Murder at the PTA (2010)

wasn’t exactly a place of safety and sunshine.

We moved out of the study and started an awkward walk down the hall. With one of his hands on my neck like a firm collar and his other hand tight on my upper arm, our feet kept banging into each other.

For a short moment I debated tripping him intentionally. The scenario played out in front of me like a movie. Potential victim is marched down a hallway, sees an opportunity, trips the evildoer. Evildoer does not release grip on victim as he falls, but he hangs on to the frail neck and uses victim to cushion his crash to the floor. Evildoer’s elbow jabs into victim’s abdomen, knocking the wind out of her.

Without breath, she cannot run. Without breath, she cannot even scream as Evildoer, in a rage at her efforts to escape, squeezes her throat until there are no more breaths.

So much for that plan.

“Keep moving.”

He pushed me, and I moved forward. It seemed unlikely that he’d lead me straight into a wall, but my experience with bad guys was minimal. The closest I’d come to witnessing a felonious assault was in a parking lot after a Northwestern vs. Wisconsin football game.

“Oh . . .” I stumbled forward a step and was jerked back upright by Iron Grip. Choking and gasping, I regained my footing and realized the flooring had changed from carpet to linoleum. We’d made it to the dining area, and I’d tripped over the little piece of trim that kept the carpet in place.

Don’t kill me, I pleaded silently. My children needed me. My bookstore needed me. My siblings needed me—or they might one of these days. My mother would be disappointed at having to plan a funeral for a single daughter. My cat would miss me, the dog will be sent back to the animal shelter, and who would volunteer to be the PTA’s secretary?

Inside my blanket, which was getting warm and steamy from too many of my breaths, I looked at my last thought. Did the role really mean that much to me? I’d taken it on, thinking I could retire permanently after a year, but there was so much to do. The afternoon Erica had stopped by to give gardening advice, we’d come up with a dozen projects. A year wasn’t enough; two years wouldn’t be enough. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up like Randy, a lifer on Tarver’s PTA committee.

If I had a life.

I stood up a tiny bit straighter. He pinched my neck hard, and I sank back down again. Okay, if I couldn’t act brave, I’d try to think brave. Be smart. Pay attention. Pick up clues. Do something useful. All those mysteries and thrillers I’d read must have some practical application. Jack Reacher would have overpowered Iron Grip in an instant, so he wasn’t much use as my role model. Best to stick to my own gender. What would V. I. Warshawski have done in my situation? Sharon McCone, Tess Monaghan, Anna Pigeon? Harriet Vane? Even Miss Marple would be doing something.

That was it: Miss Marple. She’d be noticing things. I could do that. And why hadn’t I already?

I wasted half a step in self-recrimination, then tried to pay attention. Was he wearing any cologne? Washed with a scented soap, used a perfumed deodorant, had garlic for dinner? I sniffed quietly. Nothing.

Sight was no good with a blanket over my head, so what was left? Taste, but all I could get was the metallic and slightly bloody taste of adrenaline.

“Stop,” he whispered.

Sound. I could hear. And touch. Maybe I’d be able to sneak a feel of his clothing or even him. How long was his hair? Did he have a beard or mustache?

A door creaked open. “Down the stairs,” he said. The last s slid into a hiss. I was sure that s would haunt my dreams for years—assuming that I had years left to me.

“Down,” he whispered.

I edged forward until the front ends of my shoes curled down over air. Through the blanket I felt for the handrail. The grip was slippery, but I gained a small sense of comfort from the rail’s existence.

Down one stair. Down another. When I had both feet on the third stair, the door slammed shut behind me. I whirled around and almost fell down the rest of the stairs. I started to shout, but the memory of his threat kept me from calling out. Maybe he hadn’t meant it, but maybe he had.

I heard the screech of heavy furniture being slid across linoleum. It screeched closer and closer until it thumped against the basement door. I was blocked in.

Now what?

I went up a step, then retreated a step. What could I do when I was virtually blind? The blanket over my head was so thick—

There are those rare days when a stroke of genius strikes you like a bolt out of the blue and you bask in the glow of smartness. This wasn’t one of those days.

I pulled the blanket off my head.

But even blanket-free, I was still surrounded by mostly dark. I felt around for the light switch, and brightness burst around me. Instantly, I felt better.

I listened to Iron Grip move around the house, opening and closing doors, and tried to figure out what he was doing. His movements didn’t make any sense—not at first, anyway. He had a mission; I was just too dumb to understand.

He’d been looking for the electrical panel. One loud click and I was plunged back into a deep and endless darkness.

Chapter 17

I went all the way downstairs, found a chair, and spent some time scolding myself. If I’d worn spike heels, maybe I’d have had the presence of mind to do a rapid double-stamp backward on Iron Grip’s insteps, send him into fetal-position pain, and run as fast as I could to Marina’s house.

For a moment I let myself dream that dream. Brave Beth, using her wits to escape her captor, bring a killer to justice, and return peace of mind to Rynwood.

Hah. Maybe men could maintain fantasies like that. Most women had a firmer grasp on reality. I recalled a bit from a long-forgotten comedian. Girls read superhero comic books as the stories they are; boys read comic books and consider the superhero’s job a career option.

I wondered what Iron Grip had in mind for me. Then, and only then, did I start wondering why he was here in the first place. As an amateur sleuth, I was making an excellent divorced mother of two.

If I made the mental leap that Iron Grip had killed Agnes, why on earth would he have come back to the scene of the crime three weeks later?

If he’d wanted to steal something, surely he would have done his thieving the night he’d killed Agnes. He wouldn’t have been trying to retrieve something he’d accidentally left behind at this late date, would he? What could he have been looking for? Or in the grammatically correct version of my thoughts, for what could he have been looking?

Heavy footsteps thudded over my head, and I was suddenly and fiercely glad I’d cleaned out the kitchen. He wasn’t going to be drinking or eating anything Agnes had bought. I made a mental note to call Gloria about turning off the water and electricity, assuming I got out of the basement, of course.

I spent a few unhappy moments speculating on Iron Grip’s plans. I imagined a flowchart. The oval at the top of the chart was the question, “Is he going to kill me?” The “yes” arrow went to the right to a diamond-shaped object around the question, “Tonight?” There should have been more diamonds and arrows leading away from the Tonight box, but even in my head I lacked the courage to draw them.

Going back up to the “Is he going to kill me?” oval, I drew a “no” arrow.

I liked this arrow a lot better.

It ran into a diamond with the question, “Is he going to let me go?” The “yes” arrow went to “When is he going to let me go? Like, tonight, before 8:30? Because the kids always call me before they go to bed.” A yes answer to that seemed unlikely, so I returned reluctantly to the other path leading away from “Is he going to let me go?”

Because, really, why would he set me loose? No one would think to look for me in Agnes Mephisto’s basement—not until it was much too late. I hadn’t left a note labeled “In case I don’t return by Thursday morning,