Murder at the PTA by Laura Alden Page A

right way, I’d see the words spelled out in light and dark furry shadows. But maybe I’d heard wrong. Maybe Jenna had asked about getting something that only sounded like dog. A bog, perhaps. There was room for a little bog in the backyard, tucked between the garage and the sandbox.
    Or maybe she’d said hog. That was easy to turn down. We were zoned residential; no agricultural animals allowed. Sorry, kids. It’s out of my hands. Or maybe she’d said log. Or maybe—
    “Mom?”
    “Yes, sweetie.” I wiped away my imaginings. “Did you ask about—?”
    “A dog.” Oliver sat up straight. “A puppy. With big paws and a pink tongue.” He dangled his own tongue out of his mouth.
    This was not good. I looked from one child to the other. “Didn’t we have this same discussion last year? The reasons we couldn’t get a dog then are the same reasons we can’t get a dog now.”
    “But it’s different now.” Oliver wiped his mouth of dog drool.
    “How so?”
    “You said we weren’t big enough to take care of a dog, but now we’re a year bigger.”
    “That’s true, but—”
    “And we’ve been taking care of George all by ourselves for months,” Jenna said. “Litter box and food and water and brushing and everything. That shows we’re responsible enough to have a dog.”
    “It helps, but—”
    “And we’d be safer with a dog in the house,” Oliver said. “He’d bark if anyone broke in. Really loud, like this!” My son the dog let out a series of yips, more poodle than guard dog.
    “If Mrs. Mephisto had had a dog,” Jenna said, “maybe she wouldn’t be dead.”
    Her simple words hit me like a physical blow. “Oh, sweetheart.” I reached for her hand, but she pulled away. I stifled a sigh.
    Gus had told me there’d been no signs of forced entry at Agnes’s house, so it was likely she’d let the killer inside, and given that the time was late, it was likely she knew the killer. That knowledge wasn’t very helpful, though, as Agnes knew hundreds of people. But since only the killer knew exactly what had happened, in theory Jenna could be right.
    “So can we get a dog?” Oliver clasped his hands together and aimed them at me, elbows tight together. “Pretty, pretty please, please, please?”
    “Please, Mom?” Jenna did the hand-clasp thing, too. “We’ll walk him and brush him and clean up his poop with those little plastic bags.”
    “We’ll teach him to get the newspaper,” Oliver said.
    “We’ll give him baths.”
    “We’ll teach him to roll over.”
    I did not want a dog. I especially did not want a puppy. Puppies had a knack for chewing up the most expensive shoes you owned. Puppies left puddles in the middle of the night. Puppies with great big paws grew up into great big dogs. I looked from one child to the other.
    “Please?” they chorused.
    I did not want a dog, but they’d lost so much in the last year, and now their principal had been murdered. Having the care of a dog might be good for them. But still . . . I didn’t want a dog. No matter what the kids said, I’d end up on dog duty. I pinched the bridge of my nose. If Richard were here, he’d say no and that would be the end of it. But there was no Richard, and the decision was up to me.
    “I’ll think about it,” I said.
    Jenna and Oliver grinned at each other, and I got the feeling I’d lost the first battle.
     
    As soon as Richard had moved out of the house, the standard pattern of visitation rights had begun. The first Wednesday night I sat on the couch and made a gap in the curtains so I could see the kids the instant Richard dropped them off. The second Wednesday I made a pot of coffee and brought it with me to the couch.
    When I found myself putting together a tray of coffee and snacks for the third Wednesday, I knew I was in serious trouble. Ignoring the fact that it was dark, raining, and cold, I went for a long walk. When I got home, I was drenched and shivering, but an idea was banging around in