Foul Play at the PTA bk-2

  Foul Play at the PTA

  ( Beth Kennedy - 2 )

  Laura Alden

  When PTA member Sam Helmstetter is found strangled to death following a heated meeting, and all evidence points to her employee Yvonne, Beth Kennedy, believing in Yvonne's innocence, places her reputation--and life--on the line to catch the real killer. Original. 20,000 first printing.

  CHECK, PLEASE!

  Yvonne broke her M&M’s cookie into four pieces, picked up one, and covered the other bits with her napkin. She finished the first piece and reached for the second. Though she’d said she needed to talk to me, she didn’t seem eager to begin the conversation.

  Which could only mean there was something she didn’t want to tell me. I considered possibilities. Due to seasonal affective disorder, she never smiled when it was cloudy. Or, thanks to family issues, she’d need to bring—I scanned her face, trying to estimate her age—her daughter to work three times a week. Or, due to a bizarre medical problem, her doctor had said she shouldn’t operate a computer keyboard. Or—

  “I was in jail.”

  Or she’d been in jail. If I’d had a month, I might have come up with that possibility, but probably not.

  “Actually, it was prison.” She gave me a darting glance. “There’s a difference.”

  Prison. Yvonne? She didn’t look as if she would swat a mosquito that was poking its pointed nose into her skin. What could she possibly have done to end up in prison?

  She pulled out the third piece of cookie. “I was convicted of murder.”

  Also by Laura Alden

  Murder at the PTA

  For Jon, forever and ever.

  First off, I want to thank everyone who read my first book, Murder at the PTA. You took a chance on a debut author—always a risky business—and I deeply appreciate your plunge into the world of Rynwood, Wisconsin.

  A bottom-of-the-heart thank-you goes to my parents-in-law, Bob and Lois Koch, who have done such a fantastic job of promoting my books that they should hang out a sign and go into the business.

  Thanks to Julie Sitzema for buying more copies of Murder at the PTA than any rational human being should ever consider doing. And to Bob Fitzgerald, because he does, in fact, know about Girl Stuff.

  To all my fellow CozyPromo members and Killer Character blog writers. You have taught me so much in the last year that my head is about to explode. Since there is no way whatsoever that I’ll be able to teach any of you anything, I instead vow to pass my new knowledge on to other writers.

  To Sofie Kelly (aka Darlene Ryan) and Susan Evans, who are always there to show me what really counts. To Avery Aames, Janet Bolin, Krista Davis, Kaye George, Marilyn Levinson and Meg London (aka Peg Cochran). May we continue to hatch plots for years to come.

  To the Sisters in Crime organization, and most especially to the Guppies chapter, who taught me the meaning of the word “perseverance.” Lorna Barrett, Leslie Budewitz, Sandra Parshall, Elizabeth Zelvin, Hank Phillippi Ryan; the list of Guppy friends goes on and on. Gups rock!

  To the Jessicas: my fabulous agent, Jessica Faust, and the best editor in the world, Jessica Wade. To all the librarians in the world, to all the teachers in the world, all the booksellers, and to PTAs and PTOs everywhere. Without you, the world would be a miserable place.

  And, of course, the biggest thanks goes to my husband, Jon, for support above and beyond the call of marriage vows. Thanks, sweetie. I couldn’t have done it without you, and I wouldn’t want to.

  Chapter 1

  “You’ve got to get rid of her.”

  I ignored my best friend. Once again, she was trying to arrange my life for me, and I was much more interested in planning the Thanksgiving menu. Maybe I could swap the butter-laden, sugar-saturated squash for a simple broiled version. But the sugared version was the only kind of squash that Jenna, my eleven-year-old daughter, would eat.

  “Beth, are you listening to me?” Marina scrubbed at her temples, frizzing her light red hair. “When was the last time Marcia was worth what you’re paying her? It’s time for her to go.”

  “Um.” What I really wanted to put on the menu was a platter of cute little Cornish hens instead of a monstrous hormone-laden turkey, but that wouldn’t fly with my family. “It won’t fly,” I murmured, and chuckled at my own stupid joke.

