Foul Play at the PTA

by Laura Alden

  “So where is everybody?” Summer asked.

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” Erica looked like an attorney in the midst of an expensive courtroom battle. “Randy? Beth? Do you have any idea why all these chairs are empty?”

  “Nope.” Randy pulled a stick of gum out of his shirt pocket and unwrapped it. He shrugged.

  A very unpleasant possibility crossed my mind, and its taste must have shown on my face.

  “Beth?” Erica asked. “Do you know?”

  I shook my head, and didn’t say a word. Where were Debra and Glenn when I needed them?

  “Why is she getting the good stuff?” Oliver pointed at Jenna’s plate.

  “Don’t point,” I said automatically. “What good stuff?” I was using tongs to put some egg noodles on Oliver’s plate. Next to that was a piece of pot roast and next to that I’d put a tiny heap of peas. Oliver didn’t like his food to touch, so I was concentrating on making sure the meat juices didn’t leak over to the noodles.

  “The clumpy ones.” Oliver pointed, then jerked his finger away. “Those over there on the side of her plate. The ones all stuck together are the best. How come she gets them all?”

  It was true. I had given the clumped noodles to Jenna. That I hadn’t noticed any of the noodles were clumped, that I’d never known anyone wanted clumped noodles, and that I was slightly embarrassed that I’d cooked clumpy noodles wouldn’t matter at all to my son.

  “If there are clumpy noodles next time,” I said, “I’ll make sure you get them.”

  “I want them now.” In the wink of an eye, Oliver’s face, which had until now been sunny and cheerful, turned obstinate. He crossed his arms hard across his chest and slumped down in his chair.

  Disciplining an eight-year-old was not in the evening’s plans, but most of the things I’d done so far tonight weren’t planned. Tonight’s list didn’t include cleaning up a Spot puddle or cleaning up after Oliver spilled red juice all over the kitchen counter, floor, and his formerly white shirt. I also hadn’t planned to help Jenna with her English homework (“But, Mom, I don’t know how to figure out what a theme is!”), and I hadn’t planned on trying to repair the vase in the living room that had mysteriously broken.

  “Oliver,” I said patiently, “eat what’s on your plate. There’s nothing wrong with unclumped noodles.”

  “The clumped ones are the best.”

  “Why?” Jenna asked.

  It was an excellent question. Jenna and I looked at the sole male in the room and waited for an answer.

  “ ’Cause they’re special.” Oliver’s chin slid forward. “There aren’t hardly any of them.”

  There also weren’t many peas on his plate, but that didn’t seem to be an issue.

  “Why does Jenna get all of them? I should get some.”

  “If you want them, take them.” Jenna picked up the clump, and in front of my horrified eyes tossed them across the table to her brother, where they landed half on his plate, half off.

  “Jenna!”

  “He wanted the stupid clumped noodles; I gave them to him.” She faced me with an overly innocent expression. “What’s wrong with that?”

  There were so many answers to her question that it took me a moment to come up with a first response. “You know perfectly well that we don’t throw food at the table.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  The innocent look was fixed in place. I closed my eyes and willed that time reverse itself. Not long, just enough for me to start dinner over again, to pay a little more attention to the noodle cooking and de-clump every noodle in the pot. Three times I wished it, the magic number for wishes. Unfortunately, when I opened my eyes, there were still noodles hanging off the edge of Oliver’s plate.

  “Jenna,” I said quietly, “how many times have we talked about appropriate behavior at the table?”

  “You’ve never said ‘Don’t throw food.’ Ever.” She smiled triumphantly.

  Anger is always an ugly emotion, and when directed at a child it is monumentally so. I waited for the small wave to pass before speaking. “I thought you were smart enough, mature enough, and thoughtful enough that telling you something so obvious wouldn’t be necessary.”

  “You’ve never told us,” she said. “How can I be blamed for something I didn’t know?”

  “That’s a good question,” I said. “Why don’t you go to your room and think about it? Make a list of five good reasons, and when you’re done, bring me the list and we’ll talk about them.”

