Murder at the PTA (2010)

look for me at Agnes’s.” If I were a character in a movie, viewers would have long ago labeled me as TSTL—Too Stupid to Live.

“Am not,” I said quietly, sounding like a nine-year-old.

Above my head and to the left, I heard the thumps and slams of drawers slamming and objects dropping. It sounded as if he were doing what I’d been doing—going through Agnes’s files. I almost wished Agnes’s ghost weren’t imaginary. I nearly smiled thinking of the tongue-lashing Agnes would have given the man who’d killed her.

After an eternity and a half, Iron Grip’s footsteps thumped into the dining area. I followed his path around the table and chairs; past the kitchen counter; through the kitchen; past the door to the basement; out the back door. After a small click as the door shut, there was silence.

Or, rather, relative silence. In the sudden stillness, my panting, frightened breaths sounded louder than Oliver’s raspy breathing the winter he’d had a bad case of the flu.

Was Mr. Grip gone? Or had he stepped out to his car for a weapon?

A shiver started deep in my bones. My teeth chattered as if the basement’s temperature had dropped below freezing.

“Being scared isn’t going to help you one bit.”

Agnes—she was back in her ghost form to taunt me. “The suggestion box is open. All ideas are welcome.”

“You have a brain, don’t you? Use it.”

“Not much of a suggestion,” I muttered, but the spasms of shivering diminished to mild rattles, and I started thinking.

He wasn’t coming back with a weapon; with a grip like that, he didn’t need anything else. If he wanted me gone, I would have been dead long since. Since I hadn’t seen his face and hadn’t heard his real voice, I was no threat to him.

Was he going to let me out of this basement?

“Why would he?” Agnes asked. “Any additional contact with you increases the chances of your being able to identify him.”

Even Agnes’s make-believe ghost was annoying. Everyone would be nice after death, wouldn’t they? I pondered this for a moment, thinking about mean Mr. Orton from my childhood. He’d been a cranky old man who yelled at the neighborhood kids if they so much as looked in the direction of his pristine lawn. What would he be like in the afterlife? If he wasn’t still mean, he wouldn’t be Mr. Orton any longer, would he?

I abandoned that path of thought as too philosophical for my tiny little brain. My time would have been much better spent trying to get out of here. Why had I hidden my car so well? If I’d parked in a more visible location, Marina would have seen it and ridden to my rescue.

I wouldn’t die here, would I?

And there it was again: the fear that made my breaths come fast and my stomach hurt, and undoubtedly shortened my life span.

Of course, I lived in constant fear. This was just on a higher plane. Once upon a time, Richard had started a list of the things that frightened me. He soon ran out of room on the kitchen notepad and went to the computer. I’d started with typical mother fears: that our children would meet with random accidents; that they’d be stricken with deadly disease; that a food I fed them would contain a toxic substance and cause irreparable damage, etc., etc.

Then I’d moved on to being afraid of tornadoes, of ice storms, of driving in heavy rain, of high winds, of global warming, of random asteroids ramming into our planet. Then came my fears of losing my children’s love, of being crippled by arthritis, of breast cancer, of macular degeneration, of dying alone, of heart disease, of diabetes.

Richard had looked at me with concern. “Do you have a family history of diabetes?”

“Well, no.”

He’d sighed, and I continued with the anxieties. That the Middle East would never know peace, that our country would be attacked by fanatics who’d cobbled together a hearty supply of nuclear warheads, that our children would inherit a world in which violence was the only realistic response.

Then there were the little nagging fears. That the car would break down and I’d be late dropping the kids off at school. That I’d forget one of Jenna’s soccer games or swim meets or softball games. That by owning the bookstore I was damaging my children’s psyches by not welcoming them with open arms and warm cookies when they came home from school.

I’d started mentioning my fears of dentist drills and stubbing my toe in the dark when Richard had rolled his eyes and turned off the computer. “How can you look so normal on the outside but be such a mess on the inside?” he asked. “Have you ever considered therapy?”

I’d tried to tell him that all women worried like this. It was part and parcel of being female. The estrogen made us do it, Officer.

Agnes made a snorting noise.

“Well, maybe not all women,” I said.

A shiver climbed through my body, and I wrapped the blanket tighter around me. I deeply regretted that Marina and I had turned down the thermostat.

Somewhere out in the darkness lurked a murderer. He’d killed once, and though I didn’t think he planned to kill me, how did I know? Any happy ending I’d hypothesized could easily be attributed to wishful thinking.

Somewhere out there my children were waiting to call their mother for a bedtime phone-kiss.

Oh, my sweet Jenna.

Oh, my darling Oliver.

“Now what do I do?” I asked the empty air.

“What do you think?”

I could wait and hope for rescue. It would come, eventually, but when? Or I could shout and scream and yell in hope that someone would hear me. But who? And even if someone heard something, would they think to call the police?

Maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop being afraid. An excellent idea. Why hadn’t I though of it earlier? I said it out loud. “It’s time to stop being afraid.” Though I waited for Agnes to make a comment, she was quiet this time around.

But I still felt the fear licking at my ankles and threatening to run up my legs and into my heart where it would take hold forever.

Okay. If I couldn’t stop being afraid, I could at least do something. If I were busy, maybe I wouldn’t have time to be afraid. But before I did anything, I had to wait a little longer. Time played tricks on people. My father had once collapsed at home from what turned out to be his first heart attack. Mom called 911 immediately and for weeks went on and on that it had taken the EMTs “at least half an hour!” to arrive. My sister Kathy finally called to check. The first responders had arrived in four minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

Since Mom had provided half my genetic material, the possibility of similar time expansion was strong. Even though it felt like hours since Iron Grip had left, maybe it was only five minutes. Maybe he was outside, waiting for Marina’s neighbor to finish walking the dog.

Once again, I considered my options. Once again, I didn’t come up with anything good.

I counted seconds in my head. One one thousand, two one thousand. Ten times I counted to sixty thousand. Ten minutes. The steady rhythm calmed me and cleared my mind. I counted out another ten minutes, then another ten. He’d been gone for at least half an hour—long enough. First things first, I decided.

“Help!” I yelled. “Hellllp!”

My shrieks brought no assistance. The night was too cold, the basement too soundproof, my screams the wrong frequency—for whatever reason, I was on my own.

“You had to try,” Agnes said.

I nodded in the dark. “Would have been silly not to.” It was nice to have some support, even if it wasn’t real. “Do you have any ideas you’d like to share?”

But here she was silent.

Ah, well. It was probably best that I stopped talking to myself, anyway.