Blown To Pieces (PTO Murder Club Mystery Book 2) (14 page)

“Maybe these aren’t real people. That would make sense if the organization is fake.” I found the next name on the list. “Try Joel Bowen.”

Monica typed his name in a new search window. Only a Facebook page with the same pictures. We pulled up all ten of the names, and they all only had Facebook pages and the same pictures.

“I’d say the Lakeside African Relief Fund is definitely bogus. It looks like a fake nonprofit.” Monica leaned back and laced her fingers behind her head. “I think we should bring in Lyle on this.”

It took a whole minute for Monica’s words to register in my brain.

Lyle Grinchwalt was a CPA, our PTO treasurer, and a giant pain in my ass.

I opened my mouth but couldn’t find words stronger than “no fucking way.”

Monica’s hands went up in a now-wait-a-minute gesture. “Think about it. We could tell him that we’re going to use the spring raffle basket profits to donate to the Lakeside African Relief Fund. We can have him investigate it.”

“That means that I have to communicate with him. Never contact Lyle Grinchwalt was my one and only New Year’s resolution. Here it is March and I’m already thinking about breaking it.” As much as I hated the idea, Monica was right. Lyle could find out more about the Lakeside African Relief Fund than either of us. “I’d rather chop off my own arm.”

“Sorry, but I don’t think your severed limb is going to help us find a killer.” Monica was just being her practical old self.

Practical people piss me off.

“I’ll call him tomorrow.” If God was merciful, Lyle wouldn’t answer, and I could leave him a message.

“I took one for the team.” Monica closed her laptop. “Now it’s your turn.”

“Hey, I take lots of ones for the team.” I couldn’t think of one single thing. I hated when Monica was right. “Damn, it is my turn.”

Wherever Big Tommy was, I hoped he appreciated this.

The next morning, I stared at the phone on my desk at work. I had my Chocolate Glazed coffee at my elbow, my door closed for privacy, and still I couldn’t make myself pick up the phone and call Lyle Grinchwalt.

Calling Lyle was like calling the IRS or the DMV—there would be lots of wasted time, stupid questions, even stupider answers, and enough frustration that I’d want to pull a bottle of vodka out of my desk and start knocking back shots at 9:37 a.m. If only I’d had a bottle of vodka in my desk.

I picked up the phone and dialed.

On the second ring, a perky voice said, “Lee, Grinchwalt, and Grinchwalt, can you hold please?”

“Yes.” I would prefer to hold forever instead of talking to him.

“Thank you.” Ms. Perky put me on hold. Buddy Holly came on the line singing “Peggy Sue.” After that, Jerry Lee Lewis pounded the piano in “Great Balls of Fire.” 1950s and ’60s music. That was kind of cool, in a retro way.

Cool in any way wasn’t how I would ever describe Lyle.

Maybe I should call there every morning and ask to be put on hold just so I could listen to their music.

I was rocking out to Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog” when Ms. Perky came back on the line. “Thank you for holding, how may I help you?”

“Lyle Grinchwalt, please.” I waited and prayed while Ms. Perky checked to see if he was available. Oh merciful and wonderful God, you just took Taco Bell away from me, please give me Lyle’s voicemail.

“Go for Lyle.” It was Lyle.

Who says “Go for Lyle”?

She transferred the call, and Lyle answered on the first ring. “This is Lyle.” Clearly, God was on a coffee break.

“It’s Mustang Ridges.” I waited for him to digest that information.

“Are you calling to apologize for not inviting me to the last PTO meeting?” His deep voice was chastising. Okay, here’s the deal. When I first met Lyle, I thought he was cute. Then he opened his mouth. If only Lyle had been born minus a mouth—he could have been Mr. Right.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. Next time we will include you.” Not a chance in hell. The only meeting we’d ever invited him to was the one we’d planned for 3:00 p.m. at the Iron Cactus. I wasn’t responsible for the fact that the Iron Cactus had gone out of business...over a year ago. I couldn’t help it that he didn’t know that.

“The Bee Creek Elementary Parent Teacher Organization bylaws clearly state that all members of the board are to be present when a vote is taken.” He took a deep breath and rambled on. “Article 6-32 states that minutes must be recorded and signed off on by every member of the board...”