  “This isn’t funny.” Marina waggled plump fingers at me. “Hey, pay attention. What are you doing over there, anyway? Tell me you’re not making a list.”

  “Okay, I’m not making a list.” What about the rutabaga casserole? It was an Emmerling family tradition to have rutabagas at Thanksgiving. Not that anyone ever ate them, but if I didn’t have a panful, I’d be taken to task by my mother, my two sisters, brother, and assorted spouses. Maybe I could blame my lapse on being a Kennedy for the last twenty-one years. I squinted into the future and saw my sister Kathy cross her arms as she stared me down. “You’ve been divorced for two years,” she’d say. “That’s plenty of time for the Kennedy influence to wear off.”

  “You are too making a list.” Marina looked over my shoulder. “Rutabagas? Who eats those?”

  “No one,” I said darkly.

  She shot me a quick glance but didn’t say a word. There are some places where even Marina dared not tread.

  “Okeydokey.” She pushed herself to her feet. “I’m going to get myself another cup of your tea. How’d you get me hooked on Earl Grey, anyway?”

  The two of us were where we often were on Saturday mornings: in my kitchen, where Marina was collecting my children. This habit had developed in September when my problem employee, Marcia, began refusing to work on weekends. I’d worked out a schedule with the other employees of the Children’s Bookshelf, only it somehow ended up that I worked two out of four Saturdays. It felt as if Marina, who was also my day-care provider, saw more of Jenna and Oliver than I did. What I was going to do in a few weeks when the Christmas rush started, I had no clue.

  “You’ve got to get rid of her,” Marina repeated. The teakettle shrilled its signal and she yanked it off the burner. “Want to know what I’m getting you for Christmas?”

  “No.”

  “A new teakettle. Your Evan Garrett showed me this nifty one at the hardware and it’s just the ticket. It has birds painted all over, and instead of a whistle that brings back nasty memories of high school gym class, it chirps like a little bird.”

  “I don’t want a bird teakettle.” I didn’t have to ask to know that gym hadn’t been Marina’s favorite class. Her idea of exercise was using a manual can opener instead of an electric one.

  “Don’t you dare tell me you like this thing.” She flicked her hot pink fingernail at the stainless steel kettle.

  “Yes, I do.”

  She opened her mouth to argue me out of my opinion, so I jumped in ahead of her. “No bird teakettles,” I said. “If you give me one I’ll take it back.”

  “You are no fun.”

  “Because I don’t want birds chirping in my kitchen?”

  “No, because you won’t try anything new.”

  Clearly, she was delusional. Maybe that fish oil supplement she’d started taking was giving her bizarre side effects. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re stuck in the mud. Content with the status quo. A woman destined for ruts.”

  I shoved the menu into my voluminous purse. If it didn’t take long to put the final touches on my upcoming PTA presentation, maybe I’d have time to work on the menu during lunch. “Need I remind you that in the last two years I’ve divorced a husband of two decades, brought my bookstore solidly into the land of profits, become secretary of the Tarver Elementary PTA, and helped put a killer behind bars?”

  “All thanks to me.”
She nodded, congratulating herself so thoroughly that her hair scrunchie fell out. “Some people would be weeping with gratitude.”

  If I was going to be completely honest with myself—and I always tried to be, even if I hardly ever succeeded—there was a lot of truth in what she said.

  It had been Marina’s shove that pushed me to run for PTA secretary, and now I was glad to be making a difference in Tarver Elementary School. Providing bookstore customers with hot cider had been Marina’s very successful brainstorm, and she had unquestionably been influential regarding my role of putting away the person who’d murdered Tarver’s former principal.

  “Some people might call you an interfering busybody.” I opened the closet door and took out my coat. “Jenna? Oliver? I’m leaving!”

  “But with a heart of gold.” She cast her eyes heavenward and clasped her hands together. “And the best intentions in the world.”

  “You know what they say about intentions. The road to you-know-where and all that.”

