Poison at the PTA (16 page)

Cookie’s house was a simple Cape Cod. I studied the windows and pictured a living room toward the street, dining room and kitchen behind, three bedrooms upstairs. Half bath down, full bath up. Nothing fancy, nothing to set it apart from the other houses on the street, nothing to tell you who had lived behind its walls.

The curtains were drawn across and the shades were pulled down. It could have been a house whose owners had gone away for a vacation or down to Florida for the winter, but it wasn’t, and I felt the house knew it, too. Its owner had been murdered. By someone I knew.

It was not a comfortable thought, so I tried not to think it again. But since that’s a lot like trying not to think about how tired you are when you have insomnia, I kept circling back to the list of names Marina and I had drawn up.

Mine. Hers.

Alan Barnhart.

Isabel Olsen.

Kirk Olsen.

Stephanie Pesch.

It was too short, that list. There must be more names to put on it. There must be someone we missed, someone we hadn’t considered. Maybe someone had snuck into the kitchen when everyone else was listening to Auntie May try to get in her dig at Walter Trommler.

I sighed. No, it had to be someone who’d worked in the kitchen. Someone had put the acetaminophen into a foam cup, filled it with coffee, and handed it to Cookie.

The snow fell.

My toes started to get cold.

More snow fell.

Cookie’s house sat there, quiet and somehow accusing.

Why haven’t you found her killer?
it asked.
Why aren’t you doing something to help Cookie instead of standing in the snow, staring at me?

It was a very good question. Too bad I didn’t have an answer for it. “Sorry,” I muttered. “This is hard for me, okay? These people are my friends and Cookie was, well, you know how she was.”

“What did you say?”

I shrieked. Jumped. Twisted in the air and landed two feet away from where I’d started. Breathed hard and couldn’t talk.

“Sorry,” the woman said in a laughter-filled voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you were talking to me.”

“Just”—I panted—“talking . . . to myself.”

The woman planted her snow shovel on the ground and leaned on the handle. “I live here.” She tipped her head at the house next door to Cookie’s. “You’re not from this neighborhood, are you?”

“No.” I realized how odd it must look, to see a stranger standing in the snow outside an empty house. I was lucky no one had called 911 to report me. “I knew Cookie, though. I just . . . stopped by.” Which didn’t explain anything, really, but I didn’t have anything better. “I brought Cookie home the night she got sick. She was—”

“Then you must be Beth Kennedy. Did you get the box? Sorry I took so long to mail it.”

I blinked. “You sent me the box?”

“And the letter.” She half laughed, half didn’t. “All a little weird, right?”

“Yes,” I said emphatically, which made her laugh full out.

“That was Cookie. I’m Deirdre Gale, by the way. Cookie said you own that children’s bookstore downtown? I should stop in one of these days. I don’t have any kids myself, but I have nieces and nephews of assorted ages all over the country.”

“Stop by anytime,” I said. “So, about that letter . . . ?”

“Yeah, that postmark probably threw you, didn’t it?”

She smiled, and I suddenly realized that I was talking to a very beautiful woman. Midthirties, tallish, dark hair curling around the edge of her ski hat, high cheekbones, straight nose, full lips. The kind of woman who, if she had the right kind of parents, grew up confident and competent. The kind of woman who would work in a people-oriented field. A doctor, maybe, or a—

“I’m a field engineer,” she said. “I travel a lot for the Madison firm I work for. Right now we’re testing a new windmill design, and the winds up in Alaska are being harder on the bearings than we’d figured.”

—or anything except what she actually was. So much for the stereotypical engineer, from which mold Marina’s introverted DH was cast. “That sounds . . . interesting,” I said vaguely.

“Probably not,” Deirdre said, “but you’re nice for saying so. Anyway, I was up there when I heard that Cookie had died and I mailed the letter right away. The box was here, so I couldn’t get that out until I came home. I was going to drop it off at your bookstore, but the same morning I put it in my Jeep, the project manager for an installation in Chicago called all frantic about the detail sheets not having enough detail.”

She rolled her eyes. “I had to go straight there and hold his hand until he felt better. That took a couple days, so I just mailed the box. I kept meaning to call you, or stop by to explain all this, but . . .” She paused and, for the first time in our odd conversation, didn’t seem to know what words to say.

“It’s all a little weird,” I said.

“Yeah.” She blew out a breath. “More than a little. Getting mail from a dead woman must have freaked you out.”

“They say new experiences are good for you.”

“They say we should eat more vegetables, too, but I never seem to have room after finishing the french fries and cheeseburger.”

I made a mental note not to repeat this conversation to my children. “You had that letter with you in Alaska?”

