Curse of the PTA (14 page)

Chapter 11

I
stood in the small space, shivering inside my underwear. The rest of my clothes had
disappeared and I could only hope that new ones would appear soon. I risked a glance
down at my legs. Dimply, lumpy, and pasty white. I averted my eyes. Quickly.

What is it about women that we’re hardest on ourselves when we’re at our most vulnerable?
Why can’t we be proud of the mileage on our bodies? Why, when mostly naked and exposed
to harsh overhead lights that must have been designed to highlight our flaws, do we
insist on a critical self-assessment?

“Here you go,” Marina called. There was a
thump
, and an armful of clothes appeared over the top of the dressing room door and started
slithering toward the floor.

I half dove to catch them. “Men don’t even try on clothes,” I said, hanging Marina’s
selections on a hook. “Why do we have to?”

“Because we care how we look and they don’t.”

“That makes men sound smart,” I muttered.

“What?”

“I said this outfit looks smart.”

“Which one?”

There were three. I rapidly sorted through the selections and chose the least of the
multiple evils. The first was a leopard-print blouse and skinny white jeans. I barely
even looked at that one. White jeans? How could she possibly think that someone who
ran a bookstore could wear white jeans without getting them filthy by midmorning?

The next outfit was a multicolor nubbly jacket that centered on orange hues, beige
wide-legged pants, and a pink floral shirt that looked designed to remain untucked.
I eyed it. Untucked, it would be longer than the jacket, and in spite of the number
of young people wearing shirts out below sweaters and jackets, there was no way on
this earth I’d ever do so.

Last was a pair of black pants, a black long-sleeved shirt, and a knee-length sleeveless
vest made of wide red and black panels. I didn’t have the panache to pull off wearing
something like that, but I liked the look of it. “The red and black thing,” I said.

“The duster?”

Whatever. I flipped over a couple of the price tags and almost choked. “Take them
all away. Did you see the prices on these things? Bring my clothes back and let’s
get out of here.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” she asked. The leopard and the nubbly outfits slid away,
but the red and black remained. “I never said we’d buy anything tonight, did I?”

I thought back. She’d said let’s go try on some clothes. Silly old Beth for expanding
that to purchasing. “What’s the point of trying on clothes I can’t afford?”

“To figure out what looks good on you.”

“I don’t need what looks good. I need clothes I can wear to work.”

“Try it on,” she commanded. “When I’m in Hawaii with the DH one month, three weeks,
and five days from now, I want to know that my influence lingers.”

I hugged my prickly skin and eyed the duster. If I actually wore something like that,
I’d have the hem ripped out by the end of the day from standing on it when I crouched
down to reach a low bookshelf.

“Say,” Marina said. “Do you think the fire had anything to do with Dennis’s murder?”

“You are the queen of the non sequitur.” I held the duster up against me. Hung it
back over the door. “It seems like a huge coincidence if they were separate crimes.”

“That’s what I think. So I was up half of last night watching those lecture videos
on the Halpern and Company website.”

“You were?” Had Marina and I had been friends so long that we were starting to think
the same way? “Talk about coincidences.”

“Did you say something? Anyway, I think I figured out who murdered Dennis. Pretty
smart of me, to watch those videos, I’d say. Offering free financial advice was bound
to cause problems, you know? And this is the best way to get rid of the nonexistent
yet tenacious PTA curse, I’m sure of it. Solve the murder, end the curse.”

My time in front of the computer screen had been spent scrutinizing body movements,
facial expressions, the way each person had watched Dennis, the way they’d applauded
at the end, and the way they’d watched other people ask questions. “I watched the
videos, too. Did you notice that woman in the second row of the first lecture?” She
had short spiky hair, a fierce expression, and she hadn’t taken a single note.

“Here. Try this.” A short denim skirt sailed over the top of the door, followed by
a blouse whose fabric inspiration must have come from the garden at Giverny. “Nope,
didn’t see her. But did you see that guy in the front row? That tie? Oh. My. Word.”

I added the recent arrivals to the reject pile. “How about the fourth lecture? Did
you notice that young man? The one with the beard?” It had been the extreme neatness
of the beard’s trim that had caught my attention. Maybe he’d just come from the barber,
maybe he just liked his beard trimmed tight. Either way, I’d noticed him and subsequently
noticed his crossed arms and tapping feet. Why, if he was interested enough in what
Dennis had to say that he’d attended the lecture in person, had he looked so hostile?

“Nah. But did you see the woman in the first video? Front and center? That lace shirt
was just soooo nineties.”