See why we don’t include him? He’s actually read the bylaws. Who does that?

“Yes, I know. I’m calling about our vote on the raffle basket auction money. I’d like to donate it to the Lakeside African Relief Fund.” I rolled my eyes, waiting for the barrage of articles, statutes, and IRS tax laws that was no doubt headed my way.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about. I need to know these things. I have to keep the canceled checks for seven years, and then there are the IRS 990s. We need to keep the meeting minutes permanently...” He rambled on.

Damn, I had a hangnail on my left ring finger. I pulled out my nail file and went to work.

He droned on while I filed. I drank some coffee, cleaned out the top drawer of my desk, and went through the stack of stuff in my in-box. I was waiting for him to get to what I needed...for him to offer to check out Lakeside African Relief Fund himself. Funny thing about men, they work better when they think it’s their idea.

“...I really need to check out this charity. Lakeside African Relief Fund? Isn’t that the name?” He sounded like he was writing it down.

“Yes, that’s it. What a fantastic idea. You’re so good at that sort of thing.” I was laying it on so thick that it was a wonder my tongue didn’t peanut butter to the roof of my mouth.

“Great. I’ll poke around today and report back—”

“What...you need me now?” Interrupting with a fake work emergency was the easiest way to get off of the phone with him. “Sure...yes...I’ll be right there. Sorry, Lyle, I have to go...work emergency. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hung up before he could ask exactly what kind of work emergency a hospital billing manager had. When lying, it’s best to be vague...and hang up quickly.

Three hours later, I was on the hunt for a cassette player. Clearly, Big Tommy had thought his little cassette mixtapes were important, or he wouldn’t have had them locked away.

I walked into the Lakeside Target and made my way back to the electronics department. I walked up and down the aisles looking for anything that might fit a cassette tape or had tape player written on it. I couldn’t find a thing. After ten minutes, I finally found a red-shirt to ask.

I tapped him on the shoulder. “Can you help me find a cassette tape player?”

A boy who barely looked old enough to drive turned around and smiled vacantly at me. His name tag read, “M. Chad.”

“A what?” M. Chad’s vacant smile lost the last vestiges of lucidity. “What’s a tape player?”

“It plays cassette tapes.” I thought “tape player” was self-explanatory; then again, I thought people were supposed to be born with common sense. Man, had that assumption kicked me hard in the “ass” and the “umption” over the years.

“You know, cassette tapes.” I found myself pantomiming little rectangles and wasn’t sure that was helpful.

“Sorry. What’s a cassette tape?” If M.Chad’s expression turned any more vague, I’d have sworn he was high.

“You record songs and stuff onto them.” Look at me. I’m an expert on cassette tapes.

“Oh.” The faintest hint of coherence dawned. “You mean CDs.”

And then we were back to square one, although I wasn’t sure we’d actually left it to begin with.

“No, cassette tapes.” I glanced around for a hidden camera, in case this dim bulb was a plant and I was getting punked. Nope, all of the cameras were in the glass-covered sales case. “Is there any way you can search for a tape player?”

He looked around like one would jump off the shelf and tap-dance in front of him.

“I meant on the computer.” I pointed to the computer on top of the sales case.

In today’s society, you need to be cute or smart or independently wealthy. I sincerely hoped that M. Chad was from a family of billionaires who wanted to teach him the value of money by making him work at Target.

“Sure.” He went over to the computer and tapped some keys.

I walked around the counter to look over his shoulder. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him; it was more that I wasn’t sure he could spell tape player.

He typed and typed and typed, blowing through screens until he came to the Target website. Good for M. Chad. He wasn’t a people person, but he could make that computer stand up and salute him.

“We have a digital recorder.” He was very excited about finding out there was such a thing as a digital recorder.

“No tape player?” This was turning out to be harder than I thought.

“No...wait...we used to carry them.” He typed and typed and typed. A grin as big as Texas sliced across his face. “I found one for you.”

“Great.”

M. Chad wasn’t as dim as I had originally thought.

I’d finally be able to hear what was on those tapes. “Where is it?”

“Boise, Idaho.” He was very proud of himself.

I took a step back and a moment to keep from strangling M. Chad.

Did he expect me to drive to Boise and pick it up? “Do you have one a little closer like...say...in Austin?”

