Death of a PTA Goddess Read online

  I started stacking the newspaper sections that had been strewn across the table, and my vision fell on a small advertisement. I snatched it up and reread it, double-checking, as it seemed so serendipitous. Indeed, tomorrow morning Jane Daly was teaching a little arts-and-crafts class at the store where she worked. This would be a fine opportunity to get to know her better. Against my better judgment, but deciding to honor my agreement to let her help whenever possible, I called Stephanie Saunders and left a message about the class.

  Bright and early the next day, armed with a glue gun, Popsicle sticks, and tongue depressors, I was about to learn how to be artsy-craftsy. Although there was plenty of reason to think that this wasn’t going to be the case. Such as forty-plus years of experience with living in my own skin.

  I toyed with my glue gun, pulling its trigger, trying to see if I could come up with a cartoon. In my mind’s eye, a dapper, James Bond–type man is pointing a glue gun at a criminal who is feverishly trying to pull his hands apart while eyeing a machine gun on the floor. With a smug look on his face, the man with the glue gun says, “Bond. Glue bond.”

  There are times when my cartoon ideas are so obviously not going to work out that I don’t even bother to draw them. This was one such idea. “Bond. Erasable bond,” I muttered to myself.

  There were just two of us students so far. I didn’t know the other woman at the table beside me. Five minutes after class was supposed to begin, Jane looked up at me and smiled. “Well, this is going to be a small class today, but we’re honored by the presence of a professional artist.”

  I turned to see if this artist was standing behind me, then realized that Jane meant me.

  “Oh, my!” the elderly woman beside me cried. “Are you a professional artist, dear?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I’m a cartoonist.”

  “Oh, my!” the woman cried again. “You’re not by any chance the creator of Gary Larson’s Far Side cartoons, are you?”

  “Um . . . no, Gary Larson is. And he retired a few years ago.”

  “Oh, did he? I noticed I haven’t seen any of those cartoons in a long time. Maybe since he’s retired, you could jump right in there and do a cartoon panel called The All New Far Side.”

  “I don’t think his copyright lawyers would appreciate my doing that.” Besides which, my hunch was that Gary Larson never once considered arming James Bond with a glue gun. He might have armed a cow , perhaps, but not James Bond himself.

  The class was held at the Craft and Hobby Shop in what was loosely referred to as downtown Carlton. Through the glass doors, I’d seen Stephanie Saunders walk past twice already. She knew she was supposed to join me, and she was clearly having a hard time shoring herself up for the job.

  With a shudder perceptible even at this distance, Stephanie at last stepped inside the store. Jane whirled around to look at her as she neared. “Stephanie, good morning. Are you joining our class?”

  “Is this what you call a class? Molly and one other person?”

  “It’s a small group, certainly, but we might get some more drop-ins later.”

  “I rather doubt it.” Stephanie grabbed a seat to the other side of the elderly woman. “ ‘Fun With Glue’ sounds like a preschool class, and you’re holding it mid-morning on a Wednesday. The three-year-olds are in day care.”

  “We are going to have fun, however.” Understandably, Jane’s voice had taken on an edge. “In fact, why don’t we make this more interesting?” She had a glint in her eye that made me nervous. She retrieved a bright yellow slip of paper from a drawer and held it up to show us. “I have a ten-dollar gift certificate here to the store, which I’ll give to the person who creates the best craft item today.”

  I looked at my bag of wooden sticks and said, “A person could probably buy a whole lot of tongue depressors for ten dollars, right?”

  The elderly woman next to Stephanie said to her, “I hate it when they make competitions out of what should just be a fun learning experience. Don’t you?”

  Stephanie examined her glue gun as though it were an Uzi automatic, and she were preparing for battle. “You’re asking the wrong person. I thrive under competition.”

  Jane began again: “Now, while you work, I’m going to be demonstrating some techniques and showing some craft ideas you might want to take a look at. In the middle of the table here, you will see that I’ve given you quite an assortment of goodies to choose from. Just help yourselves, and don’t be afraid to ask me for help and suggestions. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “I’m going to need a miter box and some safety-goggles,” Stephanie said, sketching an elaborate blue-print on the paper that covered the table.