As most of the clothes in my closet were at least that old, I tried not to take her
statement personally. “There was a man in the last lecture who creeped me out.” He’d
been seated at the far end of the front row. I’d watched every foot of video he’d
been in and never once had I seen him blink. It had been fascinating, in an awful
sort of way, but also disturbing. Eyes
have
to blink, it’s what eyes do. About the only time they don’t is when someone is concentrating
intensely. And while the lectures had been interesting, not even a speech by Brad
Pitt would keep me from blinking. So why hadn’t that guy?

“Yeah,” Marina said, tossing over a ruffled shell in an odd gray raindrop pattern,
a red jacket, and white pants. “We’re talking about that doofus with the plaid flannel
shirt and the pocket protector, right? That was wrong on so many levels, I don’t even
know where to start.”

What was it with her and white pants? I put it all aside.

“Would someone completely innocent wear that combination?” Marina was asking. “I think
not.”

“You’re basing your who-killed-Dennis theory on clothes?”

“Hark! I hear the flag of doubt being raised.”

All the way to the top of the flagpole. “I can’t believe you’re accusing people of
murder based on the clothes they’re wearing.”

“Not accusing. We’re declaring them persons of interest.” She put a pair of black
pants and a gold sparkly sleeveless top on the door. “Or should it be people of interest?”

I wasn’t about to touch either those clothes or her question. Exploring the subtleties
of grammar and punctuation with Marina was a pointless exercise.

“Okay, I can hear you in there,” she said. “You’re thinking that judging a person
by her clothes is shallow and meaningless. That it doesn’t matter what anyone wears,
that clothes are in no way an accurate indicator of intent and action.”

I fingered the gold spangles, just to see what it felt like. Not nearly as scratchy
as I’d anticipated.

“So let me ask you this.” The top of Marina’s red head popped over the door and she
skewered me with a look. “If clothes don’t mean anything, why won’t you let Jenna
wear those tank tops with the spaghetti straps?”

“That’s different.”

“No, it’s not.” For once, Marina sounded completely serious. “It’s exactly the same
thing. You don’t want her to wear clothes like that because they’re not appropriate
for her age. You don’t want her to wear something that sends a message about her.”

“That’s . . .” I wanted to repeat myself, to keep saying that it was different, but
I saw where Marina was going, and she was right.

“But that’s what clothes are all about,” she said. “Sending a message. Like it or
not, that’s what they do. Sometimes the message is I don’t care about clothes”—her
index finger snuck over the top of the door and pointed at me—“but it’s still a message.
Other people choose to have fun with their messages.” Her head disappeared. “See?”
A pink feathered boa flung itself over the top of the sparkly shirt. “How about these
as part of a new store uniform? Maybe Paoze can wear a flamenco shirt. You know, with
those sleeve ruffles?”

“There’s nothing wrong with fun.” Two small pink feathers drifted free, and one tickled
my nose. I sneezed. “But you can’t let it interfere with the things that need doing.”

“You mean like alphabetizing your socks? Please. All work and no play makes Beth a
drab duckling in deep need of a makeover.”

Was Marina entering a new phase? Out with the Southern belle, and in with the fractured
maxims. “Beth needs a makeover like she needs another ex-husband. What we do need,
however, is a way to learn more about those people in Dennis’s lectures, and I can’t
think how to do that.” I’d watched six different videos and hadn’t recognized a single
person. The series had been in Madison, so I shouldn’t have expected to see anyone
I knew, and I hadn’t, but I’d still been disappointed.

“Leave it to me,” Marina said, flinging a sand-hued beaded jacket over the door. A
white shell and silky brown pants followed.

“Leave what to you?” Certainly not my wardrobe.

“The people on the video. I haff vays ov vinding uut.”

Suddenly, messed-up maxims didn’t seem so bad. At least they were original.

“Speaking of ex-husbands,” Marina said. “What is Richard doing with the kids this
weekend?”

I unclipped the pair of black pants from the hanger. “Not sure. But I did call him
last night and convince him to have a man-to-nine-year-old chat with Oliver.”

“No improvement on that front, I take it?” The beaded jacket and its friends disappeared.
“I’d thought maybe the fire would snap him out of whatever funk he’s in. I know, I
know, it’s a horrible thing to make hay out of another’s dark cloud, but you can’t
blame a redhead for trying.”

“When we took Spot for a walk last night, Oliver didn’t ask any questions.”

The rustling noise that Marina was making stopped. “None?”

I tugged on the pants. Tight, but not so tight I couldn’t walk in them. Hunching down
to get at a bottom shelf however . . . “There was a plumber parked at a house on the
next block and Oliver didn’t ask why he was there.” My curious son always asked questions.
Always. To see him glance at the truck, then look away with sparkless eyes had given
my insides a hard, wringing twist.

