“Kayla only goes during the week.” Paoze’s hands were gripping each other. “I am glad she does not volunteer on weekends. That is when it can get very bad.”
What could Kayla be doing as a volunteer at a place with a metal door and bars on the windows? “Mr. Jarvis is also a volunteer.”
“Yes.”
I thought about this. Randy, a volunteer. Kayla, a volunteer. Kayla’s major was social work. Randy was the treasurer for the Tarver PTA, a child advocacy organization. There were dots here to connect, but the dots were a little too far apart for me to make the leaps.
“Kayla said Mr. Jarvis is very brave,” Paoze said. “I do not worry about her when Mr. Jarvis is there.”
Dot to dot to dot. I’d figured it out. “That house is a women’s shelter,” I said. “Where women and children can go if they feel they’re in danger.”
Paoze’s brown face went very still. “I should not have said. It is much of a secret.”
“Don’t worry.” I smiled at him. “The secret is safe with me.”
“You will not tell?”
“I will not tell, Paoze. And neither did you,” I said softly. “I reached my own conclusions, that’s all.”
After he left, I took the list out of my desk drawer and picked up a pen. I drew a line through the name of Randy Jarvis.
Two down, nine to go.
“Thank you for meeting with me.” Gary Kemmerer, Tarver’s acting principal, folded his hands on top of the desk. Erica, Randy, Julie, and I were representing the PTA, and all four of us were uncomfortable. Five, I amended, as I heard Gary’s toes tapping under the desk.
“As acting principal,” Gary said, “I might not remain in this office for long. The school board is starting a search, and they’re anxious to appoint a new principal as soon as possible.”
“You apply for the job?” Randy asked.
Erica and I blinked at his tactlessness. Julie moved her hands over her oversized belly and looked radiant.
“Yes, in fact, I did.” Gary frowned at Randy. “But that’s not the purpose of this meeting. I invited you here to establish common ground with the PTA. The past ten years have seen a fair share of adversarial instances, and I want to say I’ll do my best to . . .”
He was lapsing into corporate-speak. I put a noncommittal expression on my face and drifted away. Jenna and her apology for whatever. Oliver and enuresis. Paoze. Marina. WisconSINs. Halloween. The threatening e-mails.
“Beth? You don’t approve of this idea?” Gary asked.
I jerked back from the memory of a Marina too frightened to talk. “Um . . .”
“The PTA,” Erica said, “is more than pleased to work hand in hand with Tarver’s leadership—”
“What if the police don’t find the killer?” I blurted out. “I’m worried about these kids if the murderer goes free.”
Erica, Randy, Julie, and Gary all stared at me.
“I know this isn’t what we came here to discuss,” I said, “but it’s a huge concern of mine.” For lots of reasons. “I hear the police have been talking to the teachers. Have they been talking to the staff and administration, too?”
“Good point,” Erica said. “Staff dealt with Agnes from eight thirty in the morning to four in the afternoon. I’m sure most of them had occasional run-ins with her. How about you, Gary?”
“What about me?” His chin went up.
“Do you have an alibi?” Erica smiled, but the steel wasn’t far below the surface.
“As a matter of fact, yes. Now about this—”
“What is it?” Julie asked.
“What is what?”
“Your alibi.” She folded her hands over her tummy. “I think the parents of Tarver children deserve to know that the acting principal has a solid alibi.”
“The police were satisfied.”
“But I’m not.”
They stared at each other, grim-faced, until Erica spoke up. “She has a point, Gary. If you tell us, we can reassure everyone that Tarver is in good hands.”
“The police—”
Erica shook her head. “What the police think doesn’t matter. It’s what the Tarver parents think that counts. And,” she added, “what the school board thinks. How satisfied is Mack Vogel that you had nothing to do with Agnes’s murder?”
“I . . .” His chin sank down. “It’s personal.”
Randy chuckled. “You’re not taking figure skating lessons, are you? Those toe picks mess up the ice something fierce.”
Gary mumbled something.
The four of us leaned forward. “What did you say?” I asked.
He sighed and spoke louder. “I take lessons on Tuesday nights. I’ve driven to Chicago on Tuesday nights for five years. But it’s not figure skating. Or hockey or curling, for that matter.”
“Then what?” Erica asked impatiently.
“I take opera lessons.”
“You . . . what?”
“Don’t spread it around,” he pleaded. “I don’t want people to ask me to sing in church or at weddings. Or here at school. Can you just see the kids’ reaction to Tosca’s ‘Recondita armonia’? I mean, please.” He spread his hands wide, palms up, in entreaty. “Opera is the only music I sing. It’s the only music that really matters, you know.”
I didn’t dare look at Erica. I knew she hated opera with a passion.
“Thank you for sharing, Gary,” she said. “If the news of your Tuesday lessons spreads, it won’t be because of anyone in this room.”
We went on with the rest of our meeting. Somewhere between discussion of how the PTA’s mission statement meshed with Tarver’s core values, I pulled out the list and a pencil.
Three down, eight to go.
“You’re getting a what?” Richard asked.
“A dog.” My chin pressed the phone harder into my shoulder as I whacked a few keys on the store’s computer keyboard.
“They’re too young,” he said. “They’re not old enough to take care of a dog. You’ll end up doing all the work yourself.”
It was the exact Richard response I’d predicted. I didn’t say anything, just kept looking at the photos on the local animal shelter Web site. A parrot? Who would leave a parrot at an animal shelter?
“You don’t even like dogs.”
“I love dogs.”
“When they’re someone else’s,” he said.
Why did I keep forgetting that Richard knew everything about me? “The kids could use a little responsibility. It’ll be good for them. Besides”—I enlarged a picture of a tabby cat—“Oliver says if Agnes Mephisto had a dog, she’d still be alive.”
Richard was quiet for a moment. “I can’t have it on my weekends,” he finally said. “My condo doesn’t allow dogs.”
Rats. “Fine,” I said.
“What breeds are you considering?” He launched into a speech on the characteristics of the dogs best suited for young children.
I let him talk while I poked around the animal shelter Web site a little more. When he said he’d e-mail me a list of respected Lagotto Romagnolo breeders, I said, “Thank you, Richard. The store’s getting busy now, so I have to go. Bye.”
Lois looked at me, then looked at the empty store. “Busy must mean something different from what I thought it meant.”
“Words evolve.”
“Mmm.” She flicked her feather duster over the shelves of board books. “Did you see the WisconSINs blog this morning?”
Uh-oh. “What does it say?”
Lois cast me a glance laden with overtones. Surprise, suspicion, pleasure, and anticipation were all wrapped up together in her small smile and lifted eyebrows.
“Thought you didn’t hold with gossip,” she said.