  “Planning on making a model of the Guggenheim Museum, Stephanie?” I asked.

  “Just the witch’s candy cottage from ‘Hansel and Gretel,’ if you must know,” she replied.

  That sounded a lot more ambitious than anything I could come up with on my own. “Let’s do a joint project, while we’re at it, and if we win, you can keep the ten. I’ll get started on the cauldron.” Jane was scowling at me, so I asked, “Do you have any dry ice? And an Ivory soap bar I can carve terrified little children from?”

  “You’re on your own, Molly,” Stephanie said, already beginning her task.

  “Don’t forget the bread crumbs,” the elderly woman added. “Now as for me, I’m just doing star-shaped drink coasters.” She set two triangles of Popsicle sticks together in a Star of David formation. Pushing down the corners, she said, “Nah. Too wobbly. It’s going to be triangular drink coasters, instead.” She grinned and held up her handiwork. “Look, everybody. I’ve already got two done.”

  “Possibly you could decorate those a little,” Jane suggested. “I’ve got all sorts of spangles and lace and colorful little beads here.”

  I decided that I might as well make something that one of my family members would enjoy, and Nathan seemed the easiest to please in this regard. I decided to make a catapult for him, powered by a rubber band.

  Jane tried to do a minilecture on the versatility of the tongue depressor and various gluing and decorating tips, but it was obvious that no one was listening. After a while, she rounded the table to sit next to me.

  “How are you doing?” I asked her.

  “I’m okay.” She sighed. “The store will probably have trouble staying in business, now that our best customer is gone.”

  It was an odd comment, and I didn’t know quite how to respond. “I’m sure Patty would be doing something more creative than a catapult, were she here now. Though maybe Stephanie’s cottage could have given her a run for her money.”

  Jane snorted. “Patty’s cottage would have been totally edible and featured working windows, doors, chimney, and a drawbridge.”

  Stephanie looked as though she was about to object, but then hesitated and looked at her work with a furrowed brow. “You’re right. That woman never took second place in any contest.”

  “You must be talking about Patty Birch,” the elderly woman said. “Now that was a truly talented woman. You talk about good with a glue gun. That young lady could glue a robin’s egg back together.”

  “If only Humpty Dumpty had known,” Jane grumbled. All of us stopped working and looked at her. She held up her hands. “I’m just kidding. You’re absolutely right. She was a truly talented woman.”

  Our fellow classmate said, “Her entries at the fair were really amazing. Every year.”

  “Yes, they sure were,” Jane said with, I thought, a hint of envy in her voice. “She’d donate them to the store sometimes.”

  At times, I too had envied Perfect Patty, but I was never tempted to kill her. Jane might not have been tempted, either, though she did seem to have had a sizable chip on her shoulder. Stephanie, meanwhile, had gone into hyperdrive with her glue gun, apparently forgetting all about our getting to know Jane better by being here.

  “She must have cost you your blue ribbons the last couple of years,” I prompted.


  “Not to mention students from your little classes,” the woman beside me said with a laugh. “I remember the day she came in for a class that you were teaching on mosaics. She wound up having to show you how to do it. Remember?”

  “That’s not true,” Jane replied in clipped tones. “She just had an alternative method. I still believe my own is superior.”

  “The judges at the crafts fair sure agreed with Patty, then.” She showed me one of her triangular coasters. “What do you think?”

  “Nice,” I replied.

  She nodded. “I’ll make each of you a set,” the woman said with a smile.

  I glanced over at Stephanie and Jane to see if they appeared to be as unenthused about this offer as I did. Stephanie was so involved with her project that I doubted she’d heard. Jane was staring out the window, her face set in a hideous scowl as she broke a Popsicle stick into little pieces.

  Chapter 11

  Bottom’s Up

  Having stashed our craft projects in our respective cars, Stephanie and I walked across the parking lot to a small coffee shop where we’d decided to have a state-of-the-investigation discussion.