Marina was silent. She’d known Oliver since the day he was born. She knew this was
serious. “Do you think Richard will be able to help?”

I held the shiny gold shirt up to me. Put it back on the hanger. “He’s his father.”

“That’s not an answer.”

No, it wasn’t. Unfortunately, it was all I had. “Let’s just say I’ll be working on
a backup plan.” All night and all weekend, if that’s what it took. Finding out what
was wrong with my son had escalated from oh-he’ll-be-fine to it-might-be-time-to-interview-therapists.

I looked at the hooks full of clothes I didn’t want and would never wear. Marina’s
intentions were good, but suddenly I didn’t want anything to do with any of it. “Let’s
go home, okay?”

She must have heard the ache I’d tried to keep out of my voice, because she said,
“Sure, honey. Whatever you want.” My own clothes slipped over the door.

Never had jeans and a polo shirt looked so good. I slipped them on and tried not to
worry about Oliver. He was with his father. Richard was a great dad, and now that
the problem had been brought to his attention, he’d work on getting Oliver to talk.
It would all work out. There was no need to worry.

But I did, of course. Worrying was one of the things moms did best.

Chapter 12

I
headed to the store bright and early the next morning. Saturday. The kids were probably
already up and arguing about what TV show to watch. Richard, if our nearly twenty
years of marriage had any bearing on his current habits, was sitting in his recliner,
sucking down a pot of coffee, and growling at the headlines of whatever morning newspaper
still existed. Richard was not a morning person.

Sipping at the travel mug of tea I’d brewed before leaving the house, I got out of
the car. It was a chai tea, spicy with cardamom, cinnamon, and ginger. But even the
pepper that gave it a hint of heat didn’t do a thing to mask the smell coming from
Dennis Halpern’s former offices.

It was that burned-over smell you got from a campfire the morning after a beach party,
only magnified a hundred times. A small breeze pushed the sour scent onto my face
and I revised the number to a thousand.

The faint sound of footsteps turned me around. I started to say “Good morning,” but
didn’t get beyond the first consonant because no one was in sight.

What, then, had I heard?

Who had I heard?

I shook my head to get rid of a vague sense of creepiness. I walked down the alley
to the side street, then slowly made my way to the source of the smell.

Charred ends of blackened ceiling joists pointed skyward. Exterior walls, pushed in
by the post-fire mop-up crew, flopped crazily on top of debris that littered what
had been the floor. I made out the shape of what might have once been a filing cabinet,
but it could just as easily have been a metal desk.

What a mess. There aren’t many things messier than a fire. What the flames hadn’t
destroyed, the smoke had damaged, and whatever the smoke hadn’t ruined had been taken
care of by the water the firefighters had poured on.

When she was just out of high school, my older sister, Darlene, had dated a volunteer
firefighter. I’d been shocked to hear him say that the fire department wasn’t there
to save buildings from burning. “We show up,” he’d said, “to save lives and to keep
a fire from spreading. Saving the house, the barn, the business, the whatever? Ain’t
going to happen. Not by the time we get there.”

I’d told him that had to be wrong. Then I’d been summarily evicted from the room by
Darlene and I’d gone to sit in my favorite tree to think about it. Eventually I’d
come to the sad realization that he was right.

But I didn’t like it then and I didn’t like it now.

I tipped my head back and swallowed the last of the tea, gagging a little as the bottom
sludge hit the back of my throat. After shoving the mug into an outside pocket of
my capacious purse, I extracted my cell phone and pushed buttons.

“Hi, Pete. It’s Beth.” I suddenly realized it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet. “Sorry
to bother you so early. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“It’d be a crime to sleep in on a morning like this,” he said. “What’s up?”

I looked at the piles that had once been a small business. “Do you know anything about
fires? In buildings?”

“I know they’re the worst thing in the world to clean up. Most times you’re best off
bulldozing the whole kit and caboodle. Between the smoke and the water damage, there’s
usually not much worth saving, even if the place hadn’t been even close to burning
all the way down. Hard, for homeowners.” He sounded pensive. “You want to save stuff.
You know, the personal things that make your house a home. And maybe that photo album
looks okay, but it’s going to reek of smoke forever. You’re better off just pitching
it.”

How horribly sad. The pictures of your children. Gone. The hair from their first haircuts
you’d tied up with pink and blue ribbons. Gone. The necklace your father had given
you on your sixteenth birthday, the Bible you’d received in third-grade Sunday School,
the first Mother’s Day card your child gave you, gone, gone, gone.

All just stuff, all just material things that shouldn’t matter . . . but they did.
They mattered very much.