  “But I haven’t eaten hardly anything,” Jenna said.

  “Do I get to eat the clumpy ones?” Oliver asked.

  The phone rang. If my luck was good it would be a telemarketer wanting to know if I had time to answer a twenty-minute phone survey. “Jenna, go to your room. Your dinner will keep. Oliver, no one is eating those noodles.”

  As I picked up the phone, both kids were in full protest. “Hello, can you hold on a minute?” Without waiting for an answer, I put my hand over the receiver. “Oliver, be quiet and eat. Jenna, go to your room.”

  “But, Mom, I—”

  “Mom, why can’t—”

  “Now!”

  My shout surprised them to silence. They stared at each other and, after a short eternity, came to an unspoken agreement. Oliver picked up his fork and started eating. Jenna stomped out of the room and up the stairs. I listened to her thump down the hall and waited for her door to shut.

  Bang!

  The only noises in the room were the clock ticking away time and Oliver’s overloud chewing.

  I suddenly wanted three things very badly: a hot bath, a thick book, and a massage therapist to iron the kinks out of my neck after spending six hours in the tub reading. Instead, I took my hand off the phone. “Sorry about that.”

  “Difficulties with the children again?” my mother asked.

  My hackles rose high. “What makes you say that?”

  She laughed. “I’m your mother. The signs are all there. Covered phone, muffled shouts, slight delay before answering. Anything I can do to help?”

  My hackles went halfway down. Maybe she wasn’t judging me; maybe this time she wasn’t going to remind me that the end of my marriage with Richard had been completely my fault.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, “but I have things under control.”

  She clucked. “It’s too bad you don’t have a man in the house any longer.”

  “We’re in the middle of dinner,” I said. “Can I call you back in half an hour?”

  “You’re eating rather late, aren’t you? Such a late mealtime can’t be good for the children.”

  I looked at the clock. Seven. Late, but not that late. “Mom, don’t forget we’re on central time here.” The whole concept that I lived in a different time zone had never quite penetrated into my mother’s consciousness.

  “Ah, yes.”

  “When are you going to get here?” I asked. “Are you coming in on Tuesday or Wednesday?” How Thanksgiving had gotten so close so fast was a mystery, but there it was on the wall calendar: Thanksgiving Day.

  I’d also written down names: Mom, Kathy, Darlene, Tim. I’d crossed off Kathy and Tim when they’d called to cancel, and the small square now looked like a half-done to-do list. So much for the nice big family Thanksgiving dinner at Beth’s house.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Mom said. “Thanksgiving.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m still cooking the rutabaga.”

  “You are?”

  “Well, sure. We always have rutabaga on the table at Thanksgiving. I don’t want to be the first Emmerling to break with tradition.” It’d probably bring me bad luck for thirteen years. “I’m making that pie you like with the pumpkin on the bottom and whipped filling on top. We’re having green beans and squash, and mashed potatoes, and I want to try real cranberries this year.”

  The menu spilled out of me like water gushing from a broken pipe. Over the weekend I’d made my final final list an
d typed it into the computer. Set in stone. Almost. “And I was thinking of making that broccoli salad with bacon and raisins, but if you’d rather have a regular green salad, I can do that instead.”

  “Honey, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  If I’d been standing, I would have sat down abruptly. Since I was already sitting, I sat up straight. No one had ever handed out good news by starting a conversation with “There’s something I have to tell you.” No, that was always the preface to bad news.

  It was her health. She’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer and had only three months to live.

  It was her house. There’d been a huge storm and a tree had crashed down on her house, making it uninhabitable, and, since she’d forgotten to renew her home insurance, irreparable without funding from her children.

  It was her car. She’d crashed it against a telephone pole and the friendly police officers had taken her driver’s license away from her. Without a car, she wouldn’t be able to live in the house. She’d have to sell it and move to an assisted living facility unless one of us volunteered to take her in. My brother would assume one of his sisters would take care of things, and Kathy didn’t have the room, so it was either me or Darlene, and I had the youngest grandchildren.

