Murder at the PTA Read online

  Sandra dashed back to her car, jumped in, and roared away. When she was safely off school property, she pulled into a vacant lot next to a closed warehouse where she could have some privacy and shifted the gear into park. She grabbed her phone off the passenger seat and scrolled down the Dirty Laundry article about her husband’s alleged sexual harassment scandal. As she suspected, it was short on facts and long on gossipy innuendo and unsubstantiated speculation. Still, the fact that the mere suggestion was out there was not good. She decided it was time to call her husband, who she knew was in Washington, DC, probably in the senate chamber at the moment.

  After a few rings, she heard a man answer gruffly. “Yes?”

  It wasn’t Stephen.

  It was his young aide Preston Lambert.

  Sandra couldn’t stand the kid. He was smug, overly ambitious, and as her kids liked to call him, “A real slimeball.” But for some reason, he was indispensable to Stephen, who refused to fire him despite his off-putting and cloying personality. What Sandra hated about him the most, however, was just how irritatingly patronizing he was to her.

  “Hi, Preston, it’s Sandra. I need to speak to Stephen right away.”

  “Well, hello, Mrs. Wallage. It’s so nice to hear your sweet, friendly voice this evening.”

  Liar.

  He knew damn well Sandra wasn’t sweet or friendly when it came to him.

  She hated him.

  “It’s an emergency,” Sandra said coldly.

  “What kind of emergency?” Preston gasped, playing along.

  “I’d really rather discuss it with Stephen, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course. I understand,” he said.

  She could picture him sneering on the other end of the line.

  “The only problem is,” Preston drawled, trying his damnedest to be sympathetic and understanding but failing miserably. “He’s down the hall just a few seconds away from being interviewed by CNN on the floor vote.”

  “I don’t care, Preston. I need to speak to him right now. Put him on,” Sandra demanded.

  “Oops, there he goes. He’s on live right now with Anderson Cooper. You don’t want me to interrupt him while he’s talking to Anderson Cooper, do you?”

  Sandra sighed. “How long is it going to take?”

  “Shouldn’t be more than five minutes. They have to cut to a commercial at some point, right? Just hold on. We’ll wait together.”

  Preston let a few moments go by before attempting a little small talk. “How are the boys?”

  “They’re fine,” Sandra said, refusing to offer any more.

  “Stephen showed me pictures. I can’t believe how much they’ve grown! They’re young men now!”

  “Yes,” Sandra said through gritted teeth.

  Preston finally got the message and stopped trying to engage her in a conversation. After a few more minutes of awkward silence, Preston said cheerily, “He just wrapped up. Sit tight. I’ll put him on.”

  Sandra waited just a few seconds before she heard the laconic, soothing voice of her husband, Stephen.

  “Hey, honey, what’s up?”

  “Have you heard about what Dirty Laundry is saying about you?”

  “Wait . . . hold up. Dirty what?”

  “Dirty Laundry . . . I told you about it when you were home a couple of weekends ago. It’s that awful site that targets people connected to the high school, putting out clickbait by drumming up scandals and headlines, some true, some fake.”

  “Right. I remember. So what are they saying?”

  Sandra clicked over to the site and read her husband the headline.

  There was a long silence.

  “Are you still there?” Sandra asked.

  He let loose with a hearty laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me . . .”

  “No, I’m not. It says so right here in front of me.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. There is not a shred of truth to it.”

  Sandra believed him.

  She had to believe him.

  Otherwise, then where would she be?

  “It came out while I was delivering my welcome speech as the new PTA president. It really threw me. I didn’t know what to say, so I got out of there. I’m sure Principal Hicks is furious with me for bailing, but I just had to talk to you and get your reaction.”

  “And you got it. Don’t sweat it, babe. Even if the mainstream media somehow picks it up, once people figure out it’s all lies, they’ll move on to something else. It won’t even last a full news cycle.”

  “Well, is there some sort of recourse we can take? Get whomever posted it to take it down?”

  “Don’t waste your energy,” Stephen said. “Like you said, most of what pops up on that site is fake news, so I don’t expect too many people to take it seriously, okay?”

  “Okay,” Sandra said.

  “Now, I have to get back inside. They’re about to take a vote,” Stephen said. “Stop worrying, Sandra.”

  “I will,” Sandra promised.

  “No, you won’t. I know you. This is nothing, believe me.”

  “I love you,” Sandra whispered.

  “I love you too, sweetheart. I’ll call you to say good night when I get back to my apartment later.”

  And then he hung up.

  Sandra felt better.

  That’s what Stephen was so good at.

  Making people feel better.

  Which was why he was a two-term senator who sailed to victory in his last election by a whopping twenty-two points.

