Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (16 page)

We both froze; my eyes locked onto Bubba Sue’s beady ones. Until I reached for my pocket to turn off my phone, and the movement jolted her into action.

Bubba Sue rose to her piggy feet with a wavelike motion, then let out a squeal that sounded like someone was skewering her alive. Which, to be honest, would have been okay with me right then.

As she rounded on me, a floodlight flicked on behind me, giving me a full view of her 150-pound porcine frame. From behind me, I could hear the sound of the glass door sliding open, and a man calling, “Bubba Sue, baby?”

The sound of her name galvanized her. As I sprinted toward the gate, she barreled after me, squealing with every step. I considered opening the gate, then glanced back and changed my mind; her open mouth was only two feet from the backs of my knees. In a stunning reprise of the afternoon’s gymnastic feat, I leaped onto the fence, clawing at the top and attempting to hurl myself over it. Sharp teeth grazed my ankles, and I jerked my leg away, yelping.

“Bubba Sue! Where are you, girl?” I looked over my shoulder to see a man silhouetted in the floodlit yard.

He was carrying what looked like a shotgun, and I heard the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked.

“Shit,” I whispered as I slung my leg over the fence and fell into the bushes on the other side.

I hadn’t gotten out of the yard before my phone rang. The problem was, it was on the other side of the fence, which, from the sound of it, Bubba Sue was now battering with her piggy snout. I felt in my pocket, but I already knew it was gone.

As my fingers closed around my keys—thank God those were still there—there was a grunting sound, and then the sound of “Small World” became oddly muffled before fading away. I swore under my breath as I trotted to my dented Grand Caravan.

Unless I was mistaken, Bubba Sue had just swallowed my iPhone.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
t was almost ten when I pulled up outside Becky’s house.

“Do you have tequila?” I asked when she opened the door. She looked much better; her cheeks were their customary cherry-blossom pink again, and she’d traded in the T-shirt for a linen blouse.

“Of course,” she said, looking me over. I glanced down at myself. Becky might be looking better, but I had taken a definite turn for the worse. My shorts were streaked with a suspicious-smelling brown substance, and my socks—I’d bagged my sneakers and tossed them into the back of the minivan—were equally filthy. “I got the kids down a half hour ago, so it’s just the two of us,” Becky told me, wrinkling her nose. “What happened to you?”

“I tried to get Elsie’s fry phone back from Bubba Sue.”

“How did that go?” she asked as I peeled off my socks in the front hall and followed her to the kitchen, where she wet a paper towel for me and pulled a bottle out of the under-sink cabinet.

I sighed as I dabbed at my shorts. “She ate my iPhone.”

Becky almost dropped the bottle of tequila. “She what?”

“It fell out of my pocket as I was climbing over the fence. I saw the fry phone, and I almost got to it, but my phone rang just as I was reaching for it . . .” I waved my hands. “She woke up and started squealing. It was a nightmare. Then the guy came out of the house with a shotgun, and . . .” I let out a long burst of air. “It’s been a day.”

“No kidding.” She poured me a juice glass full of Cuervo, then a smaller shot for herself. “What are you going to do?” she asked after I’d taken a burning swig of the stuff.

“I’m going to tranquilize her,” I said. “I’m not sure how—Benadryl, maybe?” I sighed. “At least the phone was in a waterproof case.”

“Do you think that will stand up to a pig’s digestive system?”

“Here’s hoping,” I said, and downed the rest of what was in the juice glass. “I’m more worried about the fry phone. I can replace an iPhone, at least.” The last time I’d lost Elsie’s fry phone, I’d scoured the Internet for a replacement and come up empty; apparently the French-fry phone had only been included in Happy Meals for about twenty minutes a few years back. I pushed thoughts of Elsie’s disappointment from my head. Staying out of jail, after all, was my first priority. “Now,” I said, feeling like the lining of my esophagus had been sanded off, “let’s take a look at Aquaman’s mail.”