She nodded. “Last fall Cookie asked me to start carrying it around. Said it was her own private insurance policy and that if anything happened to her, to send it to you right away.”

Last fall? Curiouser and curiouser. “And the box?”

“She gave me that a few weeks ago.” Deirdre brushed snow off the sleeves of her coat. “Around Christmas.”

“Do you know what’s in it?”

“Don’t know. Don’t want to know. It was Cookie’s business, and if she’d wanted me to know, she would have told me.”

I studied her. “You were more than her neighbor, weren’t you? You were a friend.”

“Well, sure.”

“I’m glad. I’m not sure she had many.”

Deirdre frowned. “She had you.”

“We were more acquaintances than friends.”

“Then . . . ?”

“Why the letter? Why the box?” I shook my head. “I don’t know. That’s probably why I’m here. Thinking and wondering why.”

We stood quietly, watching the snow fall onto Cookie’s quiet house.

“The other neighbors are saying she was murdered,” Deirdre said suddenly. “Do they know who?”

“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.”

“It’s not right,” she said forcefully. “Cookie was a nice person. She didn’t deserve to be killed like that.”

Nobody did, I thought. “They’ll figure it out,” I said.

“First time I met Cookie,” Deirdre said, “was maybe a week after I moved in. This is the first house I’ve ever owned, and I was all excited about pulling weeds and mowing the lawn—can you believe it? Anyway, I was out front about to yank out these funky-looking red weeds when Cookie gave this horrible, high-pitched shriek.” Deirdre grinned. “I came this close to pulling out the most gorgeous peonies.”

I laughed. “No wonder she shrieked.”

“She was old enough to be my mother, but after that, we were friends. She took care of my house when I was out in the field, and she’d air everything out when I was coming back. She even got milk for my fridge and made sure there was something to eat.” Deirdre’s voice went distant. “She loved to hear my field stories. She couldn’t get enough of them. She did so much for me, and all I ever did for her was shovel her driveway when it snowed.”

“You did more than that,” I said. She started to shake her head, but I knew I was right and kept going. “You did a lot more than that. You were her friend, Deirdre. You were her friend, and that counts for more than anything.”

She sniffed. “Do you really think so?”

I did. And I also thought I was very glad to have met her. Maybe Cookie had been a difficult person to like, but she’d had at least one friend. A good one. Suddenly, I felt a lot better about the charge she’d laid on me.

I’m depending on you to figure out what happened.

I will,
I told her silently.
I will.

T
hursday passed with a flurry of semi-emergencies that ranged from Jenna’s not being able to find spare laces for her hockey skates to Yvonne’s car not starting and my favorite book distributor sending us boxes of absolutely the wrong books. There might be fifty shades of gray, but none of them were suitable for a children’s bookstore.

I found the laces in the basement behind the shelves over which Jenna draped her equipment, I drove to Yvonne’s house and used my jumper cables to start her car, and I got the books retaped and sent back before Lois could do more than say, “Hey . . .”

Friday went much the same way with slightly different semi-emergencies, but the weekend was a restful mix of hockey, sledding and an evening movie with Pete, then Sunday church and a lazy Sunday afternoon sliding into an even lazier Sunday evening.

It had all been just what the doctor ordered, and I bounded into the store on Monday with a song in my heart and a smile on my lips and stayed that way while I worked on the computer up front.

When Lois scuffed in, she gave me a sour look. “There are two kinds of people in the world. The ones who are perky on Monday mornings and the ones who are annoyed by the ones who are perky on Monday mornings.”

But I was ready for her and handed over a steaming mug of Irish breakfast. “Drink your tea. And weren’t you the one who was singing ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’ last Monday?”

She sipped at the tea. “Yeah, but that was because I’d just thought up a good one to pull on Paoze.”

“I think those days are done.” Not so very long ago, Paoze had turned the tables on Lois and she was itching with revenge. “He’s not nearly so gullible as he was, and we know who to thank for that, I think.”

“Yeah,” she said into the mug. “Talk about being hoisted by my own petard. What’s a petard, anyway? And why would anyone be hoisted up on one?”

“They were basically bombs. They were used in the sixteenth century to blow gaps in castle walls. To be hoisted by one was to be caught in the explosion and be blown backward.”

Lois looked at me. “You know the oddest things. And now that I know the answer, I think I was happier before.”

“Knowledge is power.”

She put her face back into the mug. “Knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

Since she knew as well as I did what the actual phrase was, I moved on to Benjamin Franklin. “An investment in knowledge pays the best interest.”

“To know is to know that you know nothing.”

“Knowledge is true opinion.”

She frowned. “Okay, I have no idea what that means.”

“Me, either.” I grinned. “And it’s about the only thing I remember from my college philosophy class.”

