Death of a PTA Goddess Page 17

  “What?!”

  “Nothing. It’s fine. We’ll be fine.” We’re fully insured, and we have air bags. At least this was early enough in the day that we weren’t dealing with rush hour.

  I held my breath and prayed for the Saint of Traffic and Driving Conditions to intervene on our behalf. Mercifully, as we sped onto the highway, we were indeed blessed by a nice, empty slow lane. In gratitude, I silently swore that I’d obey all speed limits for a month.

  Breathing once again, I said, “Okay. No cars. Just put your left blinker on, accelerate, and pull into the traffic lane.”

  She did so, more or less, and I complimented her. In truth, however, she had yet to master the skill of merging smoothly into a lane, seeming to believe that she could make the car hop lanes by jerking the wheel. My standards were lower these days. Any drive accomplished without being in imminent and real fear for our very lives was a good one.

  We got up to the speed limit without incident. Nevertheless, I continued to feel as though we were running the rapids atop barrels of nitroglycerin. All the while, I continued to tell Karen how well she was doing and give little tidbits of instruction about highway driving.

  With just a mile or two to go till the exit, we caught up with the car in front of us. “Slow down and we’ll just follow this car,” I said.

  “This guy isn’t even going fifty! Can’t I pass him?”

  “No! Changing lanes is for a future lesson, way down the road. So to speak.”

  Karen protested, but slowed down. My attention was diverted to the car ahead of us. “Hey, that’s Chad Martinez driving, and it looks like his passenger is Susan Embrick.”

  “Adam’s mom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should I tail them? Find out where they’re going?”

  “No. Like I said before, simply follow them until we reach the next exit.”

  Karen stayed a reasonable distance behind their bumper. They were certainly engrossed in their conversation. What could they be discussing so earnestly? They turned off at the next exit, and we followed.

  “You know what, Karen? Since I never go this way and don’t really know how to get back, tailing them for a while isn’t such a bad idea. Just kind of lag back a bit and keep following them till I can pick up on some street names.”

  “Cool! I feel like a secret agent!”

  “Well, don’t get too attached to the notion. We’re just doing this till I get my bearings, then we’re trading places. This has been a long enough lesson for one day. I don’t want you to overload.”

  Chad had put on his signal to pull into the parking lot of a grocery store.

  “This is perfect, Karen. Just follow them into the parking lot. This will be a good place for us to swap drivers.”

  We pulled in behind them and found a section with three empty parking spaces, which was roughly the amount of open space Karen needed to park without incident. Chad, however, stopped directly in front of the grocery store. Susan got out of the car and went into the drugstore next door, while Chad left his car in the no-parking zone and dashed into the grocery store.

  “Are we switching drivers now?” Karen asked as I opened my door.

  “Yes, but I’ll be right back. I’m going to ask Susan how to get back on a less-busy road than the Northway.”

  “Okay, but don’t bring her out here. I don’t want Adam’s mom to think we’re, like, weird or something.”

  “Oh, no chance of that.” I trotted into the drugstore and found her in the indigestion-products aisle, examining some small box.

  “Susan, hi.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Molly. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “It is somewhat off my usual beaten path. I was giving Karen a driving lesson and happened to spot you and Chad. Thought I’d ask if there was a direct route back, or if we should turn around and head back up the Northway.”

  “If I were you, I’d just head up to Ballston Lake Road.”

  “Does that intersect with this road?”

  She furrowed her brow. “Yes, just a couple of miles up ahead. Haven’t you lived here for something like . . . ten years now?”

  “Seven or eight. Plus, I grew up here. The thing is, though, I have no sense of direction whatsoever.”

  “That must be a challenge.”

  “It is.” I hesitated, curious about her being with Chad. “So, what brought you out this way?”

  “Chad’s thinking of opening another studio and wanted a second opinion . . . normally the type of thing he’d ask Patty to do, but I took classes from him when we first moved here, and he seems to think I’m outspoken with my opinions.” She fluffed up her black hair and widened her eyes jokingly. “No idea where he got such an outlandish idea.”

