Poison at the PTA

by Laura Alden

“In case you haven’t figured it out,” I said, “Oliver has a huge crush on you.”

  She sat in the last available chair. “I had a feeling.”

  Marina looked at her. “You probably get that a lot, right?”

  Stephanie shrugged. “It never lasts long.”

  “Well,” I said, “before you ask why we thought you might be a murderer, here’s the explanation.” I told her about Cookie’s posthumous request and the far-too-short suspect list, and how and why she’d moved up to the top of the list after we’d learned about the argument in the bank.

  “Okay,” she said, “I can see all that, and I did despise that woman, but there’s one problem.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I’m allergic to acetaminophen,” she said simply. “I’m so allergic I even have a tattoo.” She held out her right fist and turned it over, revealing a tattoo on the inside of her upper wrist. Sure enough, it said she was allergic to acetaminophen.

  “Well, there you go,” Marina said, grinning. “I never really thought you were a good candidate for murder, anyway. It was Beth here who wanted you on the list.”

  Rolling my eyes, I thumped her lightly on the shoulder.

  And so Stephanie was crossed off the suspect list.

  • • •

  When the kids were back into their own clothes, Marina drove on home.

  “Thanks for everything,” I said, giving Stephanie a hug.

  “No problem.” Smiling, she tousled Oliver’s hair. “And thank you for trying to warn me. But next time, why don’t you just call?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his face turning bright red. “That’s a pretty good idea.”

  Pete and I helped the kids up into the backseat of his pickup, and we headed on home.

  The four of us were quiet. I had no idea what the kids were thinking about, but I looked out on the white winter landscape and thought about all that had gone wrong and all that could have gone wrong and what I should and shouldn’t have done.

  I shouldn’t have talked about Ms. Stephanie when Oliver was down the hall.

  And should I have been talking about Stephanie at all? Was I really trying to help Cookie, or was I satisfying my own curiosity and puffing up my own vanity by attempting to do what was really police business?

  Pete glanced over at me. “You all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said automatically.

  In the light cast by the dashboard, I saw him look at me again. Two words were all I’d said, but my delivery must have been off because I could tell he didn’t believe me.

  He reached out, gently pulled my hand out of my coat pocket, and gave it a squeeze.

  In silence, we held hands the rest of the way home.

  • • •

  The right side of the driveway was deep with snowdrifts. Pete pulled up on the left side. “Exit to the left, please, folks.” He opened his door and ushered the three Kennedys outside. “In you go. Your house is waiting for you.”

  I slid out of the warm truck and back into winter, smiling at Pete. I’d never thought about it like that before. Maybe that’s what made a house a home: the knowledge that it was waiting, ready to offer comfort and calm and welcome. The violation of the housebreaking was nothing compared to what our house offered us.

  “If you want,” he said, “I’ll shovel the driveway.”

  Dear Pete. I blinked away sudden tears. “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  He shrugged. “It’s not that late. I don’t mind and the wind’s down. Hear it?”

  I did. Or rather, I didn’t. What I did hear was the far-off grumble of plow trucks. So much for the kids having a snow day tomorrow. I gave Pete a coat-encumbered hug. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

  “Oh, just about everything.” He kissed my forehead and I melted. I loved it when he did that. It made me feel cherished and cared for and . . . and . . .

  “Mom?” Jenna loitered just outside the door to the garage. “Can we have something to eat?”

  Pete released me. “Go on. I’ll take care of the driveway.”

  But I hung on to his hands, not wanting to let go. “You’ll come in when you’re done?”

  “Sure, if you want.”

  I did want. I wanted it very much.

  Inside, the kids remained unnaturally silent as I put together a sugar-laden snack of ice cream, hot fudge, and whipped cream. I even found a jar of maraschino cherries in the back of the fridge and perched one on top of each bowl.

