Foul Play at the PTA

In the line ahead of us, men were laughing and tossing bills onto the table where Summer was taking money. Tickets were five dollars, but additional donations were accepted with thankful smiles.

“Top that, Eric!” a man said.

“I’ll see your hundred and raise you fifty.” A bill slapped down. “What do you say, Dan?” the tallish man asked. “Put your money where your mouth is, pal.”

Testosterone flourished in the most unusual places. Sometimes I truly felt sorry for men. At least women were only ruled by their hormones one week out of the month. “Boyfriend? Um . . . I suppose he is,” I said. “Evan Garrett. He owns the hardware.”

“Seems like a nice guy.”

Pete sounded a little funny, and I felt compelled to explain. “My ex-husband was supposed to be here tonight, but he was called out of town. Evan stepped in at the last minute.” I shifted from one foot to the other. Evan was my boyfriend, for lack of a better word. Why the delay in calling him that? And here was a better question: Why was I feeling so awkward about discussing him with Pete?

If I’d been a better person, I would have spent some time sorting out my feelings. Instead, I decided to enjoy the dance and shoved it all to the back of my head.

We stood there, inching forward in line, listening to the men ahead of us laugh at something Eric had said. Whoever Eric was. Through the bookstore and the PTA I knew most of the Tarver mothers, but I knew only a few of the fathers.

Summer reappeared. “Erica’s here. Is this a good time to talk about, you know, my idea?” Since the last PTA meeting, the two of us had had numerous phone conversations about her brainstorm for a January fund-raiser. I’d told Erica that Summer had a new moneymaking idea, and Erica said we’d talk about it at the dance.

I glanced at my watch. Somehow it was already seven o’clock. In front of us, the line dematerialized with that suddenness that sometimes happens in crowds. I laid down the admission fee—and a little extra—then headed into the gym. “See you later, Pete,” I tossed over my shoulder.

He waved back amiably, and I decided not to worry about him. Whatever I thought I’d heard in his voice must have been a trick of the acoustics, was all.

Moving away from the dancing and speakers turned a notch too loud, Summer and I and Erica found a small oasis of near quiet between a bale of straw and a screen made of barn wood.

“So I hear you two have another fund-raising idea.” Though Erica was smiling and was dressed semi-casually in dress pants, low heels, and a silk shirt, both Summer and I straightened as if we’d been called up in front of a judge. Erica swung her steady gaze to me. “Beth. How are the preparations for your story session progressing?”

“Um, things are coming along.” Slowly. So slowly, in fact, that you could say I’d done nothing at all. “I’m finalizing the . . . the outline.”

Erica lifted her chin a fraction of an inch. She didn’t believe me. “You’ll bring a solid plan to the December PTA meeting?”

I nodded. “You bet.” Who needed sleep, anyway?

The sharp eyes shifted to Summer. “I hear you’re ready to head up a new project.”

“Yup!” Summer chirped, sounding as if she’d never been nervous in her life. “Beth and I were doing some brainstorming about what we could do when it’s cold and snowy and windy.”

“Anything in January would be good,” Erica said, nodding. “It’s a slow time for Tarver PTA activities.”

“How about if”—Summer pointed at the far corner of the room—“there was a windmill over there?” Nodding toward the stage, she said, “How about a little hill right here? And a standing bear over there?”

Summer laughed at the blank expression on Erica’s face. “Miniature golf! What do you think of a mini-golf course?”

A loud squeal erupted behind us. A girl in pale purple was jumping up and down, tugging on her father’s hands. “Ooo, I love mini-golf! Daddy, can we come?”

Erica’s face took on a pensive cast. “Hmm.” She looked at the girl, who was now telegraphing the news to all her friends. She looked at the gym. Finally, she looked back at us. “Get it down on paper and bring it to the next meeting. If you want to do this in January, be ready for a lot of work.” It sounded like a warning, but if so, it was delivered with a smile.

A PTA mother hovered. “Erica, do you have a minute?” The two headed off, and Summer and I grinned at each other. If Erica was behind the project, odds were good that it would happen.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I jerked around. Claudia Wolff was standing behind us, hands on hips, face redder than was healthy.

Summer turned a whiter shade of pale and moved slightly behind me. In front of me men and girls had stopped dancing. “It’s too hard to talk over the music,” I said pleasantly, and headed for the nearest doorway.

Claudia didn’t budge. “You can talk to me right here and right now.”

“That’s fine.” I kept a smile on my face. “What can I do for you?”

“You can quit taking over the PTA, that’s what you can do.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t go all polite. I know what you’re up to, don’t think I don’t!”

At least one of us knew. Unfortunately, it wasn’t me.

She scrutinized me with slitted eyes. “It’s written all over that pretty face. You want to be the next PTA president, don’t you?”

I couldn’t think of anything I wanted less, other than being elected president of the United States. Now that would be a wretched job. Except for the Air Force One thing. That part would be okay.

“See, you’re not even denying it.” She nodded, having found what she was looking for somewhere between my forehead and my chin. “You want to run the PTA. Going to Erica with this mini-golf thing without taking it to the board is just the first step, isn’t it?”

There was no good answer to that question. My kneejerk inclination was to laugh out loud, but it was unlikely Claudia would meet that reaction with an answering laugh. “Um . . .”

“See, you don’t even know what to say, do you?” she said triumphantly. “I can always tell when I get things right when people don’t know what to say.”

Or else they went silent because otherwise they were afraid they’d bop her in the nose for being such an idiot.

“At the next meeting,” Claudia went on, “I was going to talk about my idea for a January fund-raiser. I was going through the proper channels. I was going to follow our bylaws. I was going to do what was right, not what was politically expedient.”

What politics had to do with the Tarver PTA, I wasn’t sure, but Claudia seemed sure of the connection.

“Mini-golf.” She made a tsking noise. “What a dumb idea. As if you and your little friend there will get anyone to play golf in January. Puh-lease!” She rolled her eyes. “If you make ten bucks after expenses I’ll be surprised. My idea was a winner, and now you’ve ruined it for everyone. Think of all the money the PTA could have made with . . .” She paused dramatically. “A casino night.”

My mouth dropped open.

Claudia half smiled. “See, you’re already jealous you didn’t think of it first. Everybody loves Texas Hold ’em. Everybody loves slot machines and roulette and the chance to win big.” She shook a pair of imaginary dice and threw them across a phantom craps table. “What could be better than a casino night? It’s a perfect idea!”

It was an absolutely awful idea. A PTA-sponsored casino? Not in this town. Erica would have a tizzy, Agnes Mephisto would spin in her grave, Mack Vogel, the superintendent of the Rynwood schools, would have a conniption fit, and the parental fallout would be horrendous.

“Just because you’re buddy-buddy with Erica,” Claudia said, “you think you’ll be a shoo-in when her term’s over. Don’t you believe it. Between trying to take things over and hiring that murderer for your store, you’ve made lots of enemies in the PTA. You’ll never be president. Never. You’ll be sorry for this, mark my words!” She shook her fist at me and marched off, her feet stomping in time to the music. “Turkey in the Straw.”

I stared at her receding back. Half of me wanted to rush up to her and explain my actions in great detail; the other half wanted to sit in the corner and cry. By age forty-one you’d think I’d be able to tolerate a high level of