Poison at the PTA (12 page)

•   •   •

Far too short a time later, Lois and Ruthie arrived at the sledding hill. Marina nodded at me. “Show them.”

“Do I have to?”

She glared. “Yes.”

Sighing, I handed the letter to Ruthie, who read it silently and passed it to Lois, who asked, “Has Darlene heard about this?”

“I sure have,” my sister’s tinny voice said from the cell phone Marina was holding out into the middle of our small circle. “Was this woman nuts, or what?”

“But,” I said “that doesn’t mean Cookie wasn’t right. Just because she . . . she . . .”

“Had a few screws loose?” Lois asked.

“Just because she had a different way of looking at life,” I said firmly, “doesn’t mean she didn’t have a point. And, yes, I’ve shown this letter to Gus. He said he’ll keep it in mind as he’s looking into her death.”

“Then that’s all taken care of,” Ruthie said, “and you don’t have to do a thing.”

“She’d better not,” Darlene said. “I’ll tell Mom if you do, Beth.”

It wasn’t as much of a threat now as it had been thirty years ago, but it still carried some steel.

“And look at her,” Lois said. “You can tell she hasn’t been sleeping right. See those circles under her eyes? She’s starting to look like she did last fall. When did you get that letter?”

“Last night.”

Ruthie clucked at me. “Girl, you need to lay off this thing. Request of a dead woman or not, you have to take care of yourself first; otherwise you’re not good to anyone else. Think of your children, sweetie.”

I was. I did. I was never
not
thinking of them. But still . . .

“Let Gus take care of it this time,” Marina said. “I know you’ve figured out things ahead of him before, but let him do this one. Heck, with what he’s learned from you, he’ll track her down lickety-split.”

“Track what her down?” I asked.

“The killer, of course.”

I frowned. “How do you know it’s a woman?”

“Everybody knows poisoning is a woman’s crime. No fuss, no muss, no nasty loud guns that make a big mess. Men like to make a statement. Women just want to get the job done. A woman killed Cookie. I’m sure of it.”

I wasn’t so sure her logic sequenced properly, and it sounded pretty sexist to me, but I kept quiet.

“Let it go,” Ruthie said. “You’ve done your job by showing the letter to Gus. Let him take over.”

“I can’t.” I looked around at my friends, at the women who cared enough about me to do the hard thing of intervening. “Cookie asked me to help her. How can I turn my back on a request to help her rest in peace?”

The trio shuffled their feet and didn’t say anything. They studied the snow, their boots, one another, then finally looked back at me.

“Don’t stop me,” I said. “
Help
me.”

“Beth’s right.”

I’d heard approaching footsteps, but hadn’t realized they were Pete’s until he spoke.

Marina glared at him. “What kind of interventionist are you if you let her do too much?”

He smiled, shrugging. “Not a very good one, I guess. But how can we keep her from doing what she thinks is right?”

Dear Pete. I made a mental note to bake a big batch of his favorite cookies.

“I say we help her.” He put his arm around my shoulders. “She’s smart and she knows what she’s doing.”

Clearly, I hadn’t told Pete the fax number story.

“Is that Pete?” Darlene asked. “Pete, if she’s so smart, ask her why she ruined the starter on Dad’s car by trying to turn on the engine when it was already on.”

“Hey,” I said. “That’s not fair and you know it. Dad said that starter was already going bad and—”

Lois made the time-out sign. “Chill, sisters. We need to concentrate because my toes are about to fall off from frostbite. If that happens I’ll have to get rid of all my flip-flops and I just bought a pretty purple pair with sparkles all over.”

“What do you say, ladies?” Pete asked. “The faster we figure out what really happened to Cookie, the better it will be for Beth. Are we in?”

Marina smooshed her mouth with her mittens, then said, “I am.”

“And me, I guess,” Darlene said.

Ruthie nodded. “Me, too.”

Lois flung her fuzzy yellow scarf around her neck. “I can see I’m the only one with any sense. I just hope this doesn’t turn out bad. Remember what almost happened last fall.”

And suddenly I was back in that alley, crouched in the dark, waiting for—

“Don’t worry,” Pete said, giving me a one-armed hug. “Last fall was a one-off. And this time it’ll be different because we’ll be helping you.”

My smile was genuine, but my gaze was looking back in time. Maybe instead of the alley, I’d park in the city lot for the next few weeks.

A
fter I closed down the store on Saturday, I went home to walk Spot, then headed for Marina’s house. My two were with their father, and Marina’s DH and Zach, their only at-home child, were at a comic book convention in Minneapolis.

“He’s going to turn into an engineer,” Marina said glumly. “I just know it.”

“Most mothers would be excited at having a child enter such a potentially lucrative career.”

“Yeah, well, most mothers aren’t married to an engineer. I know what they’re really like. Zach’s already starting to read science fiction.”

“Cheer up,” I said. “Even if you lose one child to the engineering profession, you have three that didn’t see the attraction.”

“That’s true. My genes rule, don’t they?” She held her hand up for a high five. Cheered, she got up from the kitchen table. “This calls for a celebration. How about guacamole and bits of toasted pita bread?”

Marina’s adult snacks were usually more of the brownie, coffee cake, or cookie variety. “Did you make a New Year’s resolution you didn’t tell me about?”

“Variety is the spice of life. And Zach has decided that for something that’s green and is supposed to be good for you, guacamole isn’t so bad. Next week I’m going to sneak some tomatoes into it and see what happens.”

“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 the 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?”