentle.

We both knew I’d tacked the phone number on the board to get her to goad me into action. I couldn’t be angry at her high-handedness—irritated, maybe, but not angry.

I shut my office door and sat at my desk. I looked at the piles of catalogs. I put out one hand, but jerked it back. Lois was right. This wouldn’t take long. And besides, she was probably listening at the door.

I picked up the receiver and pushed buttons. “Dialing!” I called.

“About time,” came the muffled response.

As the phone rang, I tried to think of the right words to say to the sister of someone who was murdered. By the second ring, I’d come to the conclusion there weren’t any.

“Hello?” The voice was raspy and low, but decidedly female.

“Is this Gloria Kuri?” I asked. Maybe it would be someone else. Maybe I could leave a message. It’d be cheating and my grandmother would spin in her grave, but it would still count.

“Yah, this is Gloria.”

So much for cheating. “My name is Beth Kennedy. I’m secretary of the Tarver Elementary PTA, and I called to say how sorry I am about the death of your sister.” Instantly, I wanted to kick myself. Why had I said I was sorry? I was speaking for the PTA and should’ve said we were sorry. I really wasn’t any good at this stuff.

“Oh. Well, thanks, I guess.”

Her near-rudeness gave me a boost. She wasn’t any good at this stuff, either.

“She was an outstanding principal.”

“Yeah?”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “I’m sure it was the worst phone call you’ve ever taken.”

“Who would’ve guessed that ol’ Agnes would end up murdered?” Gloria mused. “Of all of us, I’d have figured her last for something like this.”

“You have a lot of siblings?”

“Oh, yah. Seven of us. Agnes was the oldest, and I was smack in the middle.” She ran off the names of the five other siblings. I should’ve been taking notes. “If I had to make a stab at a murder victim,” she said, “I’d pick Luke. You meet some bad people in jail, you know?”

Whether she meant Luke was bad, or that Luke met bad people, I wasn’t sure.

“Or J.T.,” Gloria added. “She’s got Pop’s temper. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’d started one fight too many with that slacker husband of hers and he finally got guts enough to fight back,” she said. “Yah, that I could’ve seen. But Agnes? Who would’ve figured that?”

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “This must be very difficult for you.”

“It’s been hard for years, with Agnes. You know, I can’t think of the last time I saw her.”

“Have you ever been down here to Rynwood?”

“Nah.”

Agnes had been principal for ten years, and her sister hadn’t managed to find the time even once to drive down? But I knew how the years could speed by. You always thought there would be time to do everything, until suddenly there was no time left at all. My father had died young from a heart attack and left behind a shelf full of travel books for the places he and Mom planned to visit after he retired. I yearned to make Gloria feel better but knew I couldn’t. “If there’s anything I can do,” I said, “please ask.”

“Actually,” Gloria said slowly, “there is one thing. I wouldn’t ask, except that you and Agnes were such good friends.”

“Um . . .” This was what I got for saying I instead of the PTA we. Maybe they were going to bury Agnes down here and she was going to ask me to visit the cemetery and plant flowers. Or maybe she wanted me to speak at the funeral. I could cheat and write a note to be read aloud at the service. I had the letter half written by the time Gloria spoke again.

“See, it’s such a long ways and I’d have to take time off work, and the boss hates when I do that. You’d think being a clerk in an auto-parts store was like a general in the army for how he goes on when I want a day off. I got to be there by noon today, dead sister or no.”

“Um . . .”

“So if I send you a key, you’d take care of things, right? Seeing as how you and Agnes were close.”

“Things?”

“At her house. Clean out the refrigerator, change the mail, do something with the plants, if she has any.”

“I’m not—”

“I’ll call the cops down there and tell them it’s all good with me. You’re a peach for doing this. Beth, right? What’s your address, honey?”

Thirty seconds later, I’d given Gloria my address, agreed to forward any important mail, and promised to keep an eye on the shuttered house until spring, when Gloria or another sibling would come down for house sale arrangements. “None of us goes far in winter,” she said.

Again I spoke before I thought. “Who’s going to make the house payments? Pay the utility bills?”

“That’s not a problem,” Gloria said, and there was a deep sense of bitterness in her tone.

I said good-bye, hung up, and stared into space. What had I done this time? But on the plus side, at least I didn’t have Marina shaking her head and telling me I needed to learn how to stand up for myself.

Cheered, I got up and went to tell Lois to break out the chocolate. Even if I’d been guilted into a job I didn’t want to do, at least I’d made the dreaded phone call and survived—a chocolate-worthy day if there ever was one.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Oliver? Jenna, you’re not wearing flip-flops to school.”

“But, Mom—”

“No whining. I don’t care how trendy they are. A pair of flip-flops is not suitable footgear for forty-five degrees and rain.”

“It won’t stay this cold.” Her lip started to jut out. “And it might get sunny.”

“And it might not. Go change.”

A mutinous ogre took over my heretofore cheerful daughter. The friendly face of yore was replaced by a squatted chin, crossed arms, and slitted eyes. “Bailey’s mom lets her wear flip-flops all winter long.”

“How nice for her doctor.”

“Huh?”

“Unsuitable footwear can lead to colds and flu and bronchitis and pneumonia.” Or at least it might. I was going on instinct; that’s what moms do. “Go change. Now.” I pointed in the direction of the stairs, and she began the long trudge to her bedroom.

“Mom?”

I looked past the empty cereal bowls I was still holding and focused on my son. “Yes, Oliver. What is it?” And please don’t bring up the subject of the dog. Not on a Monday.

Oliver tugged at the collar of his shirt and didn’t meet my eye.

Uh-oh. I put the cereal bowls in the dishwasher, then sat on an island stool. I patted the seat next to me. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” I asked in a bad Jimmy Cagney imitation.

His thin shoulders rose and fell.

“Did I forget to kiss Polly the Hippopotamus last night?”

He shook his head.

“Did you forget something?” Oliver often forgot things the minute he walked out the classroom door. While I appreciated his ability to compartmentalize, it meant numerous mornings scrambling to finish projects and find permission slips.

“Oliver?” I glanced toward the stairs. When Jenna came down, we had to leave. “Okeydokey, kid.” I gave him a hug and laid my forehead on top of his soft hair. “We can talk tonight. Right now—”