Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (13 page)

“Well, then,” Perky Desk Girl said, relieved to have me dealt with. “Have fun!”

I smiled and trailed Kathleen out of the office and into the library, wincing as I remembered the whipped-cream walk of shame I’d taken just the day before. She settled me at a table in the corner, next to a giant stack of thousand-page books. I had about a hundred things to do that were more pressing than library volunteer work, but I pasted on a fake smile anyway. Should I mention the headmaster’s death? Would it help me get any inside info? Probably not, I decided. If this was Kathleen’s first year here, how much could she possibly know?

“Now then,” Kathleen said, “all we do is open the book, find the pencil marks, and”—she attacked a stray check mark with the pink end of a pencil—“voila!” She smiled at me as if I were a mentally deficient three-year-old. “Does that make sense?”

“I think I’ve got the drift.”

“Great. There’s a whole jar of pencils on the desk if you need more erasers. And I’m here if you have any questions.”

I couldn’t imagine what questions I would have, other than asking if there was a straight razor in the desk I might use to slit my wrists, but I grimaced and set to the task at hand, trying to come up with some reason to get back to the office and snoop.

The next hour was, to say the least, uneventful. On the other hand, by the time I’d made it through the first two SAT books, I had been treated to the entire biography of Kathleen’s daughter, from her twenty-eight-hour birthing process and the details of her favorite breakfast (oatmeal with bananas and walnuts—no sugar, of course) to the trophies she’d garnered, apparently weekly, since she was old enough to crawl. The only thing Kathleen didn’t mention was Catriona’s father. I gathered from the absence of a wedding ring on Kathleen’s square hand that she’d either gone the artificial insemination route or run the poor guy off.

Or perhaps, I reflected as Kathleen droned on about the wear patterns on her daughter’s ballet shoes, he’d committed suicide.

“So,” she said, straightening the chairs around the tables for the fourth time that morning—the librarian, I couldn’t help noticing, had scurried into her office and was, I suspected, hiding behind a filing cabinet—“what colleges are you thinking about for your daughter?”

I paused, my eraser suspended over a particularly tricky problem involving triangles. “Colleges? Isn’t it a bit early to think about that?”

“It’s never too early to start planning,” Kathleen advised me, her graying, no-nonsense bob swinging emphatically with each word. “We’re looking at the Ivy Leagues, but that would mean we’d have to move to the Northeast, and I don’t care for winters. Still, I’ll do what I need to, to support her.” She pursed her lips. “She would consider the Plan II program at UT, of course, but UT doesn’t quite have the same cachet, does it?”

“Umm . . .” I erased an incorrect addition scribble—whoever had used this book last had clearly missed the “’Rithmetic” part of the three Rs—and realized Kathleen had just given me an opportunity.

“Will you sign her up for the Acorn Scholars program?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said. “It’s expensive, but so worth it.”

I flipped the page and erased another set of pencil marks. “What exactly does the program do?”

“Everything,” she said. “The headmaster just started it last year.”

“Did he?” I asked, wondering if perhaps the program had something to do with his untimely demise in a pink vinyl wading pool. I was fairly desperate.

“They offer specialized tutoring, help in advanced classes, SAT coaches . . . They even have a professional writer help them craft their essays.”

Help them craft their essays? I thought. Or “craft” essays for them?

“How much does it cost?” I asked, wondering if Prudence would insist we sign Elsie up. On the other hand, since she was generously covering Elsie’s tuition, I couldn’t complain. I sent yet another prayer up that my daughter had left her Fifi identity in the minivan and would at least meet one potential friend on the playground. When was recess, anyway? Maybe I’d take a peek—from a distance, of course. Just to check.

“I’m not sure how much the program costs,” Kathleen said, pulling me out of my worried thoughts, “but I know it’s in the thousands. Still, ten out of twelve got accepted to at least one Ivy this year, and their SAT scores went up hundreds of points.” A small, smug smile played across her ChapSticked lips. “Just think of how good Holy Oaks’ reputation will be by the time our daughters are applying!”

“I can only imagine.” I erased another check mark. “I wonder where the headmaster was this morning?” I said idly.

“I don’t know,” Kathleen said, “but I’m sure he was gone on important business.”

“I heard something happened to him,” I said as I erased a penciled-in
GEOMETRY SUCKS
from the top of a page.

“Oh, I’m sure they would have said something about that,” Kathleen said dismissively. A babble of voices in the hallway outside caught my attention; Perky Desk Girl was escorting what appeared to be a potential student and her family down the hall toward the elementary wing. I put down my pencil, grabbed my purse, and stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

Kathleen’s pale-blue eyes darted to me. “Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” I said.

She pointed toward the librarian’s office, where Ms. Jones was still in hiding. “There’s one next to the office.”

“I don’t want to disturb the librarian,” I said. “Besides, I need to stretch my legs a bit.” Without waiting for her to reply, I headed toward the door to the main hallway, trying not to look as if I were fleeing.

With Perky Desk Girl gone, the office was deserted. I glanced back toward the library, half expecting to see Kathleen watching me—thankfully, she hadn’t followed me to the door—before darting into the main office.

The place was empty. There were three doors behind the reception desk. Two were open, and belonged to the heads of the lower school and upper school, but unfortunately, the third—which, according to the nameplate beside the door, belonged to the headmaster—was closed. I hurried over and tried the knob, but it was locked. How was I going to get in there—preferably before Deborah Golden’s associate managed to cover up whatever needed to be covered up?