  We got our steaming beverages—Stephanie insisting on paying for both—then sat down at a round, wood table in one corner. “What are your thoughts so far?” she asked. Ever since we’d snapped at each other in the car the other day, she’d been on her best behavior.

  “The only thing that surprises me is that Patty’s faults seem to have been more obvious to others than they were to me. Apparently she was nowhere near as popular as I’d thought she was.”

  “I could have told you that,” Stephanie said, stirring sweetener into her coffee and taking a sip. She pursed her lips as if dissatisfied with the flavor.

  “Jane is certainly jealous of Patty for taking her arts-and-crafts queen crown.”

  Stephanie shook a second packet of sweetener into her coffee. “Yes, but that would hardly be reason for killing a person.”

  I took a sip of my chai, which was delicious, the creamy brown liquid perfectly spiced. “It’s as good a reason as anything else.”

  Stephanie smirked. “Come now, Molly. My cottage was superior to your catapult. Are you going to kill me for my ten-dollar gift certificate?”

  “Not over that, no.”

  She peered at me over the brim of her coffee cup. “Are you seriously trying to tell me that Jane might have killed Patty just so that she could get a blue ribbon rather than a red one this year?”

  “We’re not talking about ribbons so much as a person’s self-image, Stephanie. Some people seem to think that’s all they’ve got . . . if they can no longer see themselves in the one exact role they’re comfortable with, that they’re nothing. They don’t know any way to exist other than how they’ve been up to that point.”

  Although Stephanie had listened to my theory patiently, she set down her cup and said in biting tones, “Your point, then, is that Jane Daly was accustomed to being the best glue gunner on the block, till Patty arrived. According to your theory, it must have been seeing the leprechaun on Patty’s door that pushed Jane over the top.”

  Put in those terms, my suggestion sounded ludicrous, but she’d annoyed me into obstinacy. “Maybe so.”

  Stephanie scoffed and returned her attention to her coffee, which she stirred rabidly with a little wooden stick between sips. Come to think of it, Jane Daly should have provided the stirrers as caulking for the Popsicle sticks and tongue depressors.

  “Let’s look at this from your angle, Stephanie. You’re always perfectly dressed, your makeup flawless, not a hair on your head out of place.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My point is, why do you care so much about your appearance? Wouldn’t you be the same person if you threw on jeans and an old sweatshirt sometime and, for example, went bowling?”

  “I don’t even own a sweatshirt, so I couldn’t very well throw on an old one.”

  “But would you even recognize yourself if you did wear one? Plus leave your house with your hair unkempt and sans makeup?”

  She tossed her perfectly coiffed blond hair back from her shoulders in disgust. “Of course I’d recognize myself. Not that I would want to.”

  “Aha! That’s because you value your self-image as this well-dressed, sophisticated, classy woman. And if someone were to take that image away from you, wouldn’t you hate that person?”

  She sipped her coffee without answering, which I took to mean that I’d made my point. Then, however, she met my gaze and said, “Are you referring to yourself, Molly?”

  Her response threw me for a loop. “Huh? Me? No! I’m referring to Patty . . . in the case of Jane. That maybe what gave Jane her self-image and sense of worth was her inimitable crafts skills. I don’t even . . . why would you think I meant me?”

  “Because you do take away my sense of worth. You mock me and make fun of my values.”

  I was momentarily speechless. “If I do that . . . how horrible of me. I’m sorry. But I really . . .” I let my voice fade. My cheeks felt red-hot now, and I felt truly miserable. “Stephanie, I don’t want to confront some personality flaw of mine right now. I’m just trying to help catch a killer.”

  Kindly allowing me to change subjects, Stephanie said, “A pursuit in which we haven’t ruled out a single suspect, and we haven’t made any significant discoveries.”

  “Right. We’re spinning our wheels. But at least now, thanks to the menopause workshop, I know to be more concerned with calcium intake. Plus I got me a real nifty catapult.”