  “Pish.” Marina waved off the aphorism. “They also say that a wide brown stripe on woolly bear caterpillars means an easy winter.” She frowned and put an index finger to her lips. “Or is it a narrow stripe?”

  “You and the kids can make finding out today’s mission.” I buttoned my navy peacoat.

  “Plans for the young brood are already afoot.” She waggled a large and imaginary pipe.

  “Do I want to know?” Much as I disliked leaving the kids on Saturdays, they were enjoying their outings with Marina and her youngest son. Jenna was eleven, Oliver eight, Zach was ten, and the trio were slowly forming a friendship that, with some nurturing and a lot of luck, would last a lifetime.

  Marina put her nose in the air. “Tell you now and spoil the stories upon your return from the trenches? I think not.”

  “Bye, Mom!” Jenna yelled from the family room. Sadly, her freely given hugs were diminishing in quantity.

  “Bye, Mrs. Kennedy!” Zach called.

  “Yeah, bye, Mom!”

  And Oliver was following suit.

  I stifled a sigh. Why did growing up require growing away? I put the thought into a distant corner of my mind and picked up my purse. “There is one new thing I’ve done absolutely positively all by myself.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “I found Evan.”

  Marina laughed and flapped her hands at me. “Oh, get to work.”

  I left, and an Evan-induced smile stayed on my face all the way downtown.

  Though Wisconsin is wonderful in many ways, the state isn’t at its best in late fall. The bright leaves are gone, the days are dark and dreary, and windy nights hint broadly of the coming winter. Matter of fact, the only good thing about this time of year is Thanksgiving.

  After all, what could be better than a day of cooking when it was growly and wet outside? What could be better than gathering your loved ones round and giving thanks for the year’s blessings? What could be better than a holiday for which you didn’t have to exchange presents, cards, or cookies, and at the end of which you waved good-bye to your family and bolted the door behind them?

  My pencil gouged a hole in the menu. Bad Beth! I scolded myself. You don’t really mean that.

  Around me, the bookstore was quiet. It was almost closing time and I’d finally had time to think about the coming holiday. Last year Mom had announced that she’d cooked her last Thanksgiving dinner, and it was time for us kids to step up to the plate.

  Through a process of elimination, my place had been chosen for the event. I lived in a pseudo-Victorian house in Rynwood, a small town just east of Madison. Kathy and her husband lived in a Tennessee condo. Darlene lived in Michigan, not too far from Mom, but she and her husband, Roger, had moved recently, and they were still unpacking. Their children were grown and scattered from California to Virginia. If any of them showed up to Aunt Beth’s for dinner it would be a minor miracle.

  Also in the Not-Enough-Room-to-Host-Thanksgiving category was my brother Tim. When they’d divorced a few years back, he and his ex-wife had renovated their house southwest of Chicago into a duplex. It made the custody arrangements with their teenage son a little odd, but it seemed to work for them.

  Not that I’d know. Long ago my physicist brother had been nominated the World’s Worst Correspondent. When he’d been married, his wife hadn’t cared much about cultivating Emmerling family relationships other than sending the obligatory Christmas card, and since their divorce, we didn’t even get those. I came across my nephew on Facebook every once in a while, but I suspected all those properly spelled posts were on the sanitized Max page he showed to his parents and not the real Max page he shared with his friends.

  How old was Max these days? I tapped my teeth with the pencil. Thirteen? Fourteen? I tried doing the math in my head and came up with twenty-six, which had to be wrong. I scribbled dates next to “Green bean casserole,” subtracted, and came up with fifteen. Good heavens, the kid was almost old enough to have a driver’s license. How on earth had that happened? Wasn’t it last year that—

  “It’s ten after.”

  Shrieking, I jumped straight up out of my chair, tossing the menu and pencil high. I tried to speak but my fluttering breaths wouldn’t let me get out more than a word at a time. “I—didn’t—hear—”

  Evan retrieved the paper and writing implement and laid them on the counter in front of me. “Didn’t hear the bells jingle as I came in? Didn’t hear me call your name? Twice?” He smiled at me.