He typed and typed and typed. “No. But I can have this one shipped here, and you can pick it up...” He typed and typed and typed. “In four weeks.”

M. Chad’s billionaire parents needed to teach him more than the value of money.

“You know what, M. Chad, I’m gonna pass. Thanks for your help.” Not really, but I was being my polite self today. I’d been nice to Lyle and M. Chad. My karmic points were off the chart.

Next stop, RadioShack.

RadioShack was in a strip center across from Target.

I walked into the store to find a salesman waiting for me. He had a friendly smile on his face and so many muscles on his five-foot-tall frame that it looked like his shoulders had swallowed his neck. He looked like a thumb with a head of blond hair.

He held out his hand as he did his best to look down his nose at me, which was something, considering I was four inches taller than he.

“My name is Terry. How can I help?” It was an order instead of a request.

I shook his extra-firm, bone-crushing hand. “Um...okay. I’m looking for a—”

“A pink cell phone charger?” Rude and condescending much?

His beady brown eyes stayed on me like he expected me to pull everything off the shelves and then run out of the store.

I glanced around at the shelves of cell phone audio accessories, remote control cars, tiny cameras, and drones. Maybe I was here for some of those? What about me said pink phone charger?

“No. I’m looking for a tape player.” I walked over to the audio aisle.

Terry’s self-importance doubled as he rocked back and forth on his dark-brown leather loafers. “We don’t carry those.” His tone suggested that I’d just asked him for a hit of crystal meth. “And you need to leave...now.”

Wait a minute. Was I being thrown out of the store for asking for a tape player?

“Excuse me? What’s your problem?” I didn’t know if it was a sexism thing or what, but I was insulted.

“You’re my problem. You trophy wives come in here, smelling of expensive perfume and asking for idiotic things that you know we don’t have so that you can waste my time.” He pointed a stubby little finger at me. “And no, I’m not going to bend over to check the bottom row just so you can see my butt. I’m not a piece of meat, lady. I’m a person. Get out of my store.”

He stomped one of his little munchkin feet at me and tossed his head in the general direction of the door.

“You think I’m a trophy wife?” I looked down at my knock-off black miniskirt and thrift-store red sweater. “Buddy, you’re blind.”

“Yes, but only in one eye. I see very well in the other one, thank you very much.” He said it through gritted teeth.

Now I felt kinda bad. “Sorry about the blind comment.”

“Get out.” He stomped to the door and threw it open. “Leave now, or I’m calling the cops.”

“Jeez...okay, I’m going.” Who would have known that a tape player could cause this much trouble?

I walked to the door, but right before I stepped into the parking lot, I turned back to Terry. “For the record, I don’t wear perfume, of any sort. I smell like Costco brand laundry detergent.”

That would show him. I shoved my nose in the air, unlocked Portia, and slid behind the wheel.

Terry stood in the open doorway, crossed his stubby arms over his chest, and watched me pull out of the parking lot.

Just when I think Lakeside is somewhat normal, it throws another crazy directly at me.

I left work on a caffeine high. I wished it was a sugar and caffeine high, but I would take what I could get.

After my lunchtime tape player debacle, I’d found one on Amazon. If only I didn’t have to wait three whole days for delivery. I loved a company where you could order a cassette player, a USB drive disguised as a pole dancer, a UFO detector, and chocolate-dipped pork rinds. I’d fallen down the Amazon rabbit hole and spent several hours combing through the strange things you could order, like a gallon of wolf urine and a little jar of uranium. One day, the hospital administrator is going to notice that I don’t actually do anything. What can I say—I run such a tight ship, there’s not a lot left for me to do.

I pushed open the back door marked “Authorized Personnel Only” and limped over to Portia.

Note to self, don’t wear super-cute high-heeled shoes when walking all over Target looking for a tape player. I glanced down at my miniskirt. I’d worn it and the shoes because my printer was out of ink. I’d needed to show a little leg to bum a toner cartridge off of Day Surgery. Today, my miniskirt had extra power, because I’d scored not only the cartridge, but two boxes of ballpoint pens, three packs of sticky notes, and a high-capacity stapler. Currently, I didn’t have any high-capacity stapling needs, but I was looking forward to the day when I might have up to sixty sheets of paper that needed to be stapled together.