Poison at the PTA

by Laura Alden

  I walked back to the store with my head down, thinking dreary thoughts about the things Alice had told me.

  He took care of everything, she’d said.

  He’d take care of her, she’d said.

  I didn’t want to think that Alan had carried his promise to the ultimate conclusion. Didn’t want to think that one of the nicest business owners in all of Rynwood could have . . . could have . . .

  “Morning, Beth,” someone called.

  I waved to a shape on the opposite sidewalk and kept on going.

  This was the problem with investigating something as horrible as murder: you learned too much. I didn’t want to know that Cookie had tried to get Alan fired, didn’t want to know that she’d probably started a slanderous campaign to ruin a new store, didn’t want to know that Alice and Alan hated Cookie so much.

  So much for crossing Alan off the suspect list. He might even have moved up a line or two.

  I shivered in the chill air. It had been cold for a week, but the morning’s forecast had predicted that an even harsher cold spell was on its way.

  I believed it.

  • • •

  That evening Ruthie sent us home with a big box of fried chicken. When she’d called at noon to let me know what we’d be having for dinner, I protested at the fried part.

  “You’ll eat it and you’ll like it,” Ruthie had growled.

  That wasn’t the point, and I said so.

  “Fine,” she’d said. “If you’re so concerned with healthy eating, how about I send over some tossed salads instead of biscuits and mashed potatoes? And I’ll put in a nice big serving of steamed squash.”

  I’d been content with that compromise and showered Ruthie with so many thanks that she’d growled again and hung up on me. At the dinner table, my children didn’t show nearly the same appreciation.

  “Where’re the mashed potatoes?” Jenna asked when I’d laid the food out on the table. No serving bowls tonight and I hoped my mother hadn’t figured out how to install a secret webcam in the ceiling light fixture. After all, she’d stayed with us for a week at Christmas and had been left alone in the house more than once.

  “We’re having salad instead.” I went to the refrigerator for dressing. Jenna took the bottle of ranch and promptly covered her nice green romaine lettuce with a thick layer of white.

  “I really like the Green Tractor biscuits.” Oliver looked hopefully at the plastic bag still on the counter. “Didn’t Mrs. Ruthie put in some biscuits for me?” I opened the bag, took out a foam container, and put a spoonful of squash on his plate. The hope fell off his face. Landed splat on the floor, probably, where I’d have to sweep it up later.

  We ate in a silence punctuated only by food-related noises. Oliver concentrated on pushing his squash around so that I’d think he’d actually eaten some of it. Jenna concentrated on eating every single molecule of white meat off her chicken breast.

  I concentrated on not concentrating on anything. There were so many things I didn’t want to think about. Alan. Stephanie Pesch. Cookie. If Cookie had been the vindictive woman Alice had described her to be, was I still obligated to help Gus find her killer? Of course I was, and I was ashamed of myself for even having that thought because no one deserved to be murdered and—

  “May I be excused?” Jenna was already halfway out of her chair.

  “Me, too.” Oliver gave a piece a squash a final push and jumped up.

  I looked at my beloved children. They deserved better than this. “No,” I said. “You’re both going to sit down and finish eating.”

  Jenna’s chin went up. Oliver’s lower lip pushed out. “But, Mom—”

  “Sit,” I commanded.

  “I’m full.” Jenna patted her stomach.

  “Me, too.” Oliver thumped his midsection.

  I gave them the full-out Mom Look. First Oliver, then Jenna dropped into their respective chairs. “Thank you,” I said. “Now. Oliver, eat two more bites of squash and you can be done. Jenna, your salad seems to have reached the saturation point. Would you like some greens that are less soggy?” At her nod, I whisked the old bowl away and got her a new one. To this serving, she applied a slightly less liberal amount of dressing.

  I asked how their days had gone, heard about a science experiment for smells, a pop quiz in math, and eventually our dinner eased into something approaching normalcy.