  The first-floor study was the obvious place for Mom to stay. But where would I move its current contents? I was mentally rearranging furniture in my bedroom when Mom asked, “Beth? Did you hear me?”

  “Um, sure. You said you had something to tell me.”

  “About Thanksgiving. I won’t be able to make it down.”

  “You . . . won’t?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  I swallowed. This was not personal. My family loved me. Kathy had a chance of a lifetime, that was all. And Tim’s work schedule was out of his control. Nothing personal in any of that. “Are you okay?” I whispered.

  Please let my mom be okay. Please don’t let her be sick or hurt. Maybe we don’t always get along, but I love her and would be lost without her guidance. I haven’t told her about Richard’s layoff. I haven’t told her about Evan dancing with Jenna. Please let her be happy and healthy. Please . . .

  “Certainly,” she said. “Why? Do I sound sick?”

  “No, but—”

  “Honey, don’t be such a worrywart.” She laughed. “I’m sorry about Thanksgiving, but Gladys had a bad fall.”

  “Oh, no!” Gladys Pepper and my mom were nextdoor neighbors, best friends, and each other’s security system. They had a complicated arrangement of lights on/lights off, curtains open/curtains closed that could mean anything from “I’m going to bed early so don’t worry if all my lights are off” to “There’s a serial killer in the house.” Darlene lived barely twenty minutes away, but it was nice to know Mom and Gladys had each other. “Is she okay?”

  “Yes, thank heavens, but she cracked some ribs and is bruised in all sorts of uncomfortable places. She’d been planning to fly to Texas to be with her son and his family for the holiday.”

  “She can’t do that now,” I said.

  “No,” Mom agreed. “And she doesn’t have any family left in Michigan except for her sister in Pontiac, and her sister can’t drive, so I said I’d make Thanksgiving for the two of us.”

  I swallowed. Mom was okay, inside and out. “You’re a nice lady.”

  “Thank you, dear. And you’re a nice daughter for not being upset about your dinner plans.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” A warm feeling enveloped me. You never outgrow the glow that results from parental praise. Though what I was going to do with a twenty-pound turkey for five people, I didn’t know.

  “So, how are the children? I heard you scolding them. Was it Oliver? Jenna?” She clucked. “Don’t tell me it was both.”

  The warm fuzziness evaporated immediately. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have only Darlene and her husband with us for Thanksgiving. At least Darlene wouldn’t criticize my parenting skills, my divorce, my kitchen cleanliness, or my career choice.

  I tried to listen to my mother suggest ways to improve my children, I really did, but most of me was stuck in worrywart mode. And, since there were a lot of things to worry about, I kept myself occupied all the way through my mother’s lecture.

  Being a worrywart had its bright side.

  The front door of the store jingled open and Rachel Helmstetter came in. She thrust a flyer at me. “Here. What do you think?”

  I took the bright white piece of paper, turned it around so I could read it without standing on my head, and started reading.

  “Insurance might restore your financial losses, but who will restore your privacy? Once your customers have seen what you really look like, will they ever return? You can trust Rynwood Shredding to take care of your confidential documents with the utmost security. Call now to arrange for a free estimate. Annual, monthly, and on-demand contracts available.”

  Below the text was a large photo of a man sitting in the middle of a ransacked office. Drawers were pulled out, bookshelves toppled, chairs lying on their sides. The man sat behind a desk, and, above the waist at least, he was naked.

  “So, what do you think?” Rachel asked.

  “It’s clever.” I scanned it again and tapped the photo. “Memorable, too. You won’t forget it easily.”

  She blew out a breath. “Really? That’s great. You’re the first person I’ve shown it to. But since you’re the one who got me started, I figured it was only right.”

  Excellent. In addition to lighting the spark that changed Debra’s life, I’d also managed to alter Rachel’s. I made a mental note: Put duct tape over my mouth and let Glenn and Debra say everything that needed to be said.

  I started to hand the flyer back, but Rachel waved her hands, making “stop” motions at me. “Keep it. If I’m really going to try and take Sam’s place, I need to get used to handing out sales information.”

