Read Poison at the PTA for Free Online Page A

decade ended,” Auntie May said. “Not only had Rynwood doubled in size, but Tarver had nearly tripled.”
    Assuming she was done, I started to stand so I could introduce the next speaker.
    “Which reminds me of a story.” Auntie May cackled, a high, scratchy noise that was nearly inaudible to the human ear. “Did I ever tell any of you about the time Walter Trommler was seeing three girls at the same time? It turns out that—”
    I snatched the microphone from her hand. “Thanks for your memories, Auntie May.” Smiling grimly, I gave her wheelchair a gentle push with my free hand. I had no great love for my former employee Marcia Trommler, but she didn’t deserve to have stories about her father running all over town. Light applause followed a glowering Auntie May back to her place at the end of the row.
    “We’ll take a short break,” I said, “and ten minutes from now, we’ll have the great pleasure of hearing Maude Hoffman talk to us about the PTA’s third decade.” I clicked off the microphone and immediately entered a staring contest with Auntie May. My chin was up and hers was down, which made the angle difficult, but we were managing nicely.
    Mary Margaret saved us from staying frozen like that forever. “Nice job, Auntie May,” she said, leaning on the edge of the stage. “I’d love to hear that story about Walter Trommler. What say I stop by your place tomorrow and hear all about it?”
    Auntie May sent me a dagger-laden look. “At least
some
people appreciate my stories.”
    Pick your battles,
I told myself, and escaped.
    •   •   •
     
    The rest of the speakers didn’t present any problems. We laughed at Maude’s anecdotes about fallen angel food cakes and were moved to tears at her story of the entire student body singing “My Country ’Tis of Thee” to a packed gymnasium—the very room we were in—the Monday after JFK’s assassination.
    A woman I didn’t know spoke about the PTA during the end of the civil rights movement and the Vietnam War. I tried to listen while Cookie Van Doorne, a longtime teller at the local bank, talked about the late seventies and the early eighties, but I spent more time wondering why Cookie and I had never progressed beyond the acquaintance stage. Though I’d known her via the bank for almost twenty years, I knew nothing about her, besides the bare bones of widowed with two children moved out of state. Well, that and the fact that she was rarely more than five feet from a cup of coffee, morning, noon or night.
    While I pondered the chemistry that makes up a friendship, other women described the PTA through to the twenty-first century. The always-elegant Erica Hale spoke about the most recent decade, and then it was my turn again.
    I named each of the speakers, thanking them one by one. Auntie May grinned and waved, Maude Hoffman blushed prettily, Erica looked as regal as ever . . . but Cookie looked pale and unsteady.
    I’d planned on talking about the projects the next eighty years might bring, but I skipped that and finished with “And I can only hope that the next eighty years of the Tarver PTA will be as productive as the last. Thank you and good night.”
    The applause was enthusiastic. I nodded, smiling, then went to Cookie’s side. I crouched in front of her. “Are you all right?” I asked softly.
    “No.” She closed her eyes and swayed in her chair. “I really don’t think I am. Beth, could you take me home, please?”
    •   •   •
     
    When I said I was driving Cookie home, one of the PTA fathers said he’d drive Cookie’s car to her house and leave it in the driveway. Kirk Olsen offered to pick him up. “Got a hot new ride to show you,” he said, grinning. “Nothing like heated leather seats this time of year.”
    Cookie gave a wan thank-you and I helped her into my car.
    “I’m sure I’m just coming down with a little something,” she said. “I thought a few cups of decaf would help, but they didn’t