Murder at the PTA Luncheon Read online

  “The food came from where? A caterer?” Brett asked.

  “Oh, no. It was brought by the parents. That’s the point of the lunch—the PTA makes it for the teachers. I understand that everyone brings a dish. I don’t know whether they’re all homemade or not.”

  “Can you check that out?”

  “Of course.” Another note.

  “And will you find out the arrangement of tables and chairs, who was sitting where and how the food was placed on the tables?”

  “Oh, I have some of that. I have a diagram of the food on the tables—it was made before the stuff was taken off to the lab. But there’s nothing about where everyone was sitting. Maybe we could piece that information together from the interviews. Most people mentioned where they were sitting. The layout of the whole yard is easy. It’s about two hundred feet square. There is a rectangular pool at the side farthest from the house. Perpendicular to that to your left as you face the pool is a long perennial flower garden running the entire distance from the patio to the pool. The food was set up on tables on the other side of the lawn. Three tables for the salads and main dishes and one round table for wine and coffee. Then the tables themselves—the ones the people sat at to eat—were set up in three rows of two tables each, perpendicular to the pool and the patio. I understand there is shade in that part of the garden during the early afternoon and it was a warm day.”

  “The food on the lawn was in the sun?”

  “No, there are large trees over that area also, as I understand it. Shouldn’t we go and have a look at the scene of the crime?”

  “Yes, and soon, but first I want to spend some time going through these statements.”

  “And I … ?”

  “How far away is the Ames house?”

  “From where we are now? About five minutes, I’d say. Nothing is very far from anything else in this town.”

  “Tell you what. Why don’t you drive back to the municipal building and we’ll see if the autopsy report on Mrs. Porter is in. Then you can drive us to the Ameses’. I’ll take the time to read through this. Okay?”

  “No problem.” He got out and she slid across the seat to the driver’s side, her skirt catching on a piece of loose vinyl and sliding up her thigh as she did so.

  Hmm. A garter belt was holding up those sheer stockings, Brett noted. He wondered if that meant anything.

  “But I don’t think the report’s due until this evening,” she told him, jerking down her skirt.

  He shrugged. “We may as well give it a try.” He was already skimming through the inch-thick pile of Xeroxes and continued to do so after their return to the municipal building, while Kathleen went inside. Part of the reason Brett had risen so quickly in his department was this ability to concentrate totally on something, no matter what was going on around him. But Kathleen Somerville did not just run into the building and back out, and after she had been gone for about five minutes, he completed the last page of the pile and put the whole thing back into its manila folder. He looked out the window at the curved beds of geraniums and white marigolds that swirled up and around the wide lawn before the building, but he didn’t see them.

  Either these women were extraordinarily serious about their positions in the PTA, or something else was going on here.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” he mumbled out loud, but to himself. “Why would there be so many lies?”

  SEVEN

  “Maybe we should have called ahead and let them know we were coming.” Kathleen brushed her hair off her forehead and turned the police car into the long flower-lined drive to the house.

  “Maybe …”

  “No, there’s a van back by the garage. Someone must be here.”

  “Drive up closer. We may as well park there too. I doubt if anyone really wants a marked state-patrol car in front of their home. Especially a home like this one. Looks like one of the houses in the Cadillac ads.”

  She followed his directions and soon their vehicle was stopped beside a truck belonging to the Haskill Pool Service—“Cleaning—Repairs—Maintenance.” When they got out, they could hear the voices of the employees of Haskills’ coming from the back of the house.

  “Wait. Let’s look out there.”

  “But …”

  “Come on,” he insisted, starting without her. He knew that they could use the work crew as an excuse to look at the property without the owner’s permission. How were they to know that it was merely the workmen’s voices they heard? Although he doubted very much that the pool’s owners inspected every little bit of maintenance … The two police officers walked through the opening in the tall hedge and entered the well-kept yard. Everything was as the description in the police reports had led them to expect, except more luxurious. The emerald grass was obviously receiving a great deal of care; there was not a weed or bare patch to be seen. The flower bed running along the far side of the lawn was an abundant display of various varieties, all seemingly at peak bloom. The patio, covered with an awning of thin multicolored stripes, was brick. And all around sat unusual redwood furniture, cushioned with plump pads that matched the fabric overhead. Here, too, flowers rioted in pots of clay, brass, copper, and ceramic. At the opposite side of the space was the pool: a large expanse of water, surrounded by gleaming ceramic tiles and more furniture. Four men, dressed in matching overalls that proclaimed their alliance with the Haskill Pool Service, were clustered around one of the ladders by which swimmers entered and exited the water. Their positions and the seriousness of their expressions reminded Brett of doctors consulting over a critically ill patient.

  “Do you think it could possibly take four men to do whatever they’re doing?” Kathleen asked, more to say something than because she was at all interested.

  “In Hancock it always takes large crews to accomplish anything. I know it sounds like one of those horrible Polish light-bulb jokes, but there is a good reason behind it all. If it takes four men to do the work of one, then the bill can be four times higher.” This was spoken by a tall, striking blond. “Hi, I’m Julia Ames.” She held out her hand to Kathleen.

