by Laura Alden
“Here’s to the manipulation of our children.” I held up a guac-loaded chip.
“May it last forevermore.” Marina grinned and we touched chips.
After we made a happy dent in the food, Marina said, “So, now what? If I’m going to help you help Cookie, I suppose we should be doing something. Let me guess.” She closed her eyes and put her hands to her forehead. “We’re going to make a list.”
“Do you have any better ideas?”
“Eat more guacamole?”
“We can eat and make a list at the same time, you know.”
“Multitasking!” she crowed. “See, you are smart. Say, can we triple-task? Because I wouldn’t mind adding a little dissing of Claudia Wolff into the mix. Did you see how she wanted to tear into you at the last meeting?”
“Two things are as much as my brain can handle, thanks.” I extracted a pad of paper from my purse. “And no making fun of my list making. If you’ll recall, it was one of my Saturday lists that helped you remember your mother-in-law’s birthday.”
“And she was so happy to receive a subscription to Cosmopolitan, you wouldn’t believe it.” Marina popped a piece of pita into her mouth. “So what list is this?”
The previous night I’d thought about what would help figure out this puzzle and had come to a very obvious conclusion. “We need to figure out who was in the kitchen the night of the PTA in Review.”
Marina stopped, a piece of pita half-dunked. “Everyone was in the kitchen that night.”
Which was exactly the problem. “I know. We had so many breaks that half the PTA was in and out of the kitchen cutting and serving and making coffee and taking money.”
Marina brightened. “Claudia was there. I’m sure of it.”
“No, she wasn’t. She was out in the gym.”
“She was?”
“I was on the stage, remember? She was sitting in the front row.” With her arms crossed, staring daggers at me the whole time. “I think she got up once, and that was to get something to eat, not to go help in the kitchen.”
“Well, darn.”
Marina had been trying to make Claudia a suspect in everything from littering to arson to murder for years. As frosty as the relationship was between Claudia and me, it was eternal friendship compared to what went on between Marina and Claudia.
“So who was in the kitchen?” I looked at the blank sheet of paper, considered a few titles, then wrote Kitchen Candidates.
Marina peered at my handwriting. “It’d look cool if you spelled candidate with a K.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” I started writing names.
Marina rolled her eyes. “Once again, your overgrown sense of right has twisted your brain. What’s the point of putting your name down when we all know you didn’t do anything wrong?”
“Because it’s a complete list. And your name’s going down, too.”
“Hey, you can’t do that!”
“I just did. You were in there more often than I was.”
“Fine.” She slumped down in her chair. “Then you’d better put Alan Barnhart down.”
“Alan?” I blinked. “He’s not in the PTA. What was he doing in the kitchen?”
“He saw we were shorthanded back there and said he’d be glad to help out.” She watched me write his name. “So Alan becomes a suspect because he was being a nice guy?”
I didn’t like it, either. “We’re trying to figure out who was in the kitchen and who might have put that acetaminophen into Cookie’s coffee. We have to look at everybody. We can’t eliminate people just because we like them.”
“We can’t?”
I wrote another name. “Isabel Olsen. She was cutting up brownies, wasn’t she?”
“Kirk was back there, too.” Marina smirked. “He must have spent twenty bucks on Rice Krispies squares. He was scarfing them down like there’s no tomorrow. Maybe that’s why he got a membership at that fancy gym.” She laughed. “He’d be better off paying for hair implants. That receding hairline ages him faster than those extra pounds.”
“Who else?”
Marina twisted up her face into think mode. “I think what’s her name, the new vice principal, was there for quite a while.”
My pen paused. “Stephanie Pesch?”
“Yeah. Why, what’s the matter?”
“Oliver’s making up songs about her.”
“Crush time? The boy has good taste. She’s pretty hot. I mean, for a thirtysomething blond with a great body and long legs, she does okay.”
I tapped the list. “Anyone else?”
“Can’t think of anyone.”
We stared at the short list.
In a low, quiet voice, Marina said, “I don’t think I like doing this.”
I didn’t, either. “I’ll call Gus. He’ll know what to do next.”
But when I dialed the police department, I was told that all available officers had been called out to the expressway to a multicar accident. I left a voice mail asking him to call me.
“Now what?” Marina asked.
I tucked the list away in my purse and reached for a pita piece. “Eat more guacamole.”
And stay as busy as possible, because if I didn’t, I’d think far too much about the names on that extremely short list.
• • •
All Saturday evening, I expected Gus to call, but the phone never rang. When I walked into the choir room Sunday morning, I looked around. “Where’s Gus?” I asked the director.
“Hmm?” Kay was sitting on her stool, studying the morning’s offertory anthem and frowning.
“Gus. He’s usually here by now.”
“Not today.” She stood and tapped the music stand with her thin baton. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said loudly. “Time for warm-ups. Let’s start with oooo’s in the key of C.” She nodded at the pianist and raised her hands for the cue.
“Kay, where’s Gus?”
“Sick.” She lowered her hands in a firm downbeat and the room filled with oooo’s in various octaves. Time to get to work.
• • •
After the service, I tracked Winnie down. I found her in a Sunday school classroom, putting away craft supplies. “I hear your husband is sick.”