I opened the diaper bag and pulled out the stack of files and mail.

“What’s this?” she asked, reaching for the folder with
Hale
printed on the tab. She opened it, and as she read the note about financial aid, her mouth turned to a thin line. “She aced the tests. I know she did.” She flipped through the pages to the admissions test. She was right: Zoe had scored above the ninety-fifth percentile in every category. “Even the interview went well,” she said, stabbing a manicured finger at the page. “See what I mean? The only reason she was denied was that we requested financial aid. Where’s the Graves file?”

As she pawed through the files, I reflected that it was a good thing Detective Bunsen couldn’t see Becky right now. If George Cavendish hadn’t already had a bullet in his back, I was pretty sure Becky would have happily strangled him. She located the file and ripped it open. “See?” she said, pointing to Ashley Graves’s test scores. “Fifteenth percentile in math. Fifteenth! And none of the rest of them are above the fiftieth percentile.”

“Maybe the interview . . .”

She flipped to the handwritten page. “‘Polite. Shy. Plays with her hair a lot.’” Becky turned another page. “Aha!” she said. “They did deny her admission. But here’s a letter from Leonard Graves offering a ‘generous donation for the fine-arts building.’”

“How generous?” I asked.

She blinked. “A million dollars,” she said.

“Hard to turn that down,” I pointed out. “A million dollars goes a long way toward remedial tutoring.”

Her jaw set. “But it’s not right,” she said. “Why deny my daughter the opportunity for a great education just because this mediocre—no,” she said, flipping through the pages, “
substandard
kid is loaded?”

“I don’t know. I’m beginning to think Elsie might be better off at Austin Heights with Zoe, to be honest,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind,” I told her as I dabbed at an aromatic brown stain on my shorts. There was no point going into it now. Besides, it was only the first day of school; what did I know? Elsie might turn things around and make loads of school friends. And stop playing fetch with tennis balls. And forget about her missing fry phone. I tossed the damp paper towel into the trash and turned to my friend. “Do you have a teakettle so I can steam open the envelopes?”

“The kettle’s in the cabinet under the stove,” Becky said, still engrossed in the Graves file. “Look at this,” she said, stabbing at a page with her finger. “She can’t even spell
read
. I can’t believe they passed over my daughter for this kid.” As I retrieved the kettle and filled it with water, it occurred to me Peaches’s disgruntled-mother theory might be worth considering.

“What about the Krumbacher file?” I asked. “Anything in there?”

My friend was still obsessing over the Graves file. “‘Hobbies include manicures and spa visits’ . . . Really?”

“Becky!”

She looked up, startled. “What?”

“We’re trying to find a murderer, not analyze the admissions committee’s standards,” I reminded her. “Check out the Goldens and the Krumbachers.”

“Oh,” she said, reluctantly closing up the file and setting it aside. “Right. What am I looking for?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed.

“That’s helpful.” She picked up the files and leafed through them. “Neither family asked for financial aid,” she said.

“Did they both make donations?” I asked.

“Yup,” she said. “Although they don’t say how much.”

I didn’t bother asking about the test scores.

I returned to the table and glanced through the files. Becky was right; there wasn’t anything superhelpful in them. Those kids’ test scores weren’t as bad as the Graves kid’s, they were reasonable, and I saw nothing to indicate a motive for killing George Cavendish. The kettle whistled as I pushed the files aside and reached for the stack of mail.

“Ready?” I asked Becky.

“Which one should we do first?” she asked.

“How about this one?” I asked, picking up a linen envelope addressed in a jagged hand. “No return address.”

“Let’s have some more tequila first,” she said. “I hate to break federal laws sober.”

Both Blake and my mother were sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in two hours later, still musing over what we’d found in Cavendish’s mail and regretting the large shot of tequila. It had taken forever for the liquor to wear off enough for me to drive home, and my throat felt as if I’d spent the day practicing a fire-eating routine. Now that I thought of it, maybe running off to the circus might be a good second career option.

