Excerpt of Plotting At The PTA by Laura Alden

I bumped up the long drive, parked, and went around to the trunk to get Amy's books. My feet didn't make any noise on the driveway, gravel once upon a time, but now grown over with grass and weeds. Amy cut everything back in October, but since she didn't drive, she didn't see the need for much in the way of weekly maintenance. Like, none.

Shutting the trunk with my elbow, I walked up the path that led to the house. Here, with trees growing close and birds singing overhead, it was hard to believe that Amy lived in the heart of Rynwood.

The back door looked as it always did—in need of paint and new weather stripping. I pulled open the wooden–framed screen door and knocked on the door's glass window. "Amy?" I called loudly. "It's Beth."

There was no answering call, but that was normal. It usually took three sets of knocking and calling to convince Amy to come to the door.

Knock, knock. "Amy?"

Knock, knock. "Hello? Amy?"

It wasn't until the fifth set, that I realized what any rational person would have figured out some time ago: She wasn't home. Which didn't make any sense, because Amy was always home.

Always.

My knuckles were getting sore from knocking. "Amy? Amy! "

She had to be here. Any second now she'd scurry to the door and apologize for making me wait. She'd . . . been in the attic. Sure, that was it. She'd been looking for—

"Looking for Amy?"

I whirled around.

A man stood in front of a long row of lilac bushes; their waving branches on this breezeless morning solid evidence of his passage. Which was a good thing, because in this fairy tale–ish setting, his small stature and thick white hair gave him a very elfin look.

"Yes," I said. "She's not sick, is she?"

He walked to the porch and trotted up the stairs. Somehow the fact that he carried a pair of pruning shears didn't bother me a bit. Elves just aren't threatening creatures.

"Thurman Schroeder is the name," he said. "Selling cars is the game. Or it was, until I retired. Now I clip shrubs and try to pretend I'm useful. My wife says she'll keep me around as long as I can take out the garbage, but I don't want to push my luck."

He grinned and I grinned back.

"You're not selling anything," he said. "Not dressed city enough. And you're not one of those church ladies; not old enough. You're . . . say, I know." He snapped his fingers. "The book lady. That's who you are. Amy liked you, you know."

"Today's book delivery day." I nodded at the box I'd set next to the door. "I can't believe she's not here."

The elf's cheerful smile turned upside down. "Oh, dear. You haven't heard."

"Heard what?"

His next words explained everything; why he felt free to stand on Amy's back porch, and worst of all, explained his use of past tense.

"She's dead."