“First time in years,” she said cheerfully. “He’s got that nasty flu that’s going around, and he’s being a horrible patient. He wasn’t feeling very chipper when the call came in about that accident on the highway, but did he leave it for someone else to take care of? Of course not. Instead of staying inside where it’s nice and warm, he went out in that cold and wind and snow for hours on end. I tell him he’s going to be in bed even longer if he doesn’t rest, but there you are, what husband ever listens to his wife?”
“A smart one.”
“Now there’s an oxymoron for you,” she said, and we both laughed.
“Do you think husbands say mean things about their wives when they’re not around?” I asked.
“Honey, the battle between the sexes has been going on for thousands of years. The best we can do is to find a way to get a giggle out of it. So what do you need with Gus?”
I hesitated. “It can wait.”
“Is it police business? Because that nice Officer Zimmerman is going to be in charge while Gus is out sick. You go talk to him if you need something.”
I thanked her, but walked away knowing that I wouldn’t. I couldn’t talk to anyone except Gus. He was the one running the investigation, and since it had barely started, he probably hadn’t done any paperwork or told anyone else about any of it. And Gus had at least some small measure of confidence in the things I told him. I didn’t want to hand over my little list to another officer and have it tossed in the trash.
No, I’d have to wait until Gus came back to work. And, really, what difference would a few days make?
I zipped up my coat, pulled on my gloves, and went out into the cold.
• • •
Monday morning, I wandered around the store aimlessly, alphabetizing t
he cart of sale books and studying the Valentine’s display in the front window.
“Move away from that window,” Lois said menacingly. “Last week you said it was fine. Don’t you dare go changing your mind now. I invested too much time in it.”
“The display is fine,” I said vaguely. Red hearts, white hearts, and red ribbons twined around stacks of all the red, white, and pink books Lois had been able to dig up. Since Christmas, we’d been collecting the titles of children’s favorite books, and each of the hearts had the title of one of those books written on it. The great big heart in the middle of the display said I love to read. It was a great display, and I said so.
“Then what is your problem?” Lois asked. “You’ve been mooning about all morning. Wait a minute. . . .” She tapped her nose. “It’s that thing with Cookie, isn’t it? Gus is out sick and you can’t stand nothing being done. You want to go out and play Nancy Drew, don’t you?”
“Trixie Belden,” I muttered.
“Go on.” Lois waved me away. “You’re not getting anything done here—that’s for sure. As much as you’re contributing to this store, you might as well be in Alaska.”
“Alaska?” I blinked.
“Hawaii, if you want somewhere warm.”
I looked across the store. It was empty except for me, Lois and Flossie. January in small-town Wisconsin.
“We need to finish checking the stock for the homeschoolers,” I said. “And . . .” And there must be something else that needed doing, but I couldn’t think what.
“Flossie and I will do that,” Lois said, grinning. “Right, Flossie?”
A startled Flossie looked up from the greeting cards she was sorting. “I’ll what?”
“Help out,” Lois said.
“Ah. Yes. Whatever Beth thinks is best.”
I glanced from one to the other. “You’re sure?”
Lois had already gathered up my coat and purse. “Here. Put these on and git. We have work to do.”
“Well . . .”
She pointed to the front door with a firm index finger.
I went, and was heartened by the fact that Flossie and Lois seemed to be getting along better. Maybe the recent arguments were over. Maybe I didn’t need to worry about the situation at all.
But just as the door shut, I heard Lois say, “Well, if you don’t understand, maybe you should go back to that grocery store.”
I stood there a moment, thinking about going back inside, then thinking about what would happen if I did—which would be nothing, because neither of them would tell me what was going on—and headed down the street.
• • •
Courtesy of a dusting of new snow, my shoes made little noise on the sidewalk. I was Stealth Beth, sneaking up on evildoers with my weapon of choice, my trusty purse, which would give any serious bad guy a nasty whack upside the head.
As if. The likelihood of me being able to have the courage to act that sensibly in the face of danger was remote. Still, it was fun to think about, so I was smiling as I opened the door of Made in the Midwest.
“You’re looking perky this morning.” Mary Margaret wagged her eyebrows. “On a Monday, no less. Did you have a good weekend?”
“The cold air makes my cheeks turn red, that’s all.” There was no reason at all for me to tell Mary Margaret about the lovely Saturday evening Pete and I had spent together. Some things are best kept close to the heart. “I have a question for you.”
She made her hand into a pistol shape and fired it over my head. “Shoot.”
“Back a couple of weeks ago, at the PTA in Review, do you remember whose idea it was that refreshments be served at every break?”
“Huh.” She scratched her forehead. “I sure don’t. It was a last-minute thought. I remember that part. At the committee meeting someone said we could maybe raise more money that way, and if we all brought a little something it wouldn’t be much work . . .” She stared at the ceiling, then shrugged. “Nope. Sorry. Why do you want to know, anyway?”
If I’d been smart, I would have figured out an answer to that before walking into her store. “Um, since it did make a nice amount of money, I’d like to give credit to the person who came up with it.” Ta-da! Beth pulls a fast and believable answer out of thin air!
