Murder at the PTA Luncheon Page 3

  She did what he asked, but didn’t leave her position with her hand on the knob.

  “You’re listening?”

  “I’m listening, damn it.”

  “Okay. The man sitting downstairs with our daughter is not just any state policeman. He’s a detective with the Connecticut State Police. Has it occurred to you to ask yourself just why he decided to drop into your home? Besides the fact that we serve great drinks and noshes.”

  “I did not …”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to start an argument. I just think that he’s here for a very serious reason and we better find out what that reason is before any more time passes.”

  “Of course, he …” She didn’t know what to say. Why was he down there? Just what was going on? She flung open the door and started down the long elegant stairway before her husband could say anything else.

  “Damn it, Susan.” He was cursing, but he was right behind her.

  The double doors to the den were open and Susan walked in without announcing herself.

  “Chrissy, it’s been a long day and you’d better get to bed. You have that swim meet tomorrow, remember?” She didn’t need to take a second look at her daughter to see what was going on. Chrissy had perched herself in a decidedly uncomfortable position at the end of the sofa on which her brother was still sleeping. The detective was sitting on a nearby chair, one eye on the Mets game and one on the girl. Chrissy had been chattering excitedly, brushing her bangs back from her forehead and swinging one leg, obviously keyed up from insufficient sleep and too little sophistication to deal with a man who looked as though he belonged on the TV screen rather than in front of it.

  “Chrissy. Bedtime,” Susan stated.

  “I know the time,” was the haughty reply. Susan thought she detected a smothered grin on the detective’s face.

  “I was just about to go upstairs,” Chrissy said. An embarrassed look flashed from under her too-long bangs, but it disappeared as she turned back to her companion. “Good night, Detective Fortesque. I hope your team wins.” She flashed another and more annoyed look at her parents, now standing together in the doorway, as she strutted past them. “You might think about putting your son into bed.”

  Her footsteps were heard going up the stairs, then overhead, then a door slammed in the distance.

  “She’s right about Chad. If you’ll just hand him to me, I’ll carry him up,” Susan suggested to her husband. He scooped up their son from the couch and passed the small limp body to her. Smiling brightly and for no reason at the policeman, she carried her child from the room.

  “Would you like a drink, Detective Fortesque?” she heard her husband ask. Since the only thing handy was Chad, he didn’t get anything thrown at him. But how like a husband: after implying that she had done something wrong, he goes and does the same thing. She was going to have some conversation with him when this policeman finally left. She shoved her son up higher on her shoulder and opened the door to his room. Pew. The windows had been closed all day and there was no mistaking that gerbils lived here too. She gently placed her child down on his bed and opened the windows as far as possible. The fresh air was a relief. She returned to the bed and removed Chad’s shoes and socks. She guiltily looked at his very dirty hands and face and shoved away any thoughts about his teeth. The kid needed his sleep. She threw a light cotton blanket over him, thanked the gods for giving her a child who could sleep through anything, and left.

  She heard rock music coming from underneath her daughter’s door, but decided not to check on her. Chrissy was probably drowning her adolescent insecurities in an orgy of heavy metal. The last thing her daughter would want was wise words from a parent.

  She sighed and headed downstairs, looking forward to finding out at last just why the police were so interested in her, but when she returned to the den, there was no one there. She followed the sound of voices to the kitchen.

  “… we had the same damn thing happen. Guess those guys will never learn …” The detective stopped talking when she entered the room, but she didn’t have to hear the conversation to know that the two men had been comparing notes on some sort of common experience. “Male bonding,” the magazines called it. She thought it was irritating. Just when was her husband going to get around to finding out the answers to his questions?

  “You haven’t told us why you’re here, Brett.”

  My God, Jed could read her mind! Not exactly every wife’s dream, but it served its purpose in this situation. He was also, it appeared, comfortable calling this man by his first name. So they probably liked each other. That was a relief.

  “I’m here to find out everything your wife knows about the two murders in the last two months.”

  “You think they might be connected?” Susan leapt into the conversation.

  “Actually, I don’t know very much about them.” He turned from her husband’s side by the stove and, with a quick “Do you mind?” began rummaging around in the refrigerator. “I’ve read the reports that were filed in June about the death of Mrs. Jan Ick, and I spoke to your local chief of police briefly this afternoon about Mrs. Paula Porter, but my information is very sketchy. I’d like you to fill me in.” Turning from the refrigerator and handing Susan a bottle of catsup and a jar of pickles, he asked, “Any mustard in here?”

  “Let me,” Susan offered, and moving around him, reached into the still-open refrigerator door.

  It didn’t take long to get the meal on the table, and no one spoke while it was being consumed. Jed had made a pile of hamburgers and boiled up the rest of the corn. That and a six-pack made a very satisfactory meal, and both men declined her offer of dessert.

  “It’s a hot night and I’d like to go back to the hotel and go to bed, but I still have a job to do. Could we go back to the first murder?”

  “Sure,” Susan agreed, dumping the corncobs into the garbage and the last dishes into the dishwasher.