  Smiled down at me, actually. If I stood on tiptoe I could look him directly in the chin. While I wasn’t short, I wasn’t tall, either, and learning how to kiss a man with such a height differential had given me a stiff neck more than once.

  We were the same age—a smidge over forty—and had attended the same kindergarten class. I’d been the Goody Two-shoes and he’d been the kid to point out that the rules for adults should be the same as the rules for children. But that long-ago classroom had been in Indiana. Was it fate that had allowed us to meet up again when we were both single? It was a question I pondered when I should have been sleeping.

  Now his smile, instead of slowing my rapid pulse, was making it pound faster. Though our first official date had been months ago, I still wasn’t used to the physical closeness of a male. Especially one this good-looking. Last year I’d tried to quell my romantic feelings for Evan by remembering my oft-proven theory that Beautiful People were jerks. I leaned over the counter for a quick kiss and was glad that Evan had proven to be the exception to the rule.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Last time I looked at the clock it was a quarter to.”

  He’d returned the sheet of paper without reading it, and I wondered how many people could have done that. Not me. Certainly not Marina. Though maybe the action of nonlooking was a leftover from his former profession.

  Not that I knew much about the habits of lawyers. To me, the law was a big scary thing, and I tried to stay as far away from it as possible. I pushed the menu back over to him. “Thanksgiving. I know you can’t be there, but see what you’re going to miss?”

  “Hmm.” He scanned the paper. What had once been a simple, straightforward listing of food items was now decorated with strikethroughs, circles, stars, and arrows. “Rutabagas?”

  I’d crossed off the rutabagas at least twice and had, twice, returned them to the dinner plan. “It’s a family thing.”

  “Ah.” He gave me a glance, then went back to the list. “Oyster dressing? Same side of the family?”

  I thought a moment. Family lore said Uncle Rolly, my mom’s bachelor brother, had started bringing the rutabaga casserole. The oyster dressing had come from Grandma Chittenden, an East Coast transplant. “No. And unlike the rutabagas, most of us eat the oyster dressing.”

  He frowned. “If no one eats the rutabagas, why—”

  We were saved by the ringing of the telephone. I picked up the receiver. “Good evening, the Children’s Bookshelf. How may I help you?”
>
  “Beth?”

  “Hi, Marcia.” I made a dead-bolt-turning motion to Evan and mouthed the word “Please.”

  “Oh, good, I caught you before you left.” Her words ran together. This was unusual for Marcia, who normally wouldn’t, couldn’t be rushed.

  “What can I do for you?” Maybe she’d forgotten to tell me something. This wasn’t necessarily a phone call that meant trouble. Why did I assume the worst?

  “It’s about Wednesday night,” she said.

  Or maybe I assumed the worst because that was what so often happened. “What about it?” Wednesday night was the sole evening that all the downtown retailers were open, a tradition handed down in the mists of time. Marcia had worked Wednesday nights for years.

  It worked out well because Wednesday was PTA night. I dedicated that evening to secretarial duties, even if we didn’t hold a meeting. If there weren’t minutes to work on, there were letters to write or fund-raisers to plan or parental e-mail to answer, and I was almost keeping up with it. This Wednesday there was a meeting, and since I’d asked to get something on the agenda, attendance was an absolute must.

  “I can’t work Wednesday night,” Marcia said. “It’s not going to be a problem, is it?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but plunged on. “You’ll figure out a new schedule. It shouldn’t be too hard, one extra night. See, my grandson is starting swim lessons and I’d never forgive myself if I miss seeing him learn. You used to swim yourself, didn’t you? I knew you’d understand.”

  “Are you talking about missing just this Wednesday?”

  Marcia gave a peal of laughter. “It takes longer than one time to learn how to swim. No, these lessons run until March. Or is it April? Do you want me to check right now?”

  No, I didn’t. What I wanted was an employee who actually wanted to work. I said good-bye and hung up the phone. Marina was right: Something had to be done about Marcia. Too bad I hadn’t a clue what it was.