“Waste of three credit hours, if you ask me.”

While I didn’t exactly disagree with her, I felt obligated to defend my choice. Luckily, before I got any further than opening my mouth, the phone rang and I reached to pick it up. “Good morning, Children’s Bookshelf. How may I help you?”

“Did you hear?” Marina demanded.

“Hear what?”

“It’s all over the scanner.”

“This is a children’s bookstore,” I said. “Having a police scanner going all the time isn’t part of the atmosphere I want to create.”

“Ha. Kids would love it.”

They would. So would Lois; I could see a gleam in her eye at the mention of the nonpossibility. “What happened?”

“Cookie Van Doorne’s house was broken into.”

“It . . . what?” My knees suddenly felt as if they might start bending the wrong way.

“Beth? Beth!” Lois grabbed my shoulders and shoved me into a chair. “What’s the matter? Is that Marina?” She yanked the phone out of my hand. “Marina? Lois. What did you tell Beth? Her face is looking as white as her legs do in early summer.”

I heard Marina’s voice sounding squeaky and concerned.

Lois peered at me. “She’s still upright, but . . . hey!”

I took the phone back. “Do you know what happened?”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Just had a little . . . head rush, that’s all.” I wanted to stand up to prove it, but opted for the better-safe-than-sorry theory. “Do you have any details? What happened?”

“Nah.” Her disgust came through the phone lines with no problem. “Can you get any info out of Gus?”

“He wasn’t in church yesterday. Winnie said if his temperature isn’t down today, she’s taking him to the doctor.”

“Wow, that’s not like Gus.”

No, it wasn’t. “I’m sure he’ll be better soon.”

“I heard Todd Wietzel was down for more than two weeks.”

That wasn’t what I wanted to hear, so I moved back to the original subject. “What happened at Cookie’s house?” Lois made a chirp of surprise and I waved her to silence. “Was there damage?”

“Not sure. All I know is the police were called to her address. The house has been empty for a while. Maybe it was someone looking for easy pickings. Either that or”—Marina lowered her voice an octave—“or the killer was looking to take away evidence that implicates her.”

“Cookie died three weeks ago,” I said. “Why would anyone break in now?”

“Maybe somebody did something that made her think there was something in the house.”

“That’s what . . .” I stopped.

“What?”

I sighed. If I didn’t tell her now, she’d hound me until I did. “I went over there after the PTA meeting the other night. Cookie’s neighbor and I stood outside talking for quite a while.”

“Outside?” Marina half shrieked.

“In the snow?” Lois asked loudly.

“Why on earth didn’t you go straight home?” Marina asked.

“For a recovering exhaustee, you’re doing some pretty stupid things,” Lois said severely.

I waited out their scolding. “You don’t think me being there had anything to do with the break-in, do you?”

Marina made a gagging noise. “Quit taking yourself so seriously. You were there Wednesday night. This happened last night. If there’s a connection, I don’t see it.”

I wasn’t sure I did, either, but still . . . “Say, where were you all weekend? I tried to call you a couple of times, and your DH said you were out.” I kept on asking silent questions. Why did you leave the PTA meeting so fast? Why aren’t you sending me rude e-mails half a dozen times a day like you normally do?

“What? Uh-oh, sorry. There’s a kid crying. Gotta go. Come talk to me after Mother’s Day, okay?”

•   •   •

I let Lois pepper me with questions about Cookie’s house for a few minutes. The ten thousandth time I answered “I have no idea,” Lois muttered something about today’s youth and stomped off to the graphic novels to read manga until she felt better.

Flossie came in just before lunch and the three of us spent the afternoon in separate parts of the store, the better to avoid conversation, my dear. Not that I was trying to avoid talking to Flossie. I would have enjoyed a nice, clearheaded chat with the woman who’d become one of my favorite people in the world, but doing so without incurring the wrath of Lois was currently a bit of a problem.

I was considering firing everyone, including myself, selling the store, and getting a less stressful job, perhaps as an air traffic controller, when the front doorbells jingled and Isabel Olsen came in.

“Hi, ladies!”

Her smile was so wide that I felt myself smiling back in pure reflex. “Hey, Isabel. What’s up?”

“I’m looking for a present for Avery’s birthday.”

“How old is she now?” I asked. Six, maybe. Not seven. Well, maybe she could be seven, but it didn’t seem possible.

“Eight, can you believe it?”

The definition of “impossible” shifted yet again. “Not really. What’s she reading these days?
Magic Tree House
?”

Isabel nodded. “And I’ve started reading the Narnia books to her and Neal.”

“Has she tried the Amelia Bedelia books?”