Frustrated, I looked around the rest of the office, wondering what else I could discover. There was a big filing cabinet on the back wall. I opened it; there were files on each family, including Becky’s. I grabbed hers and leafed through it. Zoe’s application was there, along with the admissions notes.
Financial aid requested
was scrawled in red on the top of the file, along with a big red
X
. I tucked it into my purse and scanned the rest of the files, recognizing the Goldens and the hair-care magnate. I added them to the file in my purse—I’d make copies and return them tomorrow, I rationalized—and then grabbed the Krumbachers’ file, to boot. I slid the drawer shut and looked through the others, but there was nothing but office supplies. My eyes moved to the wall of mailboxes. The cubby labeled
CAVENDISH
was almost full; could there be something in there that would point me in the right direction? With a quick glance at the main door, I grabbed the stack of mail and flipped through it.

Lots of brochures for building supplies and school products, which was no surprise. A missive from the alumni association of Holy Cross. Two letters from the admissions offices of universities in Boston and New Hampshire. A fat envelope that looked like a financial statement from a firm called Golden Investments. And two hand-addressed letters, both postmarked in Austin.

I held the stack in my hand and glanced over my shoulder. Taking these letters would be a federal offense—I knew that from my investigative training. It would be illegal to do anything but put the letters back.

On the other hand, how else was I going to figure out who had killed George Cavendish? As I hesitated, my phone burbled in my purse. I pulled it out to silence it, and my stomach turned over: it was the Austin Police Department. At that moment, I heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

“Did someone leave a phone in the office?” I recognized Perky Desk Girl’s voice.

“I don’t know, but there really shouldn’t be anyone in there,” said another female voice—the head of the lower school, I realized. I muted the call and jammed my phone into the diaper bag. Then, almost without thinking, I stuffed the mail in after it and hurried out of the office, almost slamming into Perky Desk Girl as I rounded the corner.

Her brow furrowed at the sight of me. “Can I help you?”

“I was just looking for the bathroom,” I said, holding the bulging diaper bag closed and hoping she didn’t have X-ray vision.

“Down the hall to the left,” she said. She and the head of the lower school stared at me suspiciously.

“Thanks,” I said, my heart pounding as I hurried down the antiseptic-scented hallway, past a photomontage of blond, smiling children surrounding a lone Asian girl. Once in the bathroom, I locked myself in the stall and pulled the letters out of my purse. I couldn’t believe I had just stolen a dead man’s mail.

Borrowed,
I told myself.
Not stolen.
I would return it, after all. And it might keep Becky—and me—out of jail. I pulled out one of the handwritten letters first, holding it up to the light. The creamy linen envelope was too thick to see through, unfortunately.

I ran a fingernail under the flap, but it was sealed tight. Could I steam it open and reseal it? I wondered, stifling a flush of guilt at the thought.

If I was going to do that, I needed to go home. And maybe schedule a karma-adjustment appointment for my mother so she wouldn’t be around to ask me why I was steaming mail open with a teakettle.

I tucked the mail back into my purse and exited the stall, heading back for the library. As I walked down the hall, a string of first graders filed by. It didn’t take long for me to identify Elsie’s dark head among the line of jumpered girls. Most of them were smiling, already whispering confidences to one another. My heart squeezed when I saw my daughter, though. Instead of chatting gaily with new friends, she stared at the floor, drifting behind her classmates.

I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but I couldn’t resist. “Elsie,” I murmured as my daughter passed.

She looked up, her big eyes wide and startled.

“Did you come to take me home?” she asked, her face lighting with hope.

“Not yet,” I said, and her shoulders sagged as the rest of the class skipped by. “Did you have lunch?” I asked brightly.

She shook her head.

“Where are you headed now?”

“Playground,” she mumbled.

I looked behind me; the rest of the children had already turned the corner. “You’d better catch up,” I said, then stooped and gave her a hug, folding her small, sweet body into my arms. I had an impulse to gather her up and run out of the building with her, but I stifled the urge. School was part of life; she’d learn to adjust.

Wouldn’t she?

“I’ll see you in a few hours, pumpkin,” I said, and watched as she slumped down the hall after her classmates, glancing back at me forlornly before turning the corner.

At least she hadn’t barked, I told myself, my heart feeling like somebody had trampled it with soccer cleats.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I
spent another twenty minutes erasing SAT books and worrying about Elsie before excusing myself to go pick up my son. Becky’s van was already in the Green Meadows parking lot when I pulled in next to her. She was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring into space.

I got out of the car and tapped on her window. She jumped and rolled it down.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m not great,” Becky told me. The sight of her pale, makeup-less face made me feel sick to my stomach.

“Did the police say anything else?”

“They found my business card on his . . . his body,” she told me, twisting the bottom of her Green Meadows Day School T-shirt. Which was another worrying sign: Becky didn’t usually wear T-shirts.

“Lots of people have business cards,” I said, leaning against her van and trying to keep my face from looking too terribly guilty. “Did they really think you’d leave a business card if you had something to do with his death?”

She gave a hollow laugh. “I know, right? But they told me they want me to stay in town,” she said. “They know about the letter I wrote in the
Picayune
.” She took a deep breath. “I’m pretty sure I’m the top suspect right now.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her it was my fault, but I remembered what Peaches and I had agreed to. One week. “Did they say anything about what happened to him?”

She shook her head. “Obviously he didn’t die of natural causes, though. They wouldn’t tell me anything, but they wanted to know where I was last night.” She swallowed. “And they asked if I had any firearms.”

I sucked in my breath. “You’re right. That doesn’t sound good.”

Becky pulled at her T-shirt again. “Do you think that means he was shot?”

“I don’t know,” I lied. Which felt absolutely awful. I took another deep breath and said, “Actually, Becky, I do know.”