  “Kathleen Somerville, Officer Somerville,” she corrected herself. “We’re from the—”

  “State police,” Julia finished for her. She was now shaking hands with Brett Fortesque. “And you’re?”

  “Detective Fortesque. Brett Fortesque,” he said, impressed with the almost professional poise of the woman before him. How many other people had he met who would take the presence of two police officers in their backyard on a summer Saturday with such aplomb?

  “Of course. I saw your car in the driveway. And I’ve been expecting you. What do you think about the scene of the crime?” She smiled and waved her arm to encompass the entire area.

  “It’s hard to imagine a less likely place for a murder,” Kathleen answered honestly.

  “Well, I don’t know.” Julia Ames laughed politely. “If those men don’t fix that ladder correctly this time, I may murder them. Twice this season I’ve slipped off that thing into the water. And yesterday my son hit his head on the side of the pool when those steps shifted. Someone is going to get killed unless they find a better way to anchor them. Oh well, that’s not what you came to talk about, I know. Why don’t we all sit down?” She motioned to the chairs. “I could get us something to eat or drink, if you’re hungry.”

  “Nothing, thanks.” Brett declined for them both. “We would like to talk to you, though, if you have the time.”

  “Of course. I’ve been waiting for you to come ever since I heard you were in town.”

  “You were?” He didn’t bother to ask how she had heard of their presence. He knew that in a town this size and an organization this tight, word would travel quickly.

  “Yes, because Jan was killed here, of course. And because I was at the Club yesterday when poor Paula died. That was murder too, wasn’t it, Inspector?” She turned all her attention and charm on Brett.

  “We think so, Mrs. Ames. And the titl
e is Detective, not Inspector.”

  “Well, why don’t you call me Julia and I’ll call you Brett and we won’t have to worry about titles? Now”—she sat back in a lounge, placing her well-tanned legs on a small footstool before her—“just what do you want me to tell you, Brett?”

  “How did it happen that you were the person who took notes when the police interviewed everyone after the PTA lunch, Julia? Did someone on the force know that you knew shorthand, or was there a general request for help to the group from one of the police?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that at all. Let me think for a while. You know”—she directed her wide blue eyes at Kathleen this time—“I’ve kept going over that afternoon in my mind. Over and over. But I hadn’t thought about that part of it before. You work with a very interesting man, Officer Somerville.” A shy, almost coy glance at Brett followed this remark. Not allowing time for Kathleen to answer, she continued, “What happened was that after the body—Mrs. Ick—was taken away in the ambulance, the police requested that everyone gather here on the patio. I guess they wanted to keep us away from the food, although at the time no one was thinking about it. We were all so upset. Some of us were crying, some acting almost like they were in shock—just going through the motions, but not really aware of what was happening around them. Do you know what I mean? After all, Brett, a PTA lunch is not the type of place you expect a murder …” She paused for a second before continuing. “I remember that we all did just what the police asked, although a lot of the people were here already. I remember Miss McGovern was almost passed out on this lounge. We were really worried about her. She’s one of our third-grade teachers and quite elderly.”

  “And so the police asked you to gather here and then they asked for a volunteer to …” Brett prompted, trying to return to the subject.

  “No. We all came here and sat around. No one really knew what to do or say. And the police were at that end of the yard”—she nodded toward the pool—“and they stood around talking.

  “And then Carol Mann—her husband is a cop in town and she was—well, she must have been at that end of the lawn talking to the police—she came over and asked me if I knew shorthand. Well, I do. I think everyone in the PTA knows that I write notes in shorthand at all the meetings, but maybe she didn’t know how fast I was or anything, so I told her yes. And she went back to the men—her husband was there, of course—and then an Officer Harvey came over and asked me if I would mind taking notes while each person was interviewed. Naturally I said yes.”

  “Naturally. And you didn’t feel very uncomfortable listening to the statements of the others? It didn’t put you in an awkward position?”

  “No. Why should it have? We’re all friends in the PTA, Officer Somerville, and at the time, it just seemed like a formality. It wasn’t until that evening, after we heard that the paramedics thought the death was caused by poisoning, that I realized that one of us had to be a murderer.”

  “It’s—”

  “It’s not the type of thing you think about one of your friends, or the teachers of your children, Brett.”

  “I’m sure it’s not.” He fingered through the papers he had been carrying. “Would you go over your own statement with us?”

  “Of course. Oh, you have it right there. Could I look at it just to refresh my memory?” She held out her hand, obviously not expecting to be turned down.

  “You took notes on your own statement as well as on everyone else’s?” Kathleen asked, watching the bits of sunlight that the awning allowed through shine on Julia’s hair as she bent over the document. Had the colors been chosen because they complimented the mistress of the house so well?

  “Yes. Who else? I can assure you that I did not change anything on the statement. After all, it was made in the presence of two officers.”

  “Where?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Where did the questioning take place?”

  “I didn’t understand. In my husband’s study. It’s that room—right through the French doors there.” She pointed to glass doors leading off the far side of the patio.

