Murder at the PTA Read online

  A LESSON IN MURDER

  Detective Reyes nodded at Sandra, appreciative of the fact she was such a fountain of information. Then he turned back to Maya. “Who is your client?”

  “I don’t have to tell you that,” Maya said.

  Reyes gave her a withering look.

  “But I will,” Maya said. “My daughter. She wanted me to find out who was responsible for the site because she was afraid all the anger and finger-pointing was just going to get worse.”

  “And you called nine-one-one?” Reyes asked Maya.

  “Yes, right after I found the body.”

  “She wrote a suicide note. It’s pinned to her sweater. She explains everything, how the guilt became too much for her,” Sandra piped in excitedly. “I can only imagine how she must have felt after seeing the consequences of her vicious website.”

  “I don’t think she felt guilty about anything,” Maya remarked.

  Reyes looked at her curiously. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t think this was a suicide.”

  “What? But the note . . . ,” Sandra said.

  Maya shrugged. “We don’t know for sure she wrote it.”

  Books by Lee Hollis

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  DEATH OF A BACON HEIRESS

  DEATH OF A PUMPKIN CARVER

  DEATH OF A LOBSTER LOVER

  DEATH OF A COOKBOOK AUTHOR

  DEATH OF A WEDDING CAKE BAKER

  DEATH OF A BLUEBERRY TART

  DEATH OF A WICKED WITCH

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  Poppy Harmon Mysteries

  POPPY HARMON INVESTIGATES

  POPPY HARMON AND THE HUNG JURY

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  MURDER AT THE PTA

  MURDER AT THE BAKE SALE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Murder at the PTA

  Lee Hollis

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  A LESSON IN MURDER

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Rick Copp

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2448-9

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1987-4 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1987-5 (ebook)

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sandra Wallage stood behind the podium on top of a wooden box so her five-foot-three frame could be seen above the microphone into which she was about to speak to the auditorium full of parents. This was her first major address since being elected as president of the parent-teacher association. She had been working on her speech all week, crossing out paragraphs, rewriting whole chunks, obsessing over every word that she planned to utter in order to avoid any unnecessary conflict or controversy, which wasn’t easy when it came to the South Portland High School PTA.

  There was also her innate fear of public speaking that took hold way back in high school, when she was named valedictorian of her class and was tasked with speaking on behalf of the entire student body. She opened her mouth to start her speech and burped.

  Loudly.

  Right into the microphone.

  Damn that plate of nachos she had devoured with her girlfriends, in their caps and gowns, an hour earlier at the Mexican restaurant down the street from their school.

  Everyone in the audience burst into uproarious laughter. Students, teachers, parents, everyone. It was her most humiliating moment up to that point in her young adolescent life. After they had all managed to calm down, Sandra was able to mutter her way through her speech, ignoring the titters from her fellow students, and, yes, even a few insensitive adults, and then as she stepped down off the stage, she vowed then and there that she would never put her fragile self-esteem at risk like that ever again.

  But now, all these years later, public speaking should have been second nature to her. She was the wife of a United States senator representing the great state of Maine. She had attended hundreds of luncheons and fund-raisers where she was almost always expected to say at least a few words. But she found that it never got any easier for her. She had tried every trick in the book, even picturing the whole audience in their underwear to calm her nerves and make the ordeal a little bit easier, as her son once casually suggested. But that never really worked either. Nothing ever worked. She felt nauseous every time she was asked to step in front of a microphone.

  And yet here she was, one more time, standing in front of two hundred people, all ready to hang on her every word, and all she could think about was the run in her stocking. She had noticed it right before the school principal, the d
ashing John Hicks, had introduced her. She couldn’t help but glance down at it now, the small almost imperceptible imperfection. She always worked so hard to be the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect PTA president, and for the most part, she certainly looked the part. Her freshly pressed designer white skirt suit from Nordstrom, her elegant matching Salvatore Ferragamo bow pump shoes, her impeccable coiffured blond hair, everything, all of it was working.

  Except for that ignoble, irritating run in her stocking.

