Poison at the PTA
Page 1
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS
OF LAURA ALDEN
Plotting at the PTA
“Cozy readers will truly delight in the fact that this is the third in the series of these super-fun books, and with each release the plots just keep getting better and better. . . . Strong characters and monumental surprises, this cozy is a definite keeper!”
—Suspense Magazine
“Laura Alden has written another delightful mystery. The plot is fast-paced. . . . Just wish I wouldn’t have to wait so long to read the next in the series.”
—MyShelf.com
“An engaging whodunit. . . . Fans will enjoy Laura Alden’s complex murder mystery, thankfully without a recall in sight.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
Foul Play at the PTA
“Well-crafted.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Beth Kennedy gives amateur sleuths a good name. . . . For those of us who appreciate good characters, it’s just as satisfying as her first book.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
Murder at the PTA
“Alden has strong talent and a well-skilled use of language that brings the story alive and gives vitality to each character . . . an excellent start to a new cozy series.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A terrific debut.”
—AnnArbor.com
“Murder at the PTA is well worth your time.”
—Mystery Scene
Also Available from Laura Alden
Murder at the PTA
Foul Play at the PTA
Plotting at the PTA
Curse of the PTA
POISON at the PTA
Laura Alden
OBSIDIAN
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014
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A Penguin Random House Company
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA)
Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014
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OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
ISBN 978-1-101-63764-7
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Praise
Also Available from Laura Alden
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
For Jon.
Always.
Chapter 1
“Beth?” A firm hand gripped my elbow. “Are you all right?”
I was pretty sure the hand belonged to Lois Nielson, the sixtysomething manager of my children’s bookstore. At least I hoped it belonged to her, because there wasn’t another soul in the building.
My eyes had closed during my short spell of dizziness, but now I opened them and beheld a vision. Winter white pants, shoes, and socks. Winter white sweater with a snowflake pattern woven into the fabric. A slightly smushed black top hat. Long bright red scarf wrapped multiple times around a skinny neck, and, dangling in amidst the scarf ends, a piece of fraying twine from which hung a carrot.
Yes, it was Lois. Being one with the snowman season, she’d said when she’d waltzed in earlier that morning. My own black pants and maroon sweater looked almost boring in comparison. Not that I cared. As long as I could present my medium-height self and my medium brown hair in a way that didn’t cause me to be an object of scorn and ridicule, I was a happy camper.
For a minute or two, I’d been relying on the support of the front counter to keep myself upright. I lifted one hand away. Slowly. Since I didn’t see any black dots dancing around the edges of my vision, I lifted the other hand. Still no spots. She’s cured, Doctor! It’s a miracle!
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just a little tired, that’s all. We had a busy Christmas.”
“Very,” she said.
“Did I tell you it was our best season ever?”
“Once or twice.”
I looked closely, checking for sarcasm, but couldn’t see any floating around. It was there somewhere, but I disregarded it and talked on.
“Plus, here we are, in the second week of January, and the returns are way down.” I was very proud of both those facts. Running a children’s bookstore was not the most reliable way to earn a living, yet the Children’s Bookshelf was living proof that it could be done, even here in small Rynwood, Wisconsin. The close proximity to the far larger city of Madison helped, of course, but in the main my customers were locals. And for now, at least, many of them liked to shop in my store.
“Yes, here we are, in the second week of January, and here you are—” Lois stopped abruptly. Opened her mouth, then closed it before any more words blurted out.
“Here I am what?”
“Nothing,” she muttered, and stomped off toward the middle-grade books.
I took a step after her, because there was obviously something she wanted to say, but a glance at my watch made me change direction and head to my tiny office in the back of the store. If Lois wanted to tell me something, she’d tell me when she was ready. Right now there was a long To Do list waiting.
• • •
Yvonne poked her head into my office. “Beth, have you had lunch?”
I rubbed my hands over my face, turned away from the computer, and tried to focus on my employee. Surely she wasn’t normally that blurry. I blinked hard a few times and her dark hair, brown eyes, and calm expression came into focus. “Not yet. I’ll go out for something after you and Lois eat.”
“We already did.”
“You did?”
“An hour ago. It’s almost two o’clock.”
That explained the empty feeling in my stomach. I smiled. “Time flies when you’re doing monthly projections. I’ll run down to the Green Tractor in a minute.”
Yvonne hesitated, then said, “I could call in an order for you. I could get it, too, if you want.”