  Ever so slowly, the sun showed itself above the horizon and light dawned. “You’re going to be partners with Brian Keller? How’s he doing, anyway?”

  “Okay.” She moved her left arm and made a wincing face. “Anyway, we’re going to try it for a few months. See how it goes. Brian’s the operations guy. Sam . . .” She looked away, looked up at the ceiling, pulled in a gasping breath, and started over. “Sam was the sales guy. The idea guy. If I can do half of what Sam did, we might be able to make it work.”

  She was fiddling with her scarf, and the filter that usually kept my mouth from saying things my brain thought up suddenly stopped working. I blurted out a question I had no idea I’d ever had the courage to ask. “Rachel, how many scarves did Sam own?”

  “Scarves?” She plucked at the orange one around her neck. “This was his Thanksgiving scarf. He had a gold one for Christmas, a red one for Valentine’s Day, and a green one for St. Patrick’s Day. And a black one for the winter solstice.” She smoothed her husband’s scarf. “He liked plaids for every day. Said they added spice to his weekdays.”

  That answered that question, but brought up another one. Why, with the plethora of Sam’s scarves, hadn’t I remembered that he regularly wore them? Chalk it up to yet more evidence that Beth Isn’t Paying Enough Attention to Her Surroundings.

  “Why do you want to know?” Rachel asked.

  I shrugged. “Just wondered.” True enough, but it was time for a diversion. “If you can come up with ideas like this”—I rustled her flyer—“you’ll be just as good a marketer as Sam was. He never sent anything around downtown that I can think of.” My brain suddenly kicked into high gear. “And I don’t remember that he ever used his contacts to help him network.”

  Rachel frowned. “He was on Rotary and did the Toastmasters thing. He worked hard for the chamber of commerce, and you know he was active in the PTA.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Judging from the hollow feeling of the store, we had a total of zero customers. Even so, I lowered my voice. “Sam was born and raised in Rynwood and figured he knew everybody wit
hout even trying. Which, for the most part, was true. But there are lots of new people in town.”

  “I suppose.” Rachel sounded puzzled. “But the business was growing almost as fast as their business plan projected, so he didn’t need to work super hard at marketing.”

  “That was Sam,” I said. “You’ll need a different approach.”

  “That’s what this is all about.” Rachel gestured at the flyer still clutched in my hand. “And I have some other ideas.” Her voice drooped. “But I don’t know if any of them will work.”

  “Half of all marketing dollars are wasted,” I said. “It’s just that no one knows which half.”

  Her smile came and went. “Maybe trying to run Sam’s business is a bad idea. Maybe I should . . .” Her eyes took on that faraway look I’d seen so often on my mother’s face after Dad died.

  “Ask your friends to help,” I suggested.

  She shook her head. “They’ve already done too much. Cooked dinners, lunches, even breakfasts. Watched the kids. Watched me.” This time her smile wasn’t a smile at all.

  “I can help,” I said. “I’d like to.”

  “My freezer’s packed full of casseroles already, but thanks.”

  I squinched my face. Casseroles weren’t a food group I cared for. Whenever my mother had pulled the orange pot from the cupboard I knew I’d have to fill up on bread and butter. And I still didn’t care for the color orange. “Not that kind of help.” I rattled the flyer. “This kind of help.”

  Her mouth made a small round o of enlightenment. I smiled. Finally, I knew how to find Sam’s killer.

  And maybe, just maybe, find a little peace for Rachel, too.

  Chapter 14

  “What does Sabatini’s Pizza have that’s worth shredding?” Marina pulled a handful of her hair up to its full length, then let it drop. Since her thick, overly full locks didn’t behave like normal hair, the hunk stuck in midair, making her look as if she’d just taken off a winter hat in dry air.

  “Maybe he really is mobbed up,” I said. “Maybe they’re paying him to get rid of the evidence for a massive fraud perpetuated by . . .” I thought fast. “. . . by the costume industry. All these years we’ve thought of clowns as friendly creatures, but Sabatini’s has been storing proof of a dastardly plot to take over the country.”