  Sandra pushed the gear of her Audi into drive and drove home to her upscale residential neighborhood and her nineteenth-century New England–style colonial house that she and Stephen had recently restored to its original glory. As she rounded the corner, she instinctively slammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop in the middle of the road. Just ahead, camped out on her front lawn, was a swarm of reporters and cameras and harsh lights and a long line of news vans parked all the way down the street. And one thing was crystal clear in her mind. They were all waiting for her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sandra took a deep breath and continued driving down the street, taking a sharp right turn into her driveway. The throng of reporters surged forward, trampling her front lawn and surrounding her car. She reached up and pressed the button to open the garage, but the door didn’t open. She tried again. And then again. Nothing. The door remained firmly closed. The battery in the remote had been giving her trouble the last few weeks. She knew she should’ve gotten the battery changed. But she kept putting it off, and now the damn thing was kaput. She was going to have to get out of the car and fight her way into the house through the front door.

  She grabbed her purse and mentally prepared herself for the ordeal of pushing and shoving her way past the cluster of reporters who would jostle around her to get some kind of statement.

  Do not engage with them.

  She said it to herself a few more times until she was ready.

  And then, she pushed open the door and stepped out of the car. She kept her head down as the reporters descended upon her, excitedly shouting questions.

  “What do you have to say about your husband using taxpayer money to squash a sexual harassment claim against him?”

  “Do you know your husband’s accuser?”

  “Is there more than one woman? Do you have a number? Three? Six? More than a dozen?”

  “Were you aware of this claim against your husband?”

  “Mrs. Wallage, have you filed for divorce?”

  She got knocked in the head with a microphone. One overly aggressive female reporter grabbed a fistful of her white suit jacket and tugged on it, trying to slow her down as she struggled to make it to her front door. Sandra yanked free and kept pushing forward, and then, with the enormity of it all overcoming her, she felt tears welling up in her eyes.

  Don’t cry.

  For heaven’s sake, don’t cry.

  She
raised an arm to cover her face, not to protect herself from the flashing lights and prying camera lenses, but to hide the fact that tears were now streaming down her cheeks.

  She wasn’t going to make it.

  The front door still seemed miles away, and the reporters, who didn’t seem to care that they were on private property, kept blocking her path, shouting insulting question after insulting question.

  She was ready to collapse on the lawn and curl up in a ball when the female reporter who had so rudely grabbed her screamed. Everyone stopped for a moment to look at her. She was soaking wet, her hair matted and her clothes drenched.

  Nobody knew what had just happened.

  And then, Sandra caught sight of a yellow blur sailing through the air, nailing a reporter from the local NBC affiliate right in the head and exploding, splashing him with water.

  A cameraman from FOX News got it next as a purple balloon shot out of nowhere and blasted him in the chest, soaking him.

  Everyone looked toward the Wallage house and could clearly see two shadowy figures in a second-floor window hurling water bombs down at the reporters.

  There was pandemonium as the news crews rushed to protect their expensive equipment. During the chaos, Sandra, sensing an opportunity, bolted for the house. A few reporters chased after her, but she outran them and managed to get inside and slam the door, double locking it behind her.

  She dropped her bag on a side table and trudged upstairs to find her two sons, Jack and Ryan, in the bathroom reloading by filling balloons with water from the faucet.

  “I suppose as a good mother, I should punish you for scaring those poor reporters outside,” she said, smiling.

  “Okay, how about we only get two helpings of dessert tonight at dinner?” Ryan helpfully suggested.

  “Tough, but fair,” Jack agreed.

  Sandra nodded. “Yes. You need to learn a lesson.”

  She stared at her two handsome sons proudly. Jack was the oldest at sixteen, big and brawny with a high-wattage smile and endless charisma. He was only a junior but already the star quarterback of SoPo High’s football team. He was outgoing, popular, and a decent student. He could’ve been better if he pushed himself more, but because he was so important to his coach and to his team, many of the teachers tended to give him a lot of leeway. Sandra was especially proud that her son was brave enough to tell her he was gay about a year ago. She and Stephen had worried at first that he might have a difficult time at school, but to her relief and surprise, nobody even blinked, and his announcement seemed to just make him even more popular with his peers. Ryan, on the other hand, at fifteen, was more quiet and withdrawn. He was leaner than his athletic brother and a foot shorter. He was a talented artist, sometimes moody and unpredictable, whip-smart, on the honor roll, and could be found most nights writing songs and poetry in his room about his search for true love with the amazing woman he had yet to meet. A true hipster at heart. The brothers couldn’t be more opposite if they tried, and she could safely say she loved them both equally. Stephen adored his sons too, naming them Jack and Ryan because he had always been an avid fan of Tom Clancy novels since college.

  The boys fought a lot, disagreeing on just about everything, but Sandra knew that in a pinch, they would always have each other’s backs. And it touched her that evening that they had banded together in order to protect their mother.

  “Thank you,” Sandra whispered to the boys.

  “No worries. We’re just getting started,” Jack said, grinning, as he ambled out of the bathroom back into his bedroom. He crossed to the window and let loose with a red balloon and waited for it to hit its target.

  The boys suddenly erupted in laughter.

  “Oh man, look at that camera guy running for his truck!”

  Sandra walked over and shut the window. “I think they’ve suffered enough.”

  “What’s for dinner? I’m starving,” Jack said.

  “Turkey meat loaf,” Sandra said. She had made it the previous evening because of her speech and just needed to pop it in the oven to warm it up.

  “Can we eat soon? I have plans later,” Ryan said.