  When their plates were acceptably empty, I said, “There are cookies from Mrs. Barnhart for later. Now, be off with you!” I waved them away.

  Jenna shot up from her chair but didn’t immediately disappear. “Don’t we have to do dishes?”

  “Not tonight, sweetheart.” There weren’t many to do, and the only other chore was taking Spot out just before bedtime. Just this once, I’d let the kids off the hook. “Tomorrow, and all the other nights of your life, yes, but not tonight.”

  “Cool.” She sprang for the basement door. “I’m going to practice.” The words were tossed over her shoulder as she clattered down the stairs.

  Oliver went after her. “I’ll throw pucks at you, if you want.”

  There were some conversations that just couldn’t be repeated without a long and detailed backstory.

  By the time I’d put the silverware in the dishwasher and taken the garbage out, Oliver was back upstairs. He climbed onto the stool at the kitchen island—a much smaller climb than it had been for him six months ago—and sat with his elbows on the counter and his chin in his hands.

  “What’s up, Ollster?” I asked.

  “Bored.”

  “I thought you were helping Jenna practice.”

  “She’s not using any pucks.”

  That was odd. I was about to suggest that he play a game on the Christmas computer when I stopped myself. “How about getting out a jigsaw puzzle?” I asked. “We can set it up on the table in the family room.”

  Oliver brightened. “We haven’t done a puzzle in a long time.”

  As I recalled, we’d done half a dozen over the holidays, but a month to a nine-year-old was clearly much different from a month to a fortysomething. “Go pick one out. I’ll ask Jenna if she wants to join us.”

  “She wants to practice,” Oliver said, but he slid off the stool and headed down the hall.

  When my former husband and I had purchased this house, we’d envisioned the unfinished basement as a future rec room for the kids. A pool table. A Ping-Pong table. Floor space for amateur gymnastics and spontaneous dancing. A large-screen TV with surround sound for movie-watching. Finished cabinetry with shelves filled with games and books and music.

  I eased down the bare wooden steps to the concrete floor and watched my daughter. Against the far wall was a hockey goal. Painted on the floor in front of the net was the crease, made up of a red goal line and a red half circle filled with blue paint.

  Nearby, her goalie equipment was laid out on cheap metal shelves I’d picked up at a garage sale. Her downstairs practicing was typically Oliver throwing pucks at her when she was in full gear or she did drill after endless drill with her stick and a puck, working on handling skills.

  Tonight she wasn’t doing either one of those things. Tonight she was standing close to the wall, stick in hand, watching her shadow. She practiced elbow jab after elbow jab. Hook after hook. Hip check after hip check.

  I watched, not saying anything. But then she picked up her stick and started to aim its blade at her shadowy opponent.

  “Jenna!” I called sharply. “Spearing. That can be a five-minute major.”

  She flipped her stick around like a baton. “I wasn’t spearing. I was just . . . trying a new way to block a shot.”

  I came down the rest of the steps and crossed the room. What she’d just practiced could hurt someone badly, which was why it could carry such a heavy penalty. “And what’s with all the elbowing and hooking?”

  “It’s just . . . just . . .” She struggled to find an answer I’d believe, but I’d been a hockey fan for thirty-five years.
No way would I believe anything except the truth—that’d she been practicing illegal moves, ones that could take out other players. And I could guess who that other player was.

  “Hurting that new girl will get you kicked off the team,” I told her. Although how, exactly, one goalie could hurt another goalie, even in a team scrimmage, I couldn’t quite imagine, but Jenna was nothing if not resourceful.

  “I don’t want to hurt her,” Jenna protested. “I just . . .”

  She just wanted her to go away. I sighed. “Let’s sit down a minute.”

  Jenna flopped into a white plastic chair that, in summer, lived outside on the back deck. Instead of looking at me, she fiddled with the knob of cloth tape she’d put on the end of her goalie stick.

  “Youthful indiscretions can easily lead to regrets,” I said, “and regrets are one of mankind’s great wastes of time.”