Blake’s hand cradled a glass of scotch, and my mother was drinking something minty-smelling out of a mug. When my mother saw me, her bangled hand leaped to her throat. “Margie! Where have you been?”

“And what happened to your clothes?” Blake asked, staring with distaste at my blotched shorts. It had not been a good week for my wardrobe.

“I had another go at the pig,” I told them, setting the diaper bag with its contraband contents on the kitchen counter. “Why are you both still up? Is everyone okay?”

“You tell me,” Blake said, taking another swig of his scotch. “The police called—that Detective Bunsen again. He wants to talk to you about Becky and the headmaster of Holy Oaks.”

“They tried your cell phone, but you didn’t answer,” my mother added helpfully.

“I was busy,” I said, feeling my stomach tighten. It was probably Bunsen’s call that woke up Bubba Sue. What did he want? Had they found something else—something that tied me to the body? Had I left my fingerprint on Becky’s card?

“You never mentioned that the headmaster was murdered,” Blake said.

“It didn’t seem like a terrific topic for dinner conversation,” I pointed out. “Especially with the kids there.”

“Poor man,” my mother murmured. “On the other hand, maybe being murdered paid his karmic debt.”

I doubted Becky would agree with her.

“Why are the cops asking about Becky?”

Despite my tequila-scorched esophagus, I poured myself a bit of Blake’s scotch. “They found Becky’s business card on him.”

He blinked. “They what?”

“Relax,” I said, taking a swig of scotch and trying not to choke. “She didn’t kill him.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” my husband said.

“He must have had lots of business cards on him,” my mother said. “Why are they singling your friend out?”

“It’s probably just a routine questioning,” I lied.

“Then why are they calling you at night?”

I sighed. “You know how busy the police are these days; Bunsen’s probably working overtime. I’ll give them a call tomorrow.” Then I smiled and changed the subject. “How are the kids?”

“Elsie’s waiting for her fry phone,” Blake told me.

“I, uh, didn’t get a chance to pick it up,” I said, remembering Bubba Sue’s beady eyes. I was going to have to pick up a new cell phone tomorrow, which was going to put another dent in my budget. It was a shame French-fry phones weren’t so easy to come by. “Anyway”—I faked a yawn—“I’m going to head to bed.” I escaped, scotch in hand, and managed to be faking sleep by the time Blake came to the bedroom a half hour later.

Unfortunately, it didn’t make a difference.

“Margie,” he hissed. When I didn’t respond, he poked me. “Margie!”

I heaved a sigh and sat up, squinting at him over the pillow wall I’d erected in the middle of the bed. “What?”

“Why are the police really calling you?”

“I told you,” I said, “it was because the headmaster had Becky’s card on him when he died.” I pushed my hair out of my eyes. “She must have given it to him when they were interviewing at Holy Oaks.”

“Why are they calling
you
, then?”

The same question had occurred to me, but I didn’t tell Blake that. “I don’t know. I’ll call him in the morning. I’m sure it’s nothing, though.”

“Is that why you were out so late?” he asked.

“I was chasing the pig,” I told him.

“For two hours?”

“It took a long time for the house’s owner to go to bed.”

“Isn’t pignapping illegal?”

“He stole the pig from his ex-wife. Technically, I’m retrieving stolen property.” Being married to a lawyer could be irritating sometimes. “Since when is it your business where I am when I go out, anyway?” I asked. “If I recall correctly, it wasn’t me who was off gallivanting with other men. Besides,” I pointed out, “I wasn’t exactly dressed for a night out on the town.”

“I’m sorry,” Blake said, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to suggest that. It’s just . . . It’s upsetting when the police call at night. And then I couldn’t reach you on your cell phone.” He paused. “Where is your phone, by the way?”

“I . . . dropped it.”

“It’s broken?”

“Sort of,” I said.

“If you give it to me, I can take it to the guy who fixed mine,” he suggested.

“When I get it back, I will.”