What I wanted was to finish the mountain of work in front of me. And the secondary mountain that waited for me at home. In addition to all the chores that a single mom had to tackle, I was also president of the local PTA. The Tarver Elementary PTA was turning eighty years old this month, and the scheduled festivities were next week. The muscles at the back of my neck went tight. How was I ever going to get everything done?
I turned back to the computer. “Thanks, Yvonne, but y
ou don’t need to do that.”
“Really, I don’t mind. It’s almost nice out.”
Which was an odd thing for her to say. Last I’d checked it was twenty-two degrees with a fierce wind. Yvonne was a native Californian, and while she loved snow, she didn’t care at all for the cold. But I didn’t have time to puzzle it out; the To Do list wasn’t even half crossed off.
“Thanks, anyway,” I said vaguely. “I’ll go out as soon as I get this done.”
• • •
“Eat this.” A small plate slid across my desk and came to a rest between my shirt buttons and the keyboard. On it were a ham sandwich, a scoop of cottage cheese, and a small heap of broccoli.
I looked up, but Flossie Untermayer, former owner of the downtown grocery store and my most recent hire, was already out the door. Even at eighty-two, she could move faster than most adults. Part of that ability was due to her earlier career as a professional ballet dancer, part of that was due to her determination to be active until the day she died, and part of it was just the way she was made.
“Thanks,” I called, and reached out for a piece of broccoli. Dear Flossie, I thought, then pushed the plate aside. I’d finish this one thing; then I’d eat.
• • •
“Hi, Mom.” My twelve-year-old daughter, Jenna, dropped into the guest chair, which was surrounded by stacks of books destined for the sale table. “Did you do anything fun today?”
I looked up from the checking account I was trying to reconcile and pushed back from the computer. Jenna and my nine-year-old, Oliver, were the lights of my life, and I would always give them all the time in the world. “Didn’t do one single thing that was fun. How about you?”
She shrugged. “Got an A-minus on my math test. My math teacher says I should talk to you about taking algebra next year.”
“That’s the accelerated program, isn’t it?”
Another shrug, but my Mom Sense detected the pride beneath her offhand demeanor. It also detected a small amount of anxiety, and I decided to let it go. Someday we’d have a talk about the valuable life skill of not worrying about the future. And we’d have that talk just as soon as I figured out how not to worry about the future.
“What’s for supper?” Jenna asked.
An excellent question, and one for which I didn’t have an answer. MAKE DINNER PLANS sat there on the To Do list, but like the entire bottom third of the list, it remained pristine and pure and uncrossed-off. Last night the kids had stayed with their father, my former husband, Richard, and dinner on Wednesday Nights with Dad was usually submarine sandwiches from the deli close to his condominium. It was tempting to order pizza, but I knew myself well enough to know that pizza was a lure to the edge of a slippery slope, one that I dared not approach without danger of fast regaining the twenty pounds I’d so laboriously lost last spring.
“How about eggplant casserole?” I suggested.
Jenna squinched her face. “Ick.”
“Pea soup?”
“You hate pea soup.”
I slapped my forehead. “How silly of me to forget.” Over Jenna’s giggle, I said, “On the other hand, all three of us like tacos.”
She tipped her head to one side, considering. “Okay. Does that mean you want me to go to the grocery store for ground beef?”
“And here you thought walking here after school instead of going to Mrs. Neff’s for day care was going to be nothing but fun and games.”
“Not after the third time you sent me to the grocery store.”
“Ah, but I also send you to the antiques store to get cookies.”
“Cookies?” She jumped out of the chair. “Can I get cookies, too?”
“Tomorrow. Friday is cookie day, not Thursday.”
“But I got an A-minus on my math test.”
“And we’ll celebrate tomorrow with a big pile of cookies. Life is about delayed gratification, my darling daughter. I wouldn’t be doing my job as a mother if I didn’t teach you that.”
“Being a mom means not letting your kids get what they want?”
I beamed. “Exactly. Now be off with you. Do your homework. Then we’ll see about a grocery run.”
“Can I have a snack first?”
“Check in the kitchenette. I think there are some crackers in the cupboard.”
“How about that?” She pointed at my desk. “I mean, if you don’t want it.”
“Oh.” I looked at the plate Flossie had left me. I’d eaten the broccoli, none of the cottage cheese, and not quite half of the ham sandwich. “The cottage cheese has been sitting out too long, but the sandwich is all yours.”
“Cool.” She snatched it away and stuffed a corner in her mouth. “Thanks, Mom. You’re all right, for a mom.”
Smiling, I watched her walk off, her shiny brown hair bouncing. She’d be thirteen in June. Her legs were growing long and her waist was starting to narrow. Soon she’d want to . . .