  “On a school night?” Sandra asked incredulously.

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just Skyping with someone,” Ryan said.

  “He’s got a new girl,” Jack teased. “You can bet he’s already written a song about her.”

  “Do I know her?” Sandra asked, suddenly curious.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Ryan said, looking away.

  “What’s her name?”

  Ryan paused.

  “He won’t tell me either,” Jack said.

  “I just don’t want you all to make a big deal about it. It probably won’t last, so I’d rather not talk about it yet,” Ryan said. “So can we just drop the twenty questions?”

  Sandra threw her hands up in surrender. “Fine. I’ll mind my own business and go heat up the meat loaf.”

  She started to walk out of the bedroom but then turned back around. “By the way . . . I spoke to your father.”

  The boys looked at her expectantly.

  “You can ignore what that Dirty Laundry site is claiming. Your father told me the story has no basis in fact. It’s all lies.”

  “We know, Mom,” Jack said.

  “I just wanted to make it clear,” Sandra said.

  “Got it,” Ryan said.

  As she left Jack’s bedroom and headed back down the stairs, Sandra knew the boys wouldn’t be sucked in by a ridiculous rumor. They loved their dad and trusted him and would always give him the benefit of the doubt.

  She just wished she could do the same.

  Later, as her sons scarfed down the meat loaf and two helpings of a homemade peanut butter pie she had bought at a bake sale the previous weekend, the boys recounted the highlights of their day, as was dinner tradition: Jack’s makeup test for failing a bio exam, Ryan’s new creative writing teacher who was encouraging him to start a novel, the upcoming football schedule, Ryan’s intention to try out for the fall musical. They successfully managed to ignore the pandemonium outside.

  At one point, Sandra got up and closed the blinds so she didn’t have to look at a gaggle of nosy reporters staring at them while they ate. She always worked hard to keep up a sense of normalcy. Once they were done and clearing the plates from the table, Ryan excused himself to dash upstairs for his call with his new girlfriend. Jack hung around to help his mother load the dishwasher. They were just about done when Jack received a text on his phone. Sandra noticed his worried face as he stared at it.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I just got a text from Dale. He heard Kevin Metcalf was just rushed to the hospital in an ambulance,” Jack said quietly.

  “What for?”

  Jack frantically texted back his friend who had delivered the news. He instantly got a reply. “He doesn’t know.”

  Kevin was a close friend of Jack’s, a running back on the team, and the first of his teammates to publicly support him for coming out. So he was held in high regard by the whole Wallage family.

  “Mom, we have to go . . . ,” Jack pleaded.

  Sandra didn’t even let him finish. She called upstairs to Ryan to hold down the fort, marched to the foyer, and grabbed her bag off the side table. Despite the challenge of maneuvering their way through the circus on their front lawn, they were going to the hospital.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sandra and Jack spotted Joel Metcalf in the waiting area as they emerged from the elevator on the second floor of the South Portland hospital. He looked pale and stricken as he sat slumped over in a chair, a cup of coffee in his hand, staring straight ahead as if in a trance. He was a tall man, well over six feet, lanky build, head shaven, and he sported a brown goatee punctuated with specks of gray. Sitting next to Joel, with a hand around his shoulder, was Coach Vinnie Cooper, about a foot shorter, with a buzz cut, stout and bulky with a big belly, and wearing a nylon jacket with the high school team’s
insignia.

  As Sandra and Jack approached, Joel’s eyes flickered toward them, and he attempted a smile, but he just couldn’t get there.

  Joel stood up to greet them. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Sandra hugged him. “How is he?”

  Joel shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re still working on him.”

  Joel fought hard not to cry. The usually tough, sturdy, resilient construction worker was on the verge of a breakdown.

  Sandra nodded to Coach Cooper, who remained seated and offered her a grim nod. She turned back to Joel. “Was he at home when it happened?”

  Joel shook his head. “No. He was at school. In the locker room. Luckily Coach Cooper was still in his office doing paperwork at the time. He found him passed out on the floor as he was leaving for the day and called the ambulance.”

  Jack finally stepped forward and stood next to his mother. “What is it? What’s wrong with him?”

  Joel stared down at the floor and shrugged, unable to answer.

  Coach Cooper stood up and patted Joel on the back. “They suspect it might be a drug overdose.”

  Sandra’s eyes widened. “Drugs?”

  Coach Cooper nodded solemnly. “They found opioids in his backpack.”

  “Oh dear God . . .” Sandra whispered.

  Joel’s eyes welled up with tears. He was losing the battle to stay strong and stoic.

  Sandra grabbed his hand.

  “I . . . I had no idea he was taking drugs . . . ,” Joel stammered. “I never saw any evidence of it.... But I should have seen the signs . . . don’t know . . . with Stacy gone and me working all the time . . . I try to be a good father, but maybe I’m just not around enough to keep an eye on him. . . .”

  Sandra squeezed Joel’s hand. “Do not beat yourself up. This is not your fault. Don’t you watch the news? This is a national epidemic.”

  “I’ve been trying to tell him the same thing,” Coach Cooper said quietly, clasping Joel’s shoulder with his pudgy hand in a show of support.