Isabel’s face lit up. “Oh, wow, I
loved
those books when I was a kid! They’d be perfect for her. She could read them by herself, even. Do you have the very first one? I’ll want that one for sure and—” Her happy face dissolved into mush. She bent over and clutched at her stomach, moaning.

From behind, I took hold of her shoulders to steady her. “Isabel, are you sick? Let me get you to a chair and—”

“Bathroom,” she croaked. “I need to”—she swallowed audibly—“to . . .”

There was no need for an explanation. I steered her toward the back of the store and opened the bathroom door. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

“No,” she croaked. “Thanks, but I’m . . .” In an awkward rush, she assumed the kneeling position and leaned over.

Quickly, I shut the door behind her. Lois and Flossie were both hovering.

“What’s going on?” Lois asked. “Is she okay?”

Through the thin door came the unmistakable sound of retching. One of these days I really needed to get a solid door. It wouldn’t stop all the noises, but it would help mask the worst ones.

“Flu?” Flossie asked.

I shrugged. “She seemed fine when she came in.”

“That flu going around can take you quick,” Lois said. “I remember reading about the epidemic in 1919. Or was it 1918? Anyway, perfectly healthy people got sick one day and were dead the next.”

The three of us looked at the door. “No one around here has died from flu,” I said.

“Not that we know about.” Lois took a small backward step. “Have you actually seen Gus in the last week? Maybe he’s dying, or even dead, and Winnie can’t bring herself to tell anyone.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Flossie said, but her voice held the tiniest of quavers.

“Of course it is,” I said loudly. Or at least I meant to say it loudly. It came out as more of a croak. I cleared my throat and went at things from a different direction. “If this flu was that bad, we’d have heard public health warnings.”

More retching noises reached us and Lois inched back a little more. “Did you listen to any news this morning?” she asked. “Watch any television?”

I hadn’t. And judging from the expression on Flossie’s face, she hadn’t, either.

The toilet flushed, the sink ran, and poor, sickly Isabel flung open the bathroom door and bounded out with the energy of a toddler. “Hey, ladies. Is this the line for the ladies?” She giggled.

I squinted at her. So did Flossie. So did Lois, and it was Lois who first pointed her finger and said the words. “You’re not sick. You’re pregnant!”

Isabel’s blush was a giveaway. “What makes you think that? Maybe I have a little flu. Or some twenty-four-hour bug.”

“No one,” Lois said, “who is sick enough to ride the porcelain bus could possibly look as perky as you do right this minute.”

Isabel wiped the smile off her face. Or tried to. As soon as it was gone, it started inching back. Up her chin, through her mouth, onto her nose, and into her eyes. “I’m not perky,” she said.

I put my hands on my hips. Lois followed suit, and an amused Flossie made three. “You are so perky,” I said, “that you could be coffee.”

Flossie caught on and joined in. “You’re so perky that you’re putting daffodils to shame.”

“You’re so perky,” Lois said, “that . . . that you should be a jumping bean.”

We looked at her. She shrugged.

But Isabel didn’t care about the horrible analogy. “Don’t tell anyone, will you? Any of you?”

I glanced at my staff, then gave her midriff a questioning look. “Even if we keep quiet, people are going to know eventually.”

She giggled. “You’re funny. Of course we’ll tell people. We’ll have to, pretty soon. It’s just that we haven’t told Kirk’s parents yet. We’re going to make kind of a production out of it, take them to the country club for dinner this weekend. We’ll order a bottle of wine and when Kirk’s dad starts to pour mine, I’m going to put my hand over my glass and say, thanks, but I can’t.”

It was a cute idea, and I said so. “I didn’t know you and Kirk were members of the country club.”

“Kirk got us the membership for Christmas,” Isabel said. “It’s been so much fun going out there. Did you know they have this humungous brunch buffet on Sunday mornings? They make omelets to order and slice off prime rib while you wait and there’s this huge table of nothing but dessert.”

She sailed off into a description of the chocolate-covered macaroons, but my brain wasn’t
ooh
ing and
aah
ing. I’d eaten at that buffet many a time with Evan and gave it a lot of blame for the weight I’d gained while dating him.

While Isabel was talking about the different varieties of cheesecake, I counted backward in time. When she paused to take a breath, I asked, “How long have you been getting morning sickness?”

“Afternoon and evening sickness, you mean?” She made a face. “About three weeks. We’ve been trying to get pregnant for a few months, but I wasn’t sure until that PTA thing, the PTA in Review.”

A clue, Watson, a clue!

Isabel didn’t notice that my ears had perked. “That was the first night it was really bad,” she said. “I was in the bathroom most of the night, doing, you know, my thing. But I told people I was in the back of the kitchen because I didn’t want anyone guessing I was pregnant. Not until we knew for sure.”