  Sandra took a deep breath.

  Just because you always expect to be perfect doesn’t mean everybody else does.

  She smiled out at the audience.

  You can do this.

  “Good afternoon. Thank you, Principal Hicks, for that warm and gracious introduction. Parents, teachers, students, welcome to our first PTA meeting of the fall semester at South Portland High School!”

  The applause gave her the opportunity to glance down at the stack of index cards she was holding in her hands.

  There was a lot to cover.

  Parent involvement.

  Budget approval.

  Fund-raising ideas.

  She then commenced to plow through them all, covering every topic on her agenda, telling herself to slow down as she raced to get through to the end.

  She stumbled a couple of times, tripping over a word here, a word there, looking up, red-faced, only to be met with friendly, understanding smiles. That relaxed her a bit. Then, down went her head again, eyes fixed on her index cards until she was holding the last one in her hand.

  “So in conclusion, let’s all work together to make this year at SoPo High the best one yet!”

  The auditorium erupted in applause.

  That was it.

  She was almost done.

  Just a five-minute question and answer session and then she would be home free.

  The first question was an easy one about the new football uniforms.

  “I’m happy to report the uniforms have been ordered and will arrive before the homecoming game in October,” Sandra reported, smiling.

  Next, a breathlessly excited mother shot her hand up in the air with an inquiry about the fall musical. “I heard they might do Hello, Dolly! Is that true? I love that musical, and although I’m biased, I think my daughter, Jana, would be the perfect Dolly Levi!”

  Sandra caught a few eye rolls from the other parents.

  She had to suppress a smile.

  “I’m not sure our director, the ridiculously talented Georgina Callis, has selected which musical the theater department will be staging this fall, but please keep checking the school’s web page for updates.”

  Sandra resisted the urge to check her watch.

  She was eager to get out of there but didn’t want to let on that she was in too much of a rush to wrap things up. She wanted to give the parents all the time they needed.

  A father stood and asked if there was going to be a spring trip to Paris for the French class after what happened last year with the temporary detainment of one student for attempting to draw a mustache on Mona Lisa at the Louvre with a magic marker.

  “That was an isolated incident, so I see no reason why this year’s class should be punished. . . .”

  Suddenly Sandra heard a bunch of cell phone alerts ringing from all over the auditorium. She hadn’t seen this many phones going off since she and her husband were at their son’s Little League game way back in 2010 when word went out all over the world that a SEAL team had nailed Bin Laden. Whatever the news was, it sounded awfully important.

  There was a lot of urgent whispering and murmurs as people looked down at their phones. Sandra was now dying of curiosity and wanted to step off the stage and fish her own phone out of her bag to see what had everyone buzzing.

  “If there are no more questions . . .”

  A woman, with bright red hair and a color-print blouse that was so loud it practically screamed, solemnly stood from her chair with her hand raised.

  “Yes, I have one.”

  Sandra waited expectantly as the woman took a deep breath and glanced down at her phone, which she clutched in her right hand. “Would you like to address the latest headline on Dirty Laundry?”

  Sandra sighed.

  She was quite familiar with Dirty Laundry, a gossipy website that had popped up recently, solely focused on salacious scandals relating to people involved with SoPo High—students, teachers, coaches, even parents. It was a no-holds-barred trash bin full of rumors and innuendos, none of it backed up with any meaningful evidence. And despite the school’s best efforts to unmask the identity of the site’s creator, so far they had had zero luck.

  Sandra didn’t want to give this putrid site any more oxygen, but as she gazed across the auditorium at the shocked faces of the parents in attendance, she couldn’t help but finally ask, “What are they saying now?”

  The redhead with the ugly blouse cleared her throat, swaying from side to side uncomfortably as she gathered up her courage to speak. “If you don’t mind me just reading the headline . . . ?”

  Sandra nodded.

  Permission granted.

  “‘New PTA President’s Senator Husband Uses Taxpayer Money to Hush Up Blockbuster Sex Scandal.’”

  Sandra grabbed both edges of the podium with her hands to keep from falling.

