Poison at the PTA (20 page)

“No problem,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to do search and rescue. Do they like hot chocolate?” At my nod, she stood and went to a slightly battered white refrigerator. She poured milk into a large glass measuring bowl and put it in the microwave to heat. As she opened cupboards and pulled out containers of cocoa and sugar, she said, “Sorry, but I don’t have any marshmallows.”

I hastened to reassure her that neither Jenna nor Oliver would turn up their noses at nonmarshmallowed hot chocolate and that she was, in fact, spoiling them for the packet hot chocolate I made them. Then I thanked her again for taking us in.

“And just as soon as my children get here,” I said, “we’ll be able to explain why we’re here at all.”

She stopped measuring out cocoa. “You mean you don’t know?”

I shared glances with Marina and Pete. “Not a clue.”

Hesitant footsteps came toward us. I looked up and smiled. “Ms. Stephanie is making hot chocolate for you two.”

“Cool. Thanks, Ms. Stephanie.” Jenna slid into a chair.

“Come sit on my lap, Ollster.” I patted my legs and my son climbed up. He was getting so tall so fast. I leaned my forehead against the back of his head. “Now,” I said. “How about telling us why you went out in the snow like that?”

He said something in a low voice.

“Sorry, Oliver. I didn’t hear you.”

His shoulders heaved. “I had to warn her.”

“Warn Ms. Stephanie?” I asked. “About what?”

“About what you and Mrs. Neff were saying.” He slid off my lap and stood in the middle of the kitchen’s linoleum floor. “That Ms. Stephanie might be a murderer. You’ve sent bad guys to jail before lots of times. I had to warn her that you wanted to send her to jail forever and ever!”

I gaped at him. He’d overheard everything Marina and I had said. How could I have been so stupid? I’d known Oliver had a huge crush on this young woman. Why hadn’t I realized his ears would swivel when we’d spoken her name? Why hadn’t I anticipated what could happen?

Stephanie tinked a measuring spoon on the side of a mug, emptying it of its cocoa contents. “I’ve killed a few spiders in my time, but I don’t think they send you to jail for that.”

“No,” I said, “they don’t. Oliver’s talking about . . .” I faltered. “. . . About something Marina and I were speculating about.” Starting and ending a sentence with a preposition. Excellent work, Beth. “Wild speculation,” I added lamely.

Pete stirred. “How did you know where Ms. Stephanie lived?” he asked.

“That computer Dad gave us for Christmas,” Jenna said. “I was showing Oliver how to use Google Earth last weekend. You know how it works, right? We drove it all over Rynwood, and we looked up the houses of all our friends and teachers.”

“Oh,” I said faintly. And here I thought they’d been looking up answers to some of Oliver’s homework questions.

“And how about you?” Marina tucked a lock of Jenna’s towel-damp hair behind her ear. “Why were you out in the snow without a coat or boots or mittens or hat?”

“She went after Oliver,” I said.

Jenna nodded. “I’m supposed to be helping take care of Mom. You said to, remember? And I didn’t want her to worry about Oliver. I thought I could catch up to him and bring him back, but he kept running ahead of me. . . .” She dipped her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

I kept in the tears that threatened to pour out of me only by looking at my daughter’s long face. “You did fine. You left a big enough trail that I could follow you,” I said firmly. “You did a
wonderful
job.”

She nodded, and a little bit of the pain eased off her face.

Oliver, on the other hand . . .

I looked at my son and had no idea what to do.

“Stephanie?” Marina asked. “Do you have some games the kids could play while us boring old adults have a little chat?”

I nearly fell upon her neck and wept with gratitude. Of course Marina knew the right thing to do. She had four children, three of whom were fully functional adults, and she ran a day care business so successful that she had kids who weren’t even conceived on the waiting list.

“Sure.” Stephanie gave final stirs to the mugs of hot chocolate and handed them over. “I have a Wii setup. How about Mini Golf? Or Jeopardy!? And there’s this I Spy game that’s fun.”

In less time than it would take to tell, Stephanie had the kids settled in the adjacent living room, close enough for me to hear their banter, far enough so that I didn’t get distracted by every word they said.

Both Marina and Pete started talking, but I let their words wash over me as I forced my brain into action. When Stephanie came back to the kitchen, I was ready. Or at least as ready as I was ever likely to be in such an unexpected, awkward, and bizarre situation.

“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 . . .