  “So each person who was questioned was alone with two policemen and yourself?”

  “Yes. I remember now,” she added. “But I don’t know what you want me to add to it or say about it. It seems very clear to me.”

  Brett held out his hand and took the document from her. Without comment, he began to read aloud.

  “ ‘My name is Julia Ames. I’m thirty-three years old and my husband and I have lived at this address for nine years. I have two children ages six and eight, both of whom attend Hancock Elementary School. I’m co-president of the PTA at the school. Charline Voos is the other co-president and we’ve had the jobs this whole year. The PTA lunch was held at my home today, starting at noon, and it was supposed to end at three. I was sitting at one of the side tables, near the flower garden, when Jan died. The other people at the table, besides Jan, were Charline Voos, Dr. Charles Tyrrell, the school principal, Linda Smith, the kindergarten teacher (my son had her last year), and Beverly Anderson, one of the teachers for first grade this past year. Also, Corrine DeAngelo, the art teacher. My daughter Constance is an excellent art student and Corrine teaches art for all grades.

  “ ‘I was the first to get my food. As usual, everyone was hesitant to be first in the buffet line—no one wants to look piggish—so I thought it was my duty as hostess to start the ball rolling. Charlie—Dr. Tyrrell, that is—was right behind me. In fact, most of the people at my table selected their food first, except for Charline. She waited until everyone was finished to get hers. That way she could keep an eye on things: to see if we needed to bring out seconds from the kitchen or if more wine needed opening, stuff like that.

  “ ‘I chose our table because it was an outside one. I wanted to be able to move easily between the kitchen and the phone and the buffet tables. Usually, at these functions, someone’s child or housekeeper has an emergency and needs to get hold of a parent. Also, there was a dessert to come out after the main course. But I had planned for it. The lunch was held at my house before, last year, when I was vice-president of the PTA, so I was familiar with the things that could happen. We ate our meal rather slowly. Partially because we were first to get it and didn’t have to rush, and partially because we were listening to Corrine describe the trip she is taking this summer to Europe. Part of the trip is being funded by a grant that the PTA gives a teacher each year to study or to work on a specific project. I helped Corrine get that grant, in fact. Not that I have more than one vote on our board, but of course there are lots of people who come to meetings who really aren’t involved in the school, not like board members are, and it is sometimes easy to convince them what is important and what isn’t.

  “ ‘Anyway, we all had finished eating when there was a scream. I think it was Susan Henshaw who screamed, but I’m not sure. And everyone ran to the food tables. My table got there later than everyone else—we were farthest away—and then we saw Jan. She was lying on the ground. I think Nancy Dobbs was the person to say that she was dead, but really we could all see that. No one touched her. I think Charlie ordered everyone away from her, but I’m not sure. And I ran into the house to call the police. I don’t know why I didn’t use the extension on the patio, I just didn’t think of it, I guess. Anyway, I called the emergency number and heard the sirens go off and in a few minutes the police were here. They were followed very shortly by an ambulance. Jan was put on some sort of machine and then taken off to the hospital. That’s all I know.’ ”

  “Is there anything you’d like to add to that statement, Mrs. Ames?”

  “No, nothing,” she answered, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the more formal address.

  “What can you tell me about the rest of that day?”

  “I don’t understand.” Her confusion appeared real.

  “What happened after you ended your statement? How long was it before the guests and the police left? When did your fam
ily come home? Or were they here all along?”

  “Oh, I see. Of course, I remember that. Let me think for a minute, though.” She stared out at the pool men still busy with the broken ladder.

  “My kids were at Charline’s house with her housekeeper. Actually, they didn’t come home until quite late that night. They stayed there for dinner.”

  “And that had been planned that way?”

  “No, but it took quite a lot of time to pack up. And they didn’t just take the food on the buffet tables, but all the desserts in the kitchen and the bottles of wine—even the unopened ones. Anyway, there were police in my yard and my kitchen for hours. I think until five or six o’clock, so we decided to keep the kids away.”

  “We?”

  “Charline and I. She was one of the last to leave, but she called her housekeeper about the change in plans.”

  “Any reason why she was here longer than most?”

  “Nothing significant. She stayed to help.”

  “Why Charline and not someone else?”

  “Because she’s my best friend and she’s in and out of my house all the time. She knows her way around here; she could show the police where everything was. And then she helped get cold drinks for everybody who had to wait to be questioned.”

  “From where?” Kathleen jumped in, having been silent all this time.

  “From the refrigerator and freezer in the basement playroom. We had to convince the police that nothing had been moved from that floor of the house all day long, but then they let us serve cold soft drinks and lemonade. It was really a very hot day, and with the shock and all, everyone was very thirsty. The police, too.”

  “And your husband?”

  “He came home early that night. Probably he remembered that the lunch was going to be here and he came to help clean up. I don’t remember …”

  “How early?”

  “Between four and five, I think. And he pitched right in helping the police get everything loaded into the vans they had brought and making sure that everyone who was too upset to drive home had a driver. He even drove Mrs. Clancy home himself, and she lives in Westchester.”