“I’ll think on it,” Mary Margaret said. Then she frowned. “You sure that’s the reason? Because your ears are turning a little red. From what I hear, that means . . . Well, you know.”
Okay, maybe not so believable. But at least it was fast. “My ears turn red from the cold pretty easily. You’ll let me know if you remember? Maybe you could ask some of the other committee members.”
“Not a problem.” She nudged my elbow, smiling slyly. “Anything to help recognize a good idea.”
I made my escape, ears and face burning bright.
• • •
With my back to the wind, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and made a quick phone call, ending with “Ten minutes? Perfect. I’ll be waiting.”
Now that I had a destination, moving was easy. I pushed open the door of the antiques store and welcomed the burst of warmth that enveloped me. “Is or is not central heating the best thing ever invented?” I asked.
Alan, who was standing behind the front counter, considered the question. “Indoor plumbing is pretty good.”
“But what good is indoor plumbing without a warm house to keep it in?” I unzipped my coat and let the heat soak in. “Those pipes freeze up and you might as well get out the outhouse.”
He laughed. “What can I do you for this morning, Beth?”
“I’d like to hog one of your tables for a little while.”
“Stay as long as you’d like.” He swept his arm out, palm up, indicating the completely empty store. “You can see how busy we are.”
“Cold days are hard on retail.”
“No doubt about it,” he agreed. “And I’ve already done inventory. Alice says she’s going to make me do it all over again if I don’t stop complaining.”
“And I will,” Alice said, bustling in from the kitchen with a tray of warm, fresh cookies. “Morning, Beth. You looking for some of these?” She brandished dozens of oatmeal raisin.
“If I eat that many I’ll explode right here in your store.”
“Then take six. That shouldn’t do much more than give you a happy little tummyache.” She put the tray in the glass case and pulled off her silver oven mitts. “Or are you looking for these?” She jiggled the tray labeled AMAZINGLY AWESOME. “I know these are your favorites.”
“I’ll take four.” Weak, that’s what I was. Weak. I’d walked in intending to buy two coffees and one cookie, yet here I was, succumbing to weakness.
“That’s my girl.” Alice beamed. “You’re getting to be nothing but skin and bones. And are you getting enough sleep? Seems like those circles under your eyes are a little darker than last time I saw you.”
“Cookies will help.”
“Of course they will. Cookies help pretty much everything. A bag? Oh, you’re staying. How nice. And two coffees. You pick a table and I’ll bring everything—”
Crash!
“Alan!” Alice shrieked. I was twenty years younger and tens of pounds lighter than Alice, but she still reached Alan first.
“Honey, are you okay? What happened? What broke? You’re bleeding! We need to get to the hospital right this minute,” she said breathlessly. “We need to get you to the emergency room. You’ll need stitches. I’m sure of it.”
“What you need to do is calm down,” Alan said. “It’s just a scratch. That plate slipped, that’s all. It slipped and I caught at it and it broke in my hand. There’s no need to make a federal case out of it. Look, the bleeding has stopped already.” He held out his hand.
It hadn’t completely stopped, but it had already moved from the flowing stage to the ooze level. His wife looked unconvinced. “I think he’s right, Alice,” I said. “A good wash, some triple ointment, and a sticky bandage is all he needs.
”
“Are you sure?” Lines appeared around her mouth. “Alan . . .”
“I’m fine,” he said shortly. “I’m a grown man, Alice. I know how to take care of myself.”
She watched him go with a troubled look on her face. There was more going on here than a small cut. I was about to ask a gently probing question when the front door opened and a blast of fresh air rushed into the room.
“What’s with the sour looks?” Debra asked.
Dressed in a long floppy sweater, ankle-length skirt and fuzzy boots, slim, blond Debra bore little resemblance to the woman whose closet had once been filled with severely tailored suits in colors that ranged from black to gray to navy blue. This was a kinder, gentler Debra, and I much preferred this version.
She flopped into the wire-backed chair next to me. “Alice, I am dying for a cup of coffee.”
Alice woke up from her pensive pose. “Mugs or china?”
When she’d settled us in with mugs and the best cookies in the world, she said, “I’m going to check on Alan. If you need anything, I’m just a yell away.”
Debra blew across the top of her coffee. “What’s that all about?” she asked, nodding at Alice’s back. I gave the short version and she nodded. “Hope he’s had a tetanus booster lately. You know how Alice can be.”
“It really was just a scratch.”
She nibbled at her first cookie. “And these really are awesome cookies.” She sighed. “Cookie Van Doorne. That’s why we’re here, right? What do you want to know?”
“I drove her home from the PTA in Review,” I said. “I’d known her for years, but that was the first time I had an extended one-on-one conversation with her.”
Debra took another bite. “And?” she asked through the crumbs. “How did that go?”
I added enough cream to my coffee to turn it a lovely shade of brown. Coffee was okay, every once in a while, but I couldn’t drink it down without cream, or at least milk. “I realized that I didn’t know her very well.”
Debra nodded. “That’s Cookie. She was one of those women who was acquaintances with everyone, but not close friends with anyone.”
