Murder at the PTA (2010)

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’ve been divorced only a year. The kids aren’t ready.”

“Ready for what?” Lois’s smile would have been appropriate on a cat who’d just sneaked her tongue into a bowl of milky cereal. “Jenna could use some help with soccer. And it wouldn’t hurt Oliver to have a strong male presence in the house.”

“Don’t be silly.” This time I said it so sharply that a blue-haired customer looked up from the rack of stickers. “My children need a stable home environment.”

“And what could be better than a rich stepfather who has loved their mother since sandbox days?” Lois’s smirk disappeared behind a cardboard display of Stephenie Meyer books, and a flush of embarrassment engulfed me from collarbone to hairline.

“Hot, are you?” the blue-haired lady inquired kindly.

“Um, yes.” I fanned my face with the stack of invoices I held. “How are you today, Mrs. Tolliver?”

“I’d be better if I wasn’t afraid of being murdered in my bed. I saw you coming out of the police station earlier. Has young Gus arrested anyone for killing that Agnes Mephisto?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, the DNA evidence will tell the tale.” She handed me a small pile of twenty-five-cent stickers. “These are for my granddaughter. I’d like them wrapped individually, please. Each in different paper.”

I pasted on a smile. “No problem.” As I cut small squares of wrapping paper off the rolls under the counter, Mrs. Tolliver went on at length about the shortcomings of our local law-enforcement officers. I nodded at the appropriate places, but my mind was far away. Would DNA evidence really help find the killer? If there were no suspects, could a stray hair mean much? Okay, if the stray hair was identified in some police database as belonging to a serial killer, it meant a lot, but how likely was that?

Mrs. Tolliver moved on to new topics, but I continued to think about tracking down a killer.

“I hate spaghetti,” Oliver announced. As I’d just put a plate of steaming hot pasta in front of him, his statement wasn’t welcome news.

“You love spaghetti,” Jenna said. “Last week you said you could eat spaghetti for supper every night the rest of your life.”

I sat down. “Jenna, your turn for grace.”

She bounced a little. “Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub. Go, God!”

Oliver giggled and I shot them both a mom look. “Jenna, would you like to try again?”

A dramatic sigh.

I held out my hands, left hand to my daughter, right hand to my son. The soft touch of their palms at this quiet second of the day filled me to overflowing with love.

“Bless us, O Lord,” Jenna said, “for these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

My silent prayer was similar, but not identical. Bless them, O Lord, for they are the bounty you have bestowed upon me and for which I will always be grateful. Amen. I gave their hands a gentle squeeze before releasing them, before letting go of the moment of grace.

“I hate spaghetti.” Oliver crossed his arms harder and higher.

Ah, yes.

“You said that already.” Jenna tucked a paper napkin into her sweatshirt’s collar. “How can you love something one week and hate it the next?”

“I told you. That was before.” He pouted. Clearly, we weren’t listening.

“Before what?” I passed Jenna the green cardboard canister. “Go easy on the Parmesan, okay? It’s supposed to enhance flavors, not eliminate them. Before what, Oliver?”

“Before Robert told me about spaghetti.”

A born storyteller, Oliver was not. Or maybe he was. He’d be a master at end-of-chapter cliff-hangers. Jenna had paused in her fork-twirling and was looking at her plate with cautious interest. I put my fork down. “What did Robert say?”

“That spaghetti is . . .” He slid down in his chair.

I leaned forward. “Is what?”

“Is . . .” His chin trembled.

I hadn’t been listening to him, not really. The poor kid was upset, and I should have realized it earlier. I scooted my chair sideways and put my arm around him. “Tell me, Ollster. What did Robert tell you?”

“That spaghetti is dried worms! I’ve been eating worms my whole life!” Tears sprang from his eyes. “Robert said grown-ups won’t tell you what spaghetti really is because it’s a pirate thing. He says if you eat too many spaghetti worms, they’ll come alive in your stomach and grow out your ears.”

Oh, eww. My own stomach felt a lurch. Robert must have older siblings, to come up with a story like that.

“That’s gross. Good thing I like worms.” Jenna shoved a monstrous bite of spaghetti into her mouth and chewed hugely.

“Jenna,” I said.

“What?” All innocence.

“I don’t like worms!” Tears were double-streaming down Oliver’s face. “I don’t want to eat worms!”

Without saying a thing, I gathered him up and onto my lap. I held him tight and touched my cheek to his silky-smooth forehead.

“Who am I?” I asked.

Oliver snuffled into my chest.

“C’mon, Ollster, who am I?”

“Elizabeth Anne Kennedy,” came the muffled words.

“Who am I?”

“Grandma Emmerling’s daughter.”

The time-honored litany continued. “Who am I?”

“Aunt Darlene and Aunt Kathy and Uncle Tim’s sister.”

“Who am I?”

“Um . . .” Oliver wiped his face with the shoulder that wasn’t burrowed into my armpit. “You’re somebody’s cousin.”

“Bill,” Jenna said.

“And Bill.” Oliver looked up at me, his small face stained with wetness. “You have two cousin Bills. A hockey Bill and a doctor Bill.”

“That’s right.” I hugged him. “And who else am I?”

“Mommy.” He dove against my chest, thumping me hard enough to drive air out of my lungs. “You’re my mommy!”

And always would be.“That’s right.And would Mommy give you worms for dinner?”

“Nooo.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

“Don’t move.” I plopped him into my seat and went into the kitchen. “No moving!” Both kids giggled. I opened the cabinet door under the sink and extracted a long, skinny box from the trash. I brought it back to the table and reinstalled Oliver on my lap. “See this? It says ‘Ingredients.’ This is a list of everything inside this box of spaghetti. Semolina, durum flour, niacin, iron, also known as ferrous sulfate, thiamine mononitrate, and riboflavin.” I left off the folic acid in case the acid part scared him. “Not a single worm.”

His index finger ran over the unfamiliar words. “No pirate thing?”

“You mean conspiracy?” He nodded. “No pirate thing,” I said. “No conspiracy here. If the spaghetti company doesn’t write down exactly what’s inside the box, they’ll get in big trouble with all the mommies in the country.”

“That’s a lot of mommies,” Oliver said.

“A force to be reckoned with,” I agreed. “Now, are you hungry? Do you want me to put your plate in the microwave?”