“How long,” I asked Pete, “until an arson investigator can go in and do his investigation?”

“You talking about the Halpern fire?”

If this was Evan I’d been talking to, back in our dating days, I would have tried
to sidestep around the topic. Evan had wanted me to stay far away from anything that
even dimly resembled meddling with police business. But this was Pete. He was a friend,
not a boyfriend. Besides, he wasn’t anything like Evan. “Standing ten feet from it,”
I told him.

Pete laughed. “Bet it stinks something fierce. Arson guys, well, it depends on the
building, the kind of fire, how hot a fire. A day to a week, I’d guess.”

Which was what I’d assumed. I’d just have to wait until Gus gave me the details, and
that could be a while.

“Not much help, am I? Anything else I can not help you with?” He chuckled. “What are
the kids up to today?”

“You’re a big help,” I said. “The kids are with their dad. And . . .” A lightbulb
went off in my head. “And come to think of it, there is something you can do, if you
don’t mind.”

“I live to serve.”

I smiled. Funny, nice, and helpful. “Were you a Boy Scout as a kid?”

“Tried to be a Cub Scout once. They kicked me out for eating all the cookies.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Sure am,” he said cheerfully. “What can I help you with?”

My smile went flat. “It’s Oliver. There’s something wrong with him.” I gave the symptoms.
“This started about a week ago, and he won’t talk to me about it. I’ve asked my ex-husband
to find out, but I’m not sure that will work. Oliver thinks you’re great and maybe
you can get him to talk.”

“You want me to talk to your son?”

I heard the surprise in his voice. “I’m sorry. It’s too much to ask. Forget I said
anything. Please. I’m sorry and—”

Pete ran over my babbling. “Beth. I’d be happy to talk to Oliver.”

“You . . . would?”

“Sure. Anything I can to do to help, I will. He’s a good kid. They’re both good kids.”
He paused. “And—”

A woman’s scream ripped the morning apart. Whatever Pete had been saying was lost
in her anguish. I dropped my phone into my purse and ran.

•   •   •

Another scream tore at the air. The alley. It had come from the alley behind the stores
on the other side of the street.

I ran hard as I could, fast as I could toward the sound, a sound layered over now
with the barking of dogs. Hard, sharp yips that could mean anything from “Halt, intruder!”
to “Hey, let’s play!” More than one dog. Two? Three? I wasn’t sure. However many,
they sounded big.

My feet pounded over the narrow sidewalk between the hair salon and Glenn’s insurance
agency. Between the hard surfaces of the buildings, the noises of my running footsteps
and panting breaths were larger than life.

Faster . . . faster . . .

I burst into the early sunshine flooding the alley. Two dogs, Lou Spezza’s dogs, yipping
and barking, their teeth showing white. A woman clutching the edge of a Dumpster,
shrieking. Her silver hair shook wildly as her whole body quivered into reedy panic.

I plunged forward, not thinking, not anticipating, just doing. “Down, boy! Down!”
I grabbed their collars and pulled them backward, trying to remember their names.
Paired names. Twin names? Yes. “That’s a good boy, Pollux. Good dog, Castor.”

They each yipped one more time; then they subsided into happy dog grins. Tails wagging,
they looked at me, at Flossie, and at me again, waiting for praise and pets.

“Sit,” I commanded, and the dogs sat on the alley’s cracked asphalt. “Good dogs,”
I murmured, looking around. I didn’t see Lou—and where was he, with his dogs out here?—but
I spotted a roll of garbage bags, the end trailing long on the ground, marking the
spot where it had been dropped. “Stay.” I held my hands in front of their faces. “Stay.”
They looked up at me adoringly, their fluffy golden-retriever-esque tails swishing
back and forth.

I glanced at Flossie. She was clinging to the corner of the Dumpster, eyes closed.
I wanted to go to her, but first things first. With one hand, I snatched up the roll.
With the other, I drew out half a dozen black bags. In seconds I’d knotted together
two makeshift leashes. One end of each I tied to their collars, the other ends I tied
around the back wheel of the Dumpster.

“Good boys.” I gave their heads one last pat. As Castor—or was it Pollux?—tried to
lick my hand, I saw a piece of paper rolled around his collar and taped to itself
to secure it. Odd. Maybe Lou had put it there until he could get a real dog ID made?
Maybe it had his phone number on it. I untaped and unrolled it, thinking that I’d
call him on my cell and—

My brain came to a screeching halt. I read the note through a second time. A third.
And, since it was only a four-word sentence, I read it another time. Then I folded
it up and slipped it into my pocket.