  “He’s thinking of putting a second studio right here?”

  “No, farther south. I’d just been feeling a bit under-the-weather and asked him to pull in here.”

  “Hope you feel better soon. Well, have a nice evening. And thanks for the directions. I’d better get back to my car before my daughter gets bored and tries to take off without me.”

  “See you later.” She went back to examining the box of medicine in her hands.

  As I walked, I idly considered whether it would be worth my while to track down Chad and chat with him, too. All thoughts of additional sleuthing flew from my head the moment I stepped outside and saw what was happening in the parking lot.

  Karen had gotten out of the car—probably to switch to the passenger seat—and pushed toward the rack a grocery cart that a shopper had deserted. The cart had a gimpy wheel and, instead of going into the rack, it headed toward Chad’s car, which was just a few yards away from this storefront.

  It was as if everything were taking place in slow motion, and yet my reactions were operating at an even slower speed. Karen gasped and put both hands to her face. I tried to dart around Chad’s gold-colored Toyota to catch the cart. Meanwhile, someone came out of the grocery store and yelled, “No-o-o-o,” as he ran. Both of us arrived at the point of impact a second too late. The car door was dented and scratched.

  “Oh, my God!” Karen cried.

  Chad shoved the cart away, ran his hand over the slight dent, then pivoted, his face beet red. “You idiot! Look what you’ve done to my car!” He rolled up a newspaper he was carrying, and I had a vision of him beating my daughter over the head with it.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “It was an accident. The damage is already done. Name-calling and temper tantrums aren’t going to change that.”

  Showing no signs of softening his temper, Chad whirled to face me. “Easy for you to say when it’s not your car!” He focused again at poor Karen, who was already in tears. “You have nothing better to do than to stand out in parking lots, shoving carts into people’s cars? What’s the matter with you?”

  “There’s nothing the matter with my daughter, Chad! She had a minor lapse of judgment that led to a small scratch on your car, which—”

  “What happened?” Susan cried as she ran toward us down the sidewalk.

  “I scratched his car,” Karen said in whimper. “It was my fault.” She looked desperately at me. “Someone left the shopping cart in a handicapped space, and I thought I could just give it a little shove into the rack.”

  “Why didn’t you keep hold of the handle? This wouldn’t have happened if you’d pushed the cart all the way into the rack!” Chad cried.

  “And it wouldn’t have happened if your car hadn’t been parked illegally in the fire lane,” Susan said calmly.

  “I was only going to be here for a minute! I was just buying a newspaper!” He lifted the paper rolled in his fist as if to demonstrate.

  The man had a ridiculous temper. The damage was very minor, and I was having to struggle to keep my own temper at bay for his getting so carried away at my daughter. “Chad, get the damage appraised, and I’ll pay for it.”

  “You bet you’ll pay.” He glared at Susan. “Let’s get out of he
re. Now.”

  “Don’t feel bad, Karen,” Susan said. Eyeing Chad, she said evenly, “This is truly not a big deal.”

  “Chad, my husband’s name is James Masters. Susan can help you remember that. We’re in the phone book. Just call me as soon as you get an estimate.” My teeth were clenched so tight, it was lucky they didn’t break as I threw my door open. Karen was crying softly as she handed me the keys and we got into the car.

  I tried to count to ten to calm myself. “Some people put a whole lot of importance into their cars. But it was just a little scratch. Don’t worry about it, Karen. As I told Mr. Martinez, your father and I will pay for the repairs.” I started the engine, and we pulled out of the lot, leaving Susan and Chad behind.

  “I feel awful. It was my fault. And it would have to happen to the car Adam’s mother, of all people, was riding in. I should be the one to pay for it.”

  “You don’t have any money. You can pay me back by driving the speed limit and obeying your curfew, and using good judgment at all times. That and doing the dishes for the next two weeks.”

  Karen sighed, but was otherwise silent for a minute or two. Finally she said, “Can’t I just give you an IOU?”

