Free Murder at the PTA by Laura Alden Page B

but I hadn’t known that until fifteen minutes ago.
    “Hmm.” Lois shelved the graphic novels. Bendis, Dini, Eisner, Yang. “Seems like fate might be taking a hand in someone’s romantic life.”
    “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