  They dug in, and I sat between them, watching, checking fingers and toes for signs of frostbite, checking for the shivers that might indicate hypothermia, and thinking that it was absurd to give them ice cream an hour after they’d almost frozen to death. Luckily, they didn’t see the irony. Even luckier, they seemed perfectly healthy.

  When they reached the bottom of the bowls, I said, “Oliver, teeth and jammies and bed. Jenna, teeth and jammies, but you can read for half an hour.”

  She shook her head. “I’m pretty tired. Can I just go to sleep?”

  Again, unbidden tears pricked at my eyes. “Of course you can, sweetie. Oliver?” He’d been pushing his chair back, but froze when I called his name. “Oliver, we’re going to have a long talk tomorrow.”

  He hung his head. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” he whispered. “I was bad. I know I was. You’re not going to get rid of Spot, are you?”

  I blinked at him. “No, honey. Spot’s part of the family.” So was George, but a cat that spent most of his time under my bed or in my closet didn’t engender the same kind of loyalty from a nine-year-old boy as a happy dog did. “We’ll talk about your punishment tomorrow.”

  Oliver’s thin shoulders heaved and he nodded.

  “Now give me a hug.” I held out my arms and pulled him tight. “I love you,” I whispered in his ear. “Lots and lots and lots.”

  “I love you,” he said.

  Jenna waited while he went upstairs. “Am I going to be punished, too?” she asked, her face serious.

  “Hmm.” I put my elbow on the table and my chin in my hand. “I think your punishment will be to go outside into what was practically a blizzard, hunt down your little brother, and stay with him while running over a mile in twenty-five-degree weather without a coat or boots until someone comes to help.”

  She frowned. “But . . . that’s what I did.”

  “Then I say you’ve been punished enough.”

  Her face lightened. “Really?”

  “Really. But, Jenna? Please don’t do it again. Once is about all my heart can take.”

  “Sure, Mom.” She giggled. “I promise never to go out after Oliver in a blizzard again. Ever. And you know what? Even if I can’t be the best goalie on the team, I’m going to try and do something else the best.”

  “What’s that, honey?”

  “I’m going to try and be the best big sister ever.” She leaned over to hug me, and once again, tears threatened to pour out of me.

  • • •

  By the time Pete came back inside, I’d tucked the kids in and kissed them good night. “All safe and sound?” he asked.

  “Snug as bugs in rugs.”

  “And how about you? Are you snug?”

  I’d led him to the family room, where the gas logs were doing their best to give the illusion of a real fire. We sat on the couch. Pete put his arm around my shoulders and I put my feet up behind me. I snuggled into his side, breathing in the scent of outdoors that lingered on his clothes, breathing in . . . him. “All snug,” I said.

  He kissed my hair. “Anything else I can do, just ask.”

  “I have something I want to tell you.”

  His body stilled. “Okay.”

  “It’s about Cookie.” I felt him relax and wondered why he’d been tense, but went on. “I know she asked me to help find her killer, but I just can’t any longer. Oliver and Jenna could have died tonight, and it’s because of Cookie. Finding a killer is important, but it’s not worth a hair from
either of my children’s heads. I’m done helping Cookie. The police will have to do without my help.”

  Pete laid his head against mine. “Whatever you do, I’m with you.”

  Dear, dear Pete. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

  “Only you know what’s best for you,” he said. “But I can suggest one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Trust yourself.”

  We sat there, close together, wrapped in each other’s arms, feeling each other’s heartbeat, feeling affection and tenderness and . . .

  I took in a small breath. “I love you,” I whispered.

  “And I love you,” he whispered back. “So very, very much.”

  Chapter 18

  It was easier than I’d anticipated to forget about Cookie’s request because uppermost in my mind was caring for my children. Beyond the fear of a delayed case of hypothermia—which was impossible, but did we ever truly knew what was impossible?—there were psychological ramifications to consider.

  My former husband pooh-poohed my concerns, of course.