  The minute we got home, Karen went straight to her room and closed her door. I picked up Nathan who, to his credit, promptly began his homework in his favorite spot: seated on the living room floor with his books on the coffee table. I called Jim, telling him about our impending auto-body bill at such great length that he moved from anger at Karen to anger at Chad and then all the way into complacency. Finally, I hung up and started working on a cartoon.

  Betty, meanwhile, was being especially emphatic about wanting more dinner. She carried her food dish into the living room and then dropped it right on my foot.

  Mulling the benefits of owning plants rather than animals, my subsequent doodles were of a Chia Pet. Eventually I wound up drawing a couple of men in white lab coats studying a piece of scuzzy-looking, moldy Swiss cheese. The one scientist is saying to the other: “Maybe we could try cutting it into the shape of a mouse.” The caption reads: The inventors of Chia Pets work to expand their product line.

  I glanced over at Nathan and thought about showing him the cartoon, but decided not to risk rejection right now. “How’s Kelly seem to be doing?”

  “We had a test in algebra today, and right in the middle of it, she started crying and said she had to go to the nurse.”

  My heart lurched. “Did she say she felt sick?”

  “No, just that she couldn’t remember anything she’d studied last night and that she had to go to the nurse.”

  “Did she come back to class?”

  “I don’t think so. I tried to find her at lunchtime, but couldn’t. It’s weird, though. She was always really good in math.”

  Tears started to well in my eyes. I tried to find a distraction in my drawings, not wanting Nathan to see me cry.

  “Do you think I could make her a card?” Nathan asked. “We’re kind of friends, and I wish she wasn’t so sad.”

  “I do, too. I think a card would be nice.”

  That evening, Karen hated the dinner I’d prepared, which meant that Nathan liked it. My children believe in taking opposite stances whenever possible. I told Karen, “You know, you’re old enough to cook dinner yourself. Laura Ingalls Wilder was already a professional teacher and working for a living when she was your age.”

  “Oh, good argument, Mom.” She rolled her eyes. Apparently she’d recovered her sense of sarcasm in the wake of her shopping-cart incident.

  The phone rang. Both Jim and Nathan were mid-bite and Karen was mid-scowl, so I answered.

  It was Stephanie. “Molly, get . . . spiffed up. We’re going to a dance competition tonight.”

  “We are?”

  “There isn’t much time. It starts in an hour.”

  “An hour from now? And we’re just finding out about it now?”

  “I’ve known for a couple of days, but kept forgetting to call you.” She paused. “That’s not quite accurate. I kept assuming I wouldn’t have to be the one to call you. I thought you’d call me to send me off on another wild-goose chase with you. Then you never did.”

  “I think I’m going to have to pass, Stephanie.” I added jokingly, “I just don’t think I’m up for competing tonight.”

  “Not you. Me.”

  “You’re going to be in the competition?”

  “Yes, but it’s not much of a competition, in the classic sense of the word. More of a publicity stunt to get more students. Three of the dance schools in the immediate area are showing off what their students have learned so far. Chad Martinez has asked me to be his partner to fill in for Patty.”

  While Stephanie was talking, I wandered out of the dining room with the cordless phone. I said quietly, “That’s nice, Stephanie, but Karen’s in a volatile mood, and the last person in the world I want to see right now is Chad Martinez. I was giving Karen a driving lesson today, and—”

  “Molly, we’re wasting time here. This is a golden opportunity to talk to most of the suspects. Not only will Chad be there, but so will Emily Crown, Jane Daly, and Kevin Alberti. I will be too busy dancing to look for clues.”

  “Emily is in Chad’s class?”

  “I think so. I don’t know. Chad told me something about her, but I wasn’t listening.”

  After getting the particulars and hanging up, I rejoined my family at the dinner table. “Anybody feel like going to watch an amateur adult ballroom dance competition in the high school gymnasium tonight?”