Flossie made a sad bleat of a noise. I went to her side and put my arm around her.
“Come over here,” I said. “Sit down on the step. It’s a little dirty, but . . . Yes,
there you go.” I sat beside her, not letting go of her thin body. “Just sit a few
minutes. The dogs are tied up and there’s nothing to worry about.”

She tried to talk, but all that came out was a stuttering breath.

“Shhh,” I said, hugging her tight. “Shhh. You don’t need to talk. I’ll do it for you,
okay? Then, when you feel a little better, you can tell me whatever you want to tell
me.”

So I babbled about nothing. About the weather, about the Super Bowl chances for the
Green Bay Packers, about the color Lois wanted to paint the workroom, about what I’d
eaten for breakfast, about the price of tea in China.

Finally, Flossie drew in a long, shuddering breath and sat up straight. I let my arm
fall to my side and waited.

“Thank you, my dear. You are a gem and a treasure,” she said, “and I will never forget
what you did for me today.”

I tried to deflect her thanks. What had I done, really, but save her from a licking
by two overly friendly dogs?

She grabbed my hand so hard that I winced. “You have no idea what you did. I am deathly
afraid of dogs. Have been ever since I was four. A neighbor’s Alsatian . . .” Her
breaths went short and sharp. “A neighbor’s Alsatian attacked me. I . . . I . . .”

“Don’t say any more,” I said. “You don’t need to relive it.” Memories were surfacing,
Flossie crossing the street whenever a dog was walking toward her. Her fixed smile
when I plopped a big bag of dog food on the checkout belt and talked about Spot.

“No.” She blew out a small sigh. “Thank you for not needing to hear the story.”

“Just promise you won’t ask to hear about the time I almost drowned.”

Flossie smiled and the muscles at the base of my spine relaxed just a bit. She was
going to be fine. She’d been surprised by the dogs, that’s all. No need to worry about
her. She was hale and hearty and she was in better condition at her age than many
people ever were. She was . . . My throat tightened as my thoughts went deeper.

She was eighty-one. She was in great condition for her age, but she was still eighty-one.
Old enough that she should be kicking back and spending some time on herself, not
wearing out her body tossing the morning garbage into the Dumpster. But if I suggested
that maybe it was time for Patrick to take over the heavier work, I’d get a smile,
a “Thanks for thinking of me,” and she’d go on doing what she’d been doing for the
last thirty years. “I’m far too young to take it easy,” she’d say.

When, I wondered, was it appropriate to interfere in someone else’s life? When was
it the right idea to speak up? How much did we owe our fellow human beings? Our friends?
Our families?

I looked sideways at Flossie’s thin frame. She shouldn’t be working so hard, not when
there was another way. Maybe I’d have a talk with Patrick. Suggest that he not talk
to Flossie about a change, that he just go ahead and start doing some of the heavier
chores. Was that too manipulative?

And this brought up the best question of all: Why was it so hard to figure out the
right thing to do?

“Penny for your thoughts,” Flossie said.

“Oh . . .” I realized I’d heaved a heavy sigh. “Um, I was wondering whether or not
I should show you what was on one of the dog’s collars.”

Flossie glanced at the dogs, then away. “I saw you put something in your pocket. What
was it?”

I really didn’t want to show it to her. It wouldn’t be right to keep it from her,
but I really didn’t want to. My natural inclination to tell the truth warred with
my wish to protect her. “A note.”

“For me?”

“It didn’t have a name on it.” At least I didn’t think so. I pulled the notepaper
from my pocket. No name. Just the four short words. Silently, I handed Flossie the
note.

She read it out loud. “Keep quiet or die.” She frowned. “What kind of note is that?
Far too melodramatic and not at all specific. Keep quiet about what, for goodness’
sake? How can I keep quiet if I don’t know what not to say?”

I stared at her, then started laughing. “I can’t think of anyone else in the world
who would criticize the structure of a death threat.”

“You would. You probably already have.” She tapped the words. “You’ve probably already
noted the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven piece of normal copy paper, the black ink from
a ballpoint pen, and the block capital letters that could have been written by almost
anyone.”

She was right, of course.

“So the question,” Flossie went on, “is what do I know that is a threat to someone?”

“Any ideas?”

She handed the paper back to me. “None whatsoever.”

“The only thing that makes sense,” I said slowly, “is that you know something about
the fire. Or Dennis Halpern’s murder.” I read the note again. The straight lines of
the letters were frightening somehow. Too bold, too forceful. I folded the paper and
put it back in my pocket, trying not to think that the person who had killed Dennis
had touched it. They were Lou’s dogs, but did Lou have anything to do with the note?
It would be extremely stupid if he did, and he seemed too smart for that. Still, they
were his dogs.