  The words were like a gut punch.

  The whispers and murmurs stopped.

  Two hundred people stared at her, waiting for her reaction.

  She opened her mouth to speak.

  But nothing came out.

  She had absolutely no idea how to respond.

  She just felt her face flush with embarrassment. Her knees were so wobbly she wasn’t sure if she would even be able to walk out of there.

  “I . . . I . . . ,” Sandra stammered.

  Finally, knowing it was a lost cause, she leaned down into the microphone, and through deafening scratchy feedback, managed to get out, “I’m sorry. . . . Excuse me. . . .”

  She fled to the wings of the theater and out a side door as she heard the principal, John Hicks, speaking into the microphone she had just deserted. “Thank you all for coming . . .”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sandra stumbled out of the building and directly into the large, sprawling high school parking lot. It was dusk with limited visibility as the sun dipped and disappeared in the west. She squinted at the rows and rows of cars parked all around her and couldn’t immediately spot her silver Audi A6 sedan. Sandra frantically rummaged through her purse for her car keys, finally managing to extract them and press down on the remote to unlock her car. She heard a chirp just a few rows away and followed the sound till she mercifully saw the flashing red lights on her Audi as she pressed down on the remote again a few more times with her thumb.

  Her head was still spinning from the shock of the lurid Dirty Laundry headline, and she felt dizzy, but she fought to remain calm in order to get herself home and out of public view. She was a U.S. senator’s wife. It was critical she maintain her dignity and not collapse to the ground, weeping uncontrollably. It was exactly what she wanted to do at the moment, but alas, that was just not an option.

  As she reached for the car door handle, she suddenly stopped. Behind her, she heard shouting. She spun around to see the assistant principal, Maisie Portman, having a loud argument with another woman. Maisie was small in stature, a real spitfire, and her round freckled face always seemed to be on the verge of anger no matter what the topic she happened to be discussing at the time. Her abundance of black curls always seemed to be bobbing up and down as she spoke. If anything, Maisie was a loyal soldier to her boss, Principal Hicks, which was why Sandra was surprised Maisie wasn’t inside the school at the moment, by his side, ready to jump to his defense if need be.

  No, she was outside, yelling at a woman Sandra didn’t recognize. Perhaps she did know her, but it was almost completely dark now with the sun already below the horizon, so it was a miracle Sandra could
even make out Maisie. Sandra watched the two women going at it for a few seconds, not quite sure if she should make her presence known, but then the unidentified woman violently shoved Maisie up against the side of a parked van, and her hands wrapped around Maisie’s throat. Maisie struggled to push the woman away, but she was too tiny; the woman was about a foot and a half taller than she was.

  Sandra rushed forward. “Stop it! Let her go!”

  The instant the woman heard Sandra, she released her grip on Maisie. Maisie, embarrassed, glanced over at Sandra, who was fast approaching them, and quickly exchanged a look with her assailant. Maisie stepped forward, in front of the other woman, and her mouth broke into a friendly smile.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Wallage. So nice to see you,” Maisie said in a calm, reassuring tone.

  “Is everything all right, Maisie?” Sandra asked, suspiciously eyeing the woman behind Maisie, who was trying to slink away and disappear into the darkness.

  “Oh, yes, everything’s fine. No problem at all. We just got into a heated discussion about something silly really, nothing important.”

  Sandra stepped closer toward them, trying to get a good look at the woman. “Hello, I’m Sandra Wallage.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the woman muttered. “I better go. I’ll see you later, Maisie.”

  And then she scurried away without introducing herself.

  “Who was that?” Sandra asked, turning back to Maisie.

  “You don’t know her. I better get back inside in case John needs me,” Maisie said, running off, her black curls bobbing.

  Sandra considered chasing after her in order to find out exactly why that woman had her hands around Maisie’s throat, but then she caught sight of dozens of parents pouring out of the school and into the parking lot. The PTA meeting had officially been adjourned, and she was about to be surrounded by curious busybodies all eager to hear what she had to say about the latest Dirty Laundry claim.