  Jenna didn’t say anything but continued to pick at the black tape. Which wasn’t a huge surprise, since I hadn’t said anything worth responding to. Or certainly anything that, at age twelve, she’d understand.

  I tried again. “There’s only one way to be truly successful.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To do your best.”

  She successfully pulled off one end of the tape. “But what if my best isn’t good enough? What if I work really, really hard and play really, really hard and I still end up as second-string goalie?” Her voice quavered.

  My daughter, my love, my life. I wanted to gather her up into my arms and hold her tight, but there were things that had to be said. “Do you think playing dirty will make you a better player?”

  Squirming, she said, “Nooo.”

  “Then the only other thing to do is to work and play hard.” I hesitated. I didn’t want to go on, but she was twelve, almost thirteen. It was time to tell her. “And, sweetheart, it may be that the new girl is better than you, no matter how hard you work.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “Do you think she’s better than me?”

  I gathered her up into my arms and held her tight to my heart. “Not a chance,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “Not a chance.”

  Chapter 13

  The next morning was one of those crisp, clear winter days when it seems that the top of the world has blown off. It feels as if you’re looking straight up into what might be heaven, and, if only our eyes were made a little differently, we might see the pearly gates and welcoming angels.

  “Silly,” I murmured to myself. One of these days I’d tell the wrong person about the odd turns my mind sometimes took and I’d find myself shut up in a nice, quiet room for a long, long time.

  But even that thought made me smile on this day of blue skies, a beautiful morning made for walking to the bank to get more change for the cash register. Who cared if people laughed at me? Let them see the real me, fanciful warts and all.

  I tipped my head back and stared up and up and up, trying to see nothing except blue, because if I could eliminate the tall edges of the brick downtown buildings and see only sky, surely that would be good luck. And with a bit of good luck, Jenna would work through this goalie thing and Oliver would move on to his next crush and—

  “Hey, watch where you’re going.”

  My head came down with a jerk. “Sorry,” I muttered, and stepped to one side of the sidewalk instead of sauntering down the middle. A man I didn’t recognize brushed past me. Stifling the urge to stick my tongue out at him, I went back to looking at the endless sky.

  But it wasn’t the same. The sky was still gorgeous, high, and deep, but my ebullient mood was gone. What had been an adventure of walking to the bank to get change for the cash register was now just an errand to get over with as quickly as possible.

  Sometimes being an adult wasn’t any fun at all.

  “What are you smiling at?” A very large man blocked my path.

  “Morning, Glenn. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “It is, Beth,” Glenn Kettunen said, “and I’m glad someone else is noticing. Days like this are a gift and—”

  “Yo! Beth!”

  Glenn and I turned. On the other side of the street, a pair of golden retriever–esque dogs was racing down the sidewalk, side by side and in step, almost as if they were harnessed. In hot pursuit were Mary Margaret and Lou.

  Last fall, when Mary Margaret discovered that her husband had got himself a couple of dogs, she’d made noises that made me think the dogs weren’t going to be a permanent presence in the Spezza household. Now here she was, chasing after them as if her life depended on it.

  “Beth!” Mary Margaret called again. “It was—” Her words were lost to me as a pickup truck rumbled past.

  “What did you say?” I started a slow trot after her, then a faster trot, then an all-out run. We were a fast, small, and very unusual parade, two dogs, two out-of-shape fiftysomethings, and one fortysomething bringing up the rear. I was catching amused glances from many a person inside a warm storefront, but that was something I’d almost grown accustomed to. “Mary Margaret! What did you say?”

  She whipped around and ran backward, cupping her hands around her mouth. “I remembered whose idea it was that refreshments be served at every break! Isabel Olsen!” Then, in one less than graceful step, she turned back around and kept on running.

  So. Isabel Olsen had originally requested the multiple refreshment breaks at the PTA in Review. Quiet, shy, please-don’t-say-boo Isabel. Not that she wasn’t smart and didn’t have a lot of ideas, but Isabel was the last person I’d guess for pushing a new and somewhat radical idea through a committee.