  Stephanie gave no response. At length, she said, “I’m getting a refill,” and returned to the counter.

  I sipped my chai, reflecting on this new revelation from Stephanie. Had I been mocking her values all these years? It hadn’t felt that way. Sometimes I went on the offensive when responding to her cracks about me. Perhaps from her perspective, she was only doing the same.

  Stephanie returned to the table, just as Jane came into the shop. She did a little double take at seeing us there. All charm, Stephanie cried, “Jane, hi. Let me buy you a cup of coffee, in appreciation for my unexpected gift certificate.”

  Jane took Stephanie up on her offer and joined us, but kept fidgeting with her sandy-blond hair. She explained that she was just on a short break and could only stay for a couple of minutes.

  “How did you first get interested in crafts projects, Jane?” I asked.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Why ask me? You’re an artist yourself,” she said with a laugh.

  “My artistic pursuits are limited to cartooning, though. I can’t think three-dimensionally. I barely scraped by with a B in sculpture and was a total bust in pottery. Plus I’ve never made any kind of decoration in my life of my own volition. I’m terrible at that sort of thing.”

  “That’s true,” Stephanie chimed in.

  Jane said, “My background sounds polar opposite to yours. I started doing crafts projects when I was twelve, making finger puppets to sell. I needed the money. My family was poor. We all had to pull our own weight.”

  “You supported yourself from the time you were twelve?” Stephanie asked in horror.

  Sipping her coffee, Jane gave a small nod. “I took on any kind of sewing and knitting work I could. And I’d make things with the scraps. Little catnip mouses . . . all kinds of little items.”

  “My God,” Stephanie cried. “How . . . unimaginably harrowing that must have been!”

  “Oh, I don’t want to paint too stark a picture. We always managed to keep food on the table. It just wasn’t much of a table. Or much of a meal, for that matter.” She leaned back and spread her arms. “But look at me now.”

  In her ordinary and inexpensive-looking cotton dress and denim jacket, her plain features unadorned with makeup, it was hard to follow Jane’s logic. Maybe she meant that she was no longer half starved.

  Stephanie snorted and replied, “No offense, dear, but this is hardly the Ritz.”

  Jane lif
ted her chin. “How you look at things is all a matter of your frame of reference. When I was growing up, I’d have been thrown out of a place like this. I never dreamed I’d have a nice house, a loving husband, my own car, two healthy children. I’ve done very well for myself, considering how far I’ve had to come.”

  I said honestly, “I’ve always looked at arts and crafts as a luxury. It’s remarkable to think that at one point, those skills helped you to survive.”

  She chuckled. “That should be the subject of my next class . . . Making Money at Crafts.”

  “Now that would draw folks into the store in droves,” Stephanie said.

  “Yes. It probably would. And would drive them away in droves when I got to the section entitled, Garbage Picking for Materials.” She stood up and motioned with her coffee cup as if in a toast to Stephanie. “Thanks again for the coffee. I hope to see you both at a future class of mine.”

  “Thanks,” Stephanie and I said in unison.

  Jane left.

  “Jeez. Another lesson in humility,” I said watching her through the glass. “I’m always forgetting how lucky I am.”

  “It’s amazing, all right,” Stephanie murmured. “You might actually be right, Molly. She does look at arts and crafts as a matter of life and death.”

  Despite Stephanie’s words, during my short drive home, I admitted to myself that I didn’t really put that much stock in the notion that Jane had killed Patty because she was better at crafts. I’d felt cornered into defending the theory, but secretly agreed with Stephanie’s first impulse that it was too flimsy a motive for anyone to have actually resorted to taking another human being’s life.

  Once home, my thoughts turned to my children. Was Raine Embrick still teasing Nathan? Nathan had seemed his usual self when he came home from school yesterday. That was a major relief, but nowadays my worry was almost equally divided. Karen was also getting hassled by a fellow student—Adam’s former girlfriend. Karen had reached that time of life where she was selective about sharing her worries with me. She was certainly getting harassed, but to what extent and how greatly that was affecting her was not information to which I was privy.