  “I don’t know why you’re so worked up,” Richard said. The morning after the Adventure in the Snow, I’d called from the store and updated him on what his children had been up to. “They’re fine, aren’t they? I’ll keep Oliver off the video games tonight and this weekend. That will be punishment enough.”

  “I’m worried that Oliver is going to have a hard time getting over his crush on Stephanie.”

  “You have to stop worrying so much,” my ex said. “Why do women do that?”

  Because we have to clean up the messes men make because they don’t worry enough, I wanted to say. “Just pay attention to him, okay? He’s getting too good at hiding his feelings.”

  Richard gave a patronizing chuckle. “That’s what men do.”

  “He’s not a man,” I said sharply. “He’s a nine-year-old boy.”

  “And he’ll be getting his driver’s license in seven years. Let him be who he is, Beth, not who you want him to be.”

  Anger jammed into my throat and kept my mouth from opening. Which was probably a good thing, because I would have gone into a long and strident rant about his own expectations, but doing so wouldn’t have helped and could have made things worse. Instead, I said a stilted good-bye and hung up wondering how I could possibly have stayed married to that man for twenty years.

  I got up from my desk and wandered out to the kitchenette. Owing to the odd confluence of a doctor’s appointment for Yvonne, a sick grandchild for Lois, and an old friend of Flossie’s who happened to be in town, Paoze and I were the only ones in the store.

  When the microwave dinged, I took out my mug, dropped the soggy tea bag into a saucer to use again later, added a little milk, and went up to the front.

  “Thanks again for coming in,” I said to Paoze.

  He smiled. “I am happy to. It is a pleasure to work here.”

  “It’s a pleasure to have you, and I’m not just saying that to be nice. I really mean it.”

  The books in his hands must have suddenly needed a lot of his attention, because he was studying them carefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy. You are very kind.”

  I made a gagging noise. “If I were really kind, I’d pay you a lot more. Instead, I pay you a teensy bit above minimum wage, hoping that will somehow entice you to work hard and keep coming back for more.”

  The books kept needing serious inspection. “The reason I come back is not the wages.”

  Of course it wasn’t. No one worked in a bookstore to get rich. People worked in a bookstore because they loved books. Game, set, and match. Which was why bookstore people tended to get along. It was the books that mattered, and . . . hmm.

  “Paoze, last week I asked you what was going on between Lois and Flossie and you said you didn’t know.”

  He rearranged the books. Now The Indian in the Cupboard was on top instead of The Great Brain. The new setup must not have worked for him, because he frowned, rotated them back to the way they’d been, and said nothing.

  So the sideways approach wasn’t going to work. No surprise there; Paoze was too smart to get caught so easily. It was time for a full-out attack. “They’re not getting along and customers are starting to notice.” Well, they might if the terrible twosome held an argument in front of a customer, but they were both too professional to do so. Still, the possibility existed. “If they don’t stop arguing, I’m going to have to let Flossie go.”

  Paoze forgot all about the books and looked straight at me, eyes flared wide. “You will fire her? But she is so smart. She has increased sales far beyond what Marcia ever did, and the children love her.”

  I let out a heavy sigh. “Yes, but the store’s staff has to work together. If they can’t, well . . .” I shook my head with as much sorrow as I thought I could reliably fake.

  Paoze turned the books over and over so much that I started to be concerned that he’d wear the covers and I’d have to put them on the sale table. “I do not like to say,” he murmured.

  “Of course not.” I patted his shoulder. “You’re a good employee and a good friend. But I have to know what’s going on.”

  “Yes, I see.” He turned the books over a few more times. “I do not like to say,” he said again, “and you will not like to hear this.”

  I blinked. “Okay. But I’m a big girl. I can take it.” Because, really, how bad could it possibly be? This was likely something silly that had blown up big and neither one of them knew how to fix it. All I had to do was learn what is was and I’d be able to—

  “They are arguing about you.”

  —to fix the situation with a few of Alice’s cookies. Unless they were fighting about me, in which case I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea of what to do.