  Isabel. Mother of Neal and Avery, wife to Kirk, who was also in the PTA and had also been in the kitchen that night.

  But . . . Isabel? What possible reason could she have had to kill Cookie?

  I watched my feet move along the sidewalk and thought drearily about all the things we didn’t know about people we’d known for years. Isabel had been a regular at the bookstore since her first pregnancy. I knew what her children liked to eat, read, and play with, but I didn’t know much about Isabel herself. I didn’t know if her parents were still alive. I didn’t even know if she was from Rynwood and I didn’t—

  “Beth.”

  Two large male feet stood in front of me. I looked up, then farther up, to the extremely handsome face of Evan Garrett. Not so very long ago, the sight of him would have sent my pulse rate up twenty points. But that was before I realized that what I’d felt for him was infatuation rather than love. You’d have thought that I’d know the difference at my age, but no.

  “Hi, Evan. Nice day.”

  “For a run?” He smiled.

  I was determined not to blush. Of course, in this cold, my nose and cheeks were probably bright red anyway.

  “How was your Christmas?” Evan asked.

  “Fine. Yours?”

  “The girls came over Christmas afternoon and we had a nice dinner at the country club.”

  Evan and his ex-wife had married young and raised two daughters who were now adults. I’d never actually met them, but I’d seen their pictures in Evan’s condo. “Sounds nice.”

  “It was. And you’re seeing Pete Peterson, I hear.”

  I smiled, a wide, happy kind of smile. “Yes, we’ve been dating for a few months. How about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

  “No one seriously.”

  He gave me that crooked smile that used to make me melt into a pathetic little puddle. Today there was no melting, and not only because the temperature was twelve degrees below freezing. “You’ll find someone,” I said.

  “I thought I had.”

  His light blue gaze met mine with an intensity that should have made my spine tingle. A movie-star handsome and shockingly wealthy man was sending me an invitation that might as well have been engraved and slid into a deckle-edged envelope.

  But there was no sizzle. No tingle. No emotion at all except a vague sense of sadness. “The truth
is . . .”

  Evan waited, but I didn’t say thing else. Couldn’t, really, because my brain had zigged off into a completely different direction and I forgot where I was and who I was with.

  “Beth?”

  I blinked. “Oh. Sorry about that, Evan. I just remembered something. Have a good day, okay?” And off I went, in the opposite direction of both the bank and my bookstore.

  • • •

  I had to wait a few minutes, but eventually I was allowed back through the maze that was the Rynwood Gazette offices and into the inner sanctum of Jean McKenna, editor. Not only was Jean an extraordinary editor, but once upon a time, she’d been my boss. Yes, shy and retiring Beth had once graduated from journalism school. Why I’d ever thought that might be a good fit, I wasn’t sure, but all’s well that ends well. My current career as a mother of two and owner of one bookstore suited me down to the bone.

  Jean looked up at me over her reading glasses. “And what’s your question today?” She kept typing into her computer as she talked, a skill I envied deeply. If I tried to do that, I’d end up typing what I was saying, or saying what I was trying to type.

  I moved a stack of newspaper inserts from the guest chair to the floor and sat. “Maybe I just wanted to stop and say hello.”

  “Possible.” She flicked a glance at the screen and frowned. “Unlikely, though. Hang on a sec and I’ll be done.” Her fingers whacked at the letters on the keyboard. She’d learned to type more than forty years ago and had never quite learned that you didn’t have to thump a computer keyboard as hard as a manual typewriter.

  “And it’s done.” She pushed herself back from the desk and shoved her glasses on top of her short gray hair.

  “Shocking scandal in city hall?” I asked.

  “We had elections in November, remember?” She sighed. “Half the council is new, and so far they’re all getting along. Nothing more boring than a board meeting where everyone agrees with each other.”