I forced my thoughts away from their most favorite subject—my children—and went back to the checking account. A dollar and eighty-three cents had gotten tangled up and it was up to me to track it down. It was here, somewhere. All I had to do was find it.
• • •
“It’s time.”
Marina Neff—my best friend, my children’s day care provider, my former neighbor, and the person who was always coming up with ways to improve me—marched into my office, her red hair flying hither and yon in the dry winter air.
“What are you doing here?” Both my left and right hands held invoices. My desk was covered with invoices. My keyboard was covered with invoices. One of my New Year’s resolutions was to organize the invoices beyond the sheer urgency of due date. At the time it had seemed like a wonderful idea. Now I was pretty sure that resolutions were remarkably silly things to make. “Time for what?”
“For you to come with me.” With her plump fingers, she tugged the papers out of my hands. I lunged to grab them back, but she held them out of my reach. “Nothing doing,” she said. “It’s closing time, Lois is locking the door, and we’re going to talk to you.”
I cocked my head. “For a store that’s closed, there’s a lot of noise out there.” There was a rumble of voices, mostly female, but some male.
“Mom?” Jenna sidled into the room, her arms filled with the homework she usually did on the large workroom table. “Hi, Mrs. Neff. Mrs. Nielson told me to come in here.”
“She did?” I pushed back from my desk. Something very odd was going on. “And did Mrs. Nielson tell you why?”
Jenna’s gaze darted from me to Marina and back to me again. “Um, not really.”
Hmm. “You can work here, Jenna.” I stacked up the invoices willy-nilly, slid them into a folder, and gave Marina a hard look. “I am curious as to the whereabouts of my son.”
“Uh-oh.” Marina jabbed my daughter in the ribs. “She’s going all formal, did you hear? ‘As to the whereabouts.’ You can tell when she’s getting mad when she does that.”
“I know,” Jenna whispered, but her smile dimmed when I shot her a look.
“The question remains unanswered,” I said. “An answer would be welcome.”
“Your son is with my Devoted Husband. Now, come on, and don’t be mad.” Marina hooked her arm through mine and steered me out of the office and into the store. “Happy happy, right?”
The store’s overhead lights were off, but the workroom’s lights were on, bright and shiny. Marina towed me in that direction, talking nonstop. “The DH will feed your Oliver and my Zach some atrocious dinner. They’re into ‘all bacon, all the time’ these days, and while not much tastes as good as bacon does”—she made noises of pseudogustatory pleasure—“the bacon love has gone a little too far, I think.”
She babbled on, and I let her. The sooner we finished whatever it was she had planned, the sooner I’d get home and be able to start working on the household version of the day’s To Do list.
“. . . and so here we are.” She all but pushed me through
the door of the workroom. “Ten is a nice round number, yes? One big happy family and tonight is all about Beth, so no changing the subject.”
I stopped cold. The large worktables had been collapsed and leaned up against the back wall. Ten chairs sat in a large circle, seven chairs occupied by people, one occupied by a laptop computer, two empty.
“Sit.” Marina prodded me in the back.
I looked at the seven people. Lois. Yvonne. Ruthie, owner of my favorite diner, the Green Tractor. Summer Lang, the PTA vice president. Gus Eiseley, my good friend and the local police chief. Winnie, his wife. Pete Peterson, owner of a forensic cleaning service and the man I was dating. One by one, each of them met my straight gaze.
The only bookstore employees not present were Flossie and my part-time employee, Paoze, a University of Wisconsin senior. Though there was bound to be a reason they weren’t there, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
A movement on the laptop caught my eye and the Skyped image of my sister, Darlene, came into view. “Is she here yet?” her electronicized voice said.
“Just walked in,” Lois said.
“Bet she’s not happy.” Darlene snorted. “Is she sitting down?”
“Not yet.”
“Make her.”
I folded my arms. “Not until I know what’s going on.”
“We need to talk to you,” Summer said.
“I’m listening.”
“No, you’re not,” Darlene said. “You’re standing there with your arms crossed and a cranky look on your face and you’re getting all stoked up. Next thing you’re going to start talking like an English teacher who has never recognized e-mail as a real form of communication. Now sit, will you?”
Stubbornness set in. “Not until someone tells me what this is all about.”
Pete stood and came over and took my hand. “Please, Beth. That’s what this is all about, to talk to you.”
I eyed him suspiciously. “Feels more like a kidnapping.”
“You can leave if you want,” he said, then kept talking over Marina’s squeak of protest, “but please stay.” The earnestness in his face was plain to see. “Please?”