  His dark eyes were kind. “It is that intervention your friends had in January. Miss Untermayer thinks they should have left you alone, that you are smart enough to know when you need rest. Mrs. Nielson says that you don’t always have the sense to come in out of the rain.”

  He stopped, but I waved him on. I knew a direct Lois quote when I heard one.

  “When Mrs. Nielson sends you out of the store, Miss Untermayer . . .” He hesitated. “She describes how she feels about people interfering in another’s life without being asked. Mrs. Nielson replies that sometimes people need to be interfered with, and Miss Untermayer asks how Mrs. Nielson would feel if someone interfered in her life.”

  I could picture the scene as if it were unfolding in front of me. Both of them shouting at each other, hands on hips.

  Paoze sighed. “When you return to the store, they change their words to be about books. I am sorry, Mrs. Kennedy. I did not want to tell you, but I do not want Miss Untermayer to be fired.”

  “It’s all right,” I said vaguely.

  “They are only fighting because they both care about you so much,” he said. “They will stop when this intervention is over. This is soon, correct?”

  I nodded, or at least I think I did. Because it was hard for me to hear his new words because his old ones were repeating themselves over and over inside my head.

  “They are only fighting because they both care about you so much.”

  Slowly, so very slowly, I went back to my office, wondering what I’d ever done to deserve such wonderful friends.

  Halfway there, I stopped cold, right in the middle of the graphic novels. Because I’d just recognized the real problem: how was I going to tell Lois and Flossie the jig was up without getting Paoze in deep trouble with both of them?

  • • •

  The rest of the day rushed past, followed by a busy Thursday and a customer-filled Valentine’s Day Friday. As music, the ding of the cash register drawer opening on a steady basis might not have been the stuff of Grammy Awards, but it did more to warm my heart than anything the Foo Fighters had ever done.

  I was a little sad that Pete and I wouldn’t be spending the evening together, but he’d had a rush call to a
job up in Wausau and wouldn’t be back until Saturday noon. Of course I understood, I’d told him, and made plans with Marina instead. Her DH wasn’t big on what he considered coerced holiday celebrations.

  During the extremely short midafternoon lull, Yvonne asked if I’d heard that Gus was back to work.

  “Not that I know of,” I said.

  “No, I mean he is back. When I was out at lunch, I saw him.”

  “Really?” At church on Sunday, Winnie had said her husband was a mess and that she wasn’t going to let him out of the house until he could do fifty push-ups. Not that I believed she’d actually make him do fifty push-ups. Twenty-five would probably do the trick. “How did he look?”

  Yvonne shook her head. “Weak. Pale. Like he should still be in bed.”

  I started to ask if he’d be at work all afternoon, but the front bells jingled, half a dozen grandmotherly-looking women walked in, and the moment passed.

  At closing time, the store was still crowded with customers. I shooed Yvonne and Lois off home, locked the front door, flicked off the lights that turned the front window into a fairyland display of books and toys, and pleasantly told the browsers that store hours were over, but to take their time making their selections.

  Ten minutes later, they were all still in the store and I was doing my best to keep from tapping my foot and glancing pointedly at my watch.

  Ten minutes after that, I turned off the rear bank of lights. Most of them got the not so subtle hint, made their purchases, and left, but the last holdout didn’t seem to notice the lights going off around her until I tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Ma’am? Excuse me, but we’re closing.”

  “What?” She took her head out of the book she was reading. “You’re closing?” She looked around, blinking. “Oh, my goodness, you’re closed! How long have I been standing here?”

  I glanced at her choice of reading material. The Hero and the Crown by Robin McKinley. “Forty-five minutes, I think. Good, isn’t it?”

  Red flooded across her cheeks. “I am so sorry.”

  Grinning, I said, “Don’t worry about it. At least you started early in the evening. It was eleven at night the first time I picked it up. I’m not sure I ever did get any sleep.”