  I was greeted with silence and shudders.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  I arrived at the gym roughly on time. Emily Crown and Jane Daly were seated in the audience and were wearing slacks, like me—although my slacks were technically blue jeans. There was only one section of bleachers set up, and even those were sparsely occupied.

  Jane and Emily were seated together. I said hello and took a seat next to Emily. “Stephanie told me you two would be here, but I assumed you’d both be dancing tonight.”

  “No, we’re here as cheerleaders.” Emily twirled a finger in the air. “Rah.”

  Jane explained, “Chad chose the dancers, and we didn’t make the cut.”

  “Jane’s being modest,” Emily said. “She and her husband, Aaron, would have made the cut with no problem. Chad had a bee in his bonnet about Aaron’s eligibility, however.”

  “Oh?”

  Jane nodded. “Chad felt Aaron couldn’t compete because he wasn’t a student of his. This competition is only for students of the three studios competing tonight.”

  “But Stephanie’s competing, isn’t she?” I asked Jane. “She wasn’t Chad’s student, either. As far as I know, she only went that one time when Jim and I went. And your husband was there that one time for almost as long as Stephanie was.”

  “Tell me about it,” Jane said.

  “Chad’s just jealous because Aaron got private dance lessons on the sly.” Emily pointed at Jane with her chin. “Now he’s making the Dalys pay for it by disallowing them.”

  “So . . . Chad’s upset because your husband went to someone other than him for dance lessons?”

  “Yes,” Jane replied. By her body language she made it clear that the subject was now closed.

  “Oh, look!” Emily exclaimed, indicating the gym entrance with a tip of her head. “Here comes Susan. She said she might come watch tonight.”

  She joined us and gave me a warm hello. Our row had filled in while we talked. I squished against the railing at the end of the bleachers to give her room between Emily and me. Susan was the best dressed of any of us, wearing a mid-calf–length shift and leather boots. “I didn’t realize you were a ballroom dance fan, Molly,” Susan said.

  “Neither did I.”

  “Chad calmed down considerably after we left the parking lot this afternoon, by the way.”

  “That’s nice,” I grumbled, still resenting the scene he’d
thrown too greatly to be civil.

  We lapsed into silence for a moment. Stephanie had been right: Nearly everyone who’d been at the meeting at Patty’s that night was now here. “What about Mr. Alberti and his wife?” I asked Emily. “Are they competing tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are they now, then? I don’t even see Stephanie or Chad. I’d like to wish all of them luck.” Or rather, three of those four. I’d just as soon dent Chad’s thick forehead and try to knock some sense into him.

  Emily gestured in the direction of the railing that pressed against my shoulder. “Just around the corner behind us. The back hall is serving as a warm-up room. Just remember to say, ‘break a leg,’ and not ‘good luck.’ Chad’s very superstitious.”

  I stood up, but found myself nearly face-to-face with Chad. Technically, though, with the added height of the risers, I was tall enough to bop him on the head. I sat back down before the temptation to do so grew too strong.

  “Hello, everyone,” Chad said, beaming. “Thought I heard someone say my name.”

  “We were just discussing how much we’d all like to see you break your leg,” I said.

  Chad merely smiled and replied, “Thank you. I must warn you that the instructors and their partners are going last, so it’ll be a while yet.”

  And, indeed, a while it was. Al and his wife were one of the first couples to dance. They did a rumba, according to the announcer. They looked terrific to me, but apparently not to the judges, who awarded ribbons to the top three couples, which meant all but two won—the Albertis and a very overweight twosome from another studio. Afterward, they joined our cheering section. I congratulated them and told them that, in my opinion, they were robbed. Al just threw up a hand and said cheerfully, “Ah, this is just for fun.”

  Chad and Stephanie sat with us periodically, both doing running commentaries on the quality of dancers we were seeing. By the time two hours had passed, all of us were feeling restless and making excuses to leave our seats on the hard bleachers.

  Al and his wife left for good, with apologies, before the instructors danced. I was thinking that I might just have to follow suit when the announcer said, “And now, in our final event, the studio teachers will perform.”