  “It was June the second, in the afternoon? After school?” he prompted.

  “Tuesday, I know. I would have to go back and check my calendar for the exact date. But it wasn’t late in the afternoon. The kids had a half-day of school that day, and so all the teachers were free from about twelve-fifteen on. And they all came to the lunch and …” She stopped, thinking that she was probably adding to any confusion. “Shall I begin at the beginning?” she asked.

  “Please.”

  She sat back down. “Each year our PTA gives a lunch for the teachers … you know all this?”

  “Assume I don’t know anything.”

  “Okay. Each year we give the teachers a lunch. Everyone comes.”

  “Everyone?”

  “All the members of the PTA executive board—the elected officers—and all the committee heads. There are about fifteen of us, maybe more. You must have a list of everyone who attended. I know the police got one.” She continued after his affirmative reply, “Then you know that all the teachers and the principal and the school secretary, even the custodians attend.

  “Anyway, it’s held on a day that is a half-day for the kids. There are five or six of them each year. The kids get out at noon, so the teachers are free for the afternoon. Certain committees of the PTA spend the morning setting up the event: the food committee gets volunteers to bring food; the decorating committee sets up the tables and chairs and brings baskets of flowers for the buffet tables; the corresponding secretary sends out invitations … it’s all done pretty much the way we do everything.

  “By noon everything is set up, and the teachers come and we all serve ourselves and eat and talk and have a good time for three hours or so. Or that is what we would have done, if Jan hadn’t died. She was killed by poison in a sandwich. At least that’s what the autopsy showed.

  “Do you want to know about that?” When he didn’t reply, she assumed the answer was yes and continued. “We had all had our lunch. It was hot that day, though. Really very hot for early June, and so a lot of us were getting up from the tables to
refill our glasses. Because this is held outside of school, we practically always have wine. And of course that just makes you more thirsty, so we were all pretty thirsty. Jan and I hadn’t been sitting together. I was with Mrs. Silber—Connie—she’s the librarian—most of the afternoon. We were planning a day when the volunteer mothers would help her inventory the books. And, well, there must have been about eight or ten people at my table, but that isn’t important. I don’t know where Jan was sitting. Maybe on the other side of the patio near Dr. Tyrrell, the principal, and Julia Ames and Charline Voos. They were co-presidents of the PTA last year, but that isn’t important either.” She started to get nervous as she always did when talking about the death. “Anyway, Jan and I met at the buffet table. I wanted some crab salad, she was looking for some sandwiches. At least I assume that’s what she got up for. Anyway, that’s what she got. We stood there talking for a while and she took a bite of one of the sandwiches on her plate and … and she died. Is that what you want to know?”

  “Not really. What I want to know is what really happened.”

  “What?” That was Jed. Susan was too surprised to say anything. “Are you implying that my wife is lying to you?” Jed stood up as he spoke.

  “No, I’m not suggesting anything of the sort. Please don’t misunderstand. Susan did a nice clear job of explaining the relevant facts, but that’s not what I’m here for. I can read everything she said in the police reports—your local police are equal to that job, if not much else. What I want is details, personalities, perceptions—the real story. That’s why I’m here.” He waved his hand to ward off any interruption. “I’ve read the police reports and the transcripts of their interviews after the murder. If you remember, they did a pretty thorough job of interviewing and re-interviewing everyone who was at the luncheon. And throughout all that material, your name kept popping up, Susan …”

  “Of course. I was next to Jan when she died, but …” Her voice trailed off. She was mystified. What was he saying about her?

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. You don’t understand and it’s my fault. Now I’m not explaining very well.

  “I’ve been involved in investigations of groups before. Not just in murder, but in cases of fraud, kidnapping, blackmail, lots of horrible things, and in all those cases there are certain commonalities about the groups. And one of those things is that most groups are divided into three subgroups: the doers, the followers, and the observers. And I think that you, Susan, are an observer.”

  “I do a lot—”

  “I know that you’re very active in the PTA and that you’ve held office, et cetera, et cetera. But when I read the reports, your name came up often—not just as the person closest to Jan when she died, but as someone who knew things about the organization’s members. Once or twice you were referred to as the person to check on details involving how a committee worked or who really wanted to do what. You seem to be regarded by many of your peers as an observer. And observers usually see things other people miss. So, what I want you to do is tell the story all over again, only tell it your way. Tell me what you know about the people in the group.”

  “You think that I see things others might not.” Susan needed some clarification.

  “I hope so” was his answer. “Could you start at the beginning again? I’m looking for the people behind the names, the personality structure of the organization. I’ll interrupt with questions. Okay?”

  “Fine,” she answered, but she wasn’t sure where to begin or if she really understood what he was looking for.

  “Maybe you could describe the people sitting at your table. You said the librarian … ?” he encouraged.

  “Connie Silber. I know her well because I’ve been working as a volunteer in the library since Chrissy was in kindergarten. In fact, I ran the committee for a few years. But you’re not interested in that.”

