Murder at the PTA (2010)

And,” she added, “what the school board thinks. How satisfied is Mack Vogel that you had nothing to do with Agnes’s murder?”

“I . . .” His chin sank down. “It’s personal.”

Randy chuckled. “You’re not taking figure skating lessons, are you? Those toe picks mess up the ice something fierce.”

Gary mumbled something.

The four of us leaned forward. “What did you say?” I asked.

He sighed and spoke louder. “I take lessons on Tuesday nights. I’ve driven to Chicago on Tuesday nights for five years. But it’s not figure skating. Or hockey or curling, for that matter.”

“Then what?” Erica asked impatiently.

“I take opera lessons.”

“You . . . what?”

“Don’t spread it around,” he pleaded. “I don’t want people to ask me to sing in church or at weddings. Or here at school. Can you just see the kids’ reaction to Tosca’s ‘Recondita armonia’? I mean, please.” He spread his hands wide, palms up, in entreaty. “Opera is the only music I sing. It’s the only music that really matters, you know.”

I didn’t dare look at Erica. I knew she hated opera with a passion.

“Thank you for sharing, Gary,” she said. “If the news of your Tuesday lessons spreads, it won’t be because of anyone in this room.”

We went on with the rest of our meeting. Somewhere between discussion of how the PTA’s mission statement meshed with Tarver’s core values, I pulled out the list and a pencil.

Three down, eight to go.

“You’re getting a what?” Richard asked.

“A dog.” My chin pressed the phone harder into my shoulder as I whacked a few keys on the store’s computer keyboard.

“They’re too young,” he said. “They’re not old enough to take care of a dog. You’ll end up doing all the work yourself.”

It was the exact Richard response I’d predicted. I didn’t say anything, just kept looking at the photos on the local animal shelter Web site. A parrot? Who would leave a parrot at an animal shelter?

“You don’t even like dogs.”

“I love dogs.”

“When they’re someone else’s,” he said.

Why did I keep forgetting that Richard knew everything about me? “The kids could use a little responsibility. It’ll be good for them. Besides”—I enlarged a picture of a tabby cat—“Oliver says if Agnes Mephisto had a dog, she’d still be alive.”

Richard was quiet for a moment. “I can’t have it on my weekends,” he finally said. “My condo doesn’t allow dogs.”

Rats. “Fine,” I said.

“What breeds are you considering?” He launched into a speech on the characteristics of the dogs best suited for young children.

I let him talk while I poked around the animal shelter Web site a little more. When he said he’d e-mail me a list of respected Lagotto Romagnolo breeders, I said, “Thank you, Richard. The store’s getting busy now, so I have to go. Bye.”

Lois looked at me, then looked at the empty store. “Busy must mean something different from what I thought it meant.”

“Words evolve.”

“Mmm.” She flicked her feather duster over the shelves of board books. “Did you see the WisconSINs blog this morning?”

Uh-oh. “What does it say?”

Lois cast me a glance laden with overtones. Surprise, suspicion, pleasure, and anticipation were all wrapped up together in her small smile and lifted eyebrows.

“Thought you didn’t hold with gossip,” she said.

“Everyone is talking about that blog.” I tossed off what I hoped was an eloquent shrug.

The small smile turned large. “And you don’t want to be the last one to know?”

“Well, no one does.”

She cackled with delight. “Where’s the calendar? It’s a red-letter day.” Next to the cash register was a canister of pens, and she reached for a red one. “I can’t wait to tell Marcia.” She turned to the calendar on the wall behind the counter and wrote. “There!” She spun back around and clunked the pen back into the canister.

The calendar I’d mounted on the wall was filled with notations for party dates, author signings, and staff scheduling. Today’s square, however, had the added touch of a small stick drawing. The triangle skirt and hair ending at the shoulders denoted it as female. The outstretched fingers and O-shaped mouth showed the figure’s surprise. Above her head was a lightbulb, and inside the bulb was the word “people.”

I stared at the drawing. People.

“It’s supposed to be funny,” Lois said uncertainly. “You know, silly? Beth finally admits that knowing things about people is important. Hah hah?”

People. I wanted to smack my palm against my forehead. “Thanks, Lois. You’ve been a big help.”

“I have? I mean, good.”

A customer came in and asked for middle-grade books for boys not very interested in reading. Lois took her in hand. I went to my desk and fired up the WisconSINs blog. I glanced at the bottom of today’s entry. Barely ten o’clock in the morning and more than a dozen people had already left comments. Oh, dear.

“Fresh Help for Finding Murderer,” it started. “This blogger is giving you the good news that a new recruit will breathe life into the campaign to ferret out Agnes Mephisto’s killer.

“No longer will the citizens of Rynwood need to wait for the slow wheels of justice to grind out the answer we so desperately crave. Why should we be afraid to walk the streets at night? Why should we quake under our blankets, shivering with the numbing thought that We Could Be Next?

“My friends, it’s time to fight back, and this blogger has enlisted a new vigilante to fight for the cause. Come back tomorrow, dear Readers, for the next installment in the efforts to Take Back the Rynwood Night.”

I closed my eyes. “Oh, Marina,” I whispered. “What have you done?”

Chapter 13

I crossed my arms. “Vigilante?”

Marina chuckled. “Isn’t that a great word? The exact definition is ‘a self-appointed—’ ”

“I know what ‘vigilante’ means.”

“Bookish Beth.” She rolled a pencil toward me. It bounced across her kitchen table and came to rest against my yellow pad of paper. “Can’t you just see it?” she asked. “You and me and all the other people who want to see justice done, banding together for the maintenance of order. Maybe we should get uniforms. A dark green would be just the ticket.”

People, whispered a voice in my brain. What people do is important; what people think is important; what people feel is important. Our job was figuring out which particular people were significant to Agnes, and then we could work on motivations. And motivations are the origins of actions. Find the motivation, find the killer.

“Or a mustache.” Marina’s cheeks were flushing a pale shade of pink. “Don’t you just love those handlebar types?” She twisted the ends of her imaginary mustache.

“No mustaches until we figure out who’s threatening you.”

“Aren’t you the party pooper.”

“Richard is dropping off the kids at eight. I don’t have all night.”