  “That is exactly what I’m interested in. Go on. The library committee is an important one in the PTA?”

  It must have been the sympathy in those beautiful blue eyes that caused Susan to answer so honestly. “Not at all. I mean, it is important, but no one thinks it is.” She knew she wasn’t making much sense and tried to explain further. “You see, the work of the PTA is done by its committees—like the fund-raising committee, for example. The people on that committee run the two big fund-raising events of the year. This year they had a fall carnival and a spring social. It’s a lot of work being on that committee, but everyone sees it and says, ‘Wonderful, wonderful. Boy, you sure do work hard.’ And, of course, the money earned goes into the treasury and everyone sees that. The money is used to buy things for the schools. Our PTA funded the first complete computer curriculum in the state with the money we’ve earned. The New York Times came out and gave it a first-page second-section write-up. That was eight years ago, but we always do things like that. We really are important to the school. I guess that’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “I’m sure you are,” agreed the detective. “But you were talking about the library,” he gently prodded. “That’s very important work too?”

  “It is, but no one thinks it is.” Susan answered quickly. “I don’t know …” Anything she might add would seem petty, she thought, but the man was unwilling to let her stop there.

  “You mean the teachers don’t appreciate the mothers being in the library,” he pushed.

  “No. They do appreciate our work,” Susan corrected. “It’s the PTA that doesn’t think … no, that’s not right. Let me try again to begin this at the beginning.” She took a breath and tried to sort everything out in her head. How was she to explain the political levels of the PTA and not end up sounding like a petty bitch with a gripe?

  “There are two levels of work in the PTA,” she began again, hoping this time she would make more sense, but she immediately began to stumble. “Not levels, really, but two different kinds of work. One kind everyone sees, so they appreciate it. Like the fund-raising committee. The other sort no one sees, but it’s just as important, and it has to be done. In fact, in some ways it’s more important.”

  She glanced at the man to see if what she said was making any sense and was relieved to see the look of understanding on his face. “The library committee keeps the library running in some ways. We have mothers in the library constantly and they check out the books, and shelve them, do repairs on materials, search for information for teachers … well, I could go on and on. We keep the books moving and leave the librarian free to expose the kids to reading and to teach a very sophisticated library-use curriculum. Well, for an elementary school it’s sophisticated.”

  “Sounds impressive to me.”

  Susan smiled at this encouragement and glanced over at her husband in the corner. He was half asleep, head resting on the palm of his hand. Well, to be fair, he had heard all this before, but she couldn’t help but compare his interest level with that of the man sitting across from her.

  “And you’ve been involved on this committee for years?” he was asking.

  “Yes.”

  “And how many women do the library work? How is it divided up? Each person works one day a month … ?”

  “No, each mother works half a day each week. It’s really a major time commitment …”

  “More time than the other committees?”

  “Yes. More than most. But the real difference is that no one sees it.”

  “Surely the teachers, the principal … ?”

  “But not the other members of the PTA. They don’t see it and so no one gets any credit. If a mother runs a fund-raising fair, everyone knows about it. It’s printed up in the PTA newsletter. The principal mentions it at assemblies. And … well, what I’m trying to say is that you get credit for it.”

  “And no credit is given to the library volunteers?”

  “Not the same kind. The teachers appreciate it, the librarian appreciates it, but it’s just drudge work to the rest of the PTA. In fact, some people who want to get
into positions of power in the PTA avoid the library as a dead-end job.”

  There. She had said it, but had she gone too far?

  “So you know the librarian well?” was the only response, much to her relief.

  “Yes, Connie Silber. She’s young. Around my age.” She realized that probably didn’t sound young to him. Just how old was he? “That is, she’s young for a teacher in our school,” she amended. “And she’s wonderful. She has lots of enthusiasm for her job and the books and the kids. She’s been working at Hancock Elementary for as long as I’ve been around there. And it’s great to help her out.”

  “You’re personal friends then?”

  “Not really. I mean, we’re good friends inside the school. We talk about our lives outside of school and everything. But, well, we don’t really socialize outside the building.” When he didn’t ask any more questions on that subject she was relieved. She had never been sure how to account for the fact that teachers and parents rarely became personal friends. Could it be that in this very affluent community the people entrusted with the education of the children were simply not of the same social class as the parents?

  “And who else was sitting at your table?”

  “Let me think.” Actually, she had gone over the day so often in her mind that she could remember things quite clearly. “I was the only mother; then there was Mrs. Nunn, my son’s first-grade teacher; Miss McGovern and Mrs. Clancy, the two third-grade teachers; and Mr. Johnson, the gym teacher. Oh yes, and Mr. Daviette. He’s the new fifth-grade teacher. That is, he’s new this year. I always seem to forget him. Because he’s new, probably,” she added, to explain to him. And because he’s so wimpy, she added to herself, using one of the words she was always telling her children to avoid.

  “It’s getting late.” He looked at her now snoring husband. “And I know I’ve taken up a lot of your time today. If you could just give me brief character sketches of those few people?”