Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (17 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Well . . .” I took a deep breath. “I think the pig ate it.”

“The pig ate it?”

“Yup. Like I said, when I get it back, you can take it to the repair guy. Hopefully he has some experience dealing with digestive juices.”

My husband stared at me.

“Anyway,” I said, pulling the sheet up around me and changing the subject, “are you packed for your retreat?”

“Digestive juices?” he repeated.

I sighed and turned over. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Why not?”

Because I was moving the dead headmaster out of a hooker’s apartment,
I thought. “I was worried about Elsie,” I said. “I’m not sure Holy Oaks is the right place for her.”

“She’ll do fine,” he said. “I learned to fit in at Catholic school.”

And it worked so well in the long haul,
I thought, thinking of our sham of a marriage. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I said.

“I’m leaving for the retreat tomorrow.”

“Well, then, when you get back,” I said, faking a yawn. “Good night.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

M
y mother was in full force the next morning, offering up a tofu-kale scramble that even I couldn’t choke down without gagging. Nick was cheerful and ready to go, but Elsie spent the morning walking around in a pink nightgown, clutching her dog collar to her chest and refusing to speak or get dressed.

“Why don’t you want to go to school?” Nick asked her as he poked at the brownish-green mass on his plate.

“The girls aren’t nice,” she said, turning the collar over in her hands.

I perked up, glad to hear words instead of barking. She’d barely spoken since I picked her up the day before. “Who isn’t nice?”

“People,” she growled, and pushed her plate away.

“Don’t you want some of your omelet?” my mother crooned. Today she was wearing a pink caftan-like thing with strings of crystals that clacked together when she moved. Blake, thankfully, had packed and left early for his retreat, but I could tell by the way my mother was eyeing me that she wanted to talk about something. Maybe it was just the kids’ nutrition.

“No omelet,” Nick said, pushing out his lower lip. “It looks like dog poop.”

I couldn’t contradict him, so I just picked up the plates and reached for my coffee, which I’d had to doctor with soy milk and stevia. I took a sip, then put it down and added a trip to Starbucks to my list of morning errands.

“Margie, I was thinking of picking up some wooden toys for the kids,” my mother began. “There are so many chemicals in plastic.”

“Maybe for birthdays?” I suggested, looking at the living room, which was littered with Thomas trains and dog leashes and had been rearranged so that it was impossible to see the television without sitting in the hallway. “Things are pretty crowded in here right now as it is.” I turned to the kids. “Why don’t we get going?” I suggested, bundling Elsie’s uniform under my arm.

“But they haven’t eaten a thing,” my mother protested. “And what about lunch?”

“I’ll pick something up,” I said airily. “Let’s go, kids!”

Elsie pushed out her lower lip. “No.”

I squatted down and smoothed her dark hair out of her eyes. “Honey, we have to go to school.”

“Not going.”

“Did something happen yesterday?” I asked. She crossed her arms and turned away.

“I’ll take her to school,” my mother volunteered. “We can stop and pick up something for lunch on the way. Would you like that?” she asked Elsie.

My daughter turned toward her and nodded.

I hesitated. What about lunch? There was no way Elsie was going to eat the dried seaweed snacks my mother had tried to tempt her with. “Thanks,” I said, handing my mother the jumper. “But—and I know your feelings about processed foods—would you please make her a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich?”

My mother heaved a sigh.

“Please? I’m willing to think about making some changes, but today, I need her to eat something.”

“I guess I can pull something out of the bags I haven’t taken to the food bank yet . . .”

“Thank you,” I said, relieved. “We’ll talk about nutrition later.” I kissed my daughter on the head and hurried Nick out to the minivan, glad to have avoided a showdown with Elsie. Maybe today would go better for her. I hoped so, anyway. “Please remind her to take her dog collar off!” I called over my shoulder.

“I’ll take care of it,” my mother said as the door to the garage closed behind me.

I got to the Pretty Kitten around nine, after dropping Nick off and stopping for a Starbucks coffee and a gluten- and sugar-filled chocolate muffin. I still hadn’t gotten around to calling Bunsen yet, and since, as far as I knew, my iPhone was still lodged in Bubba Sue’s intestines, there was no way to know if he’d left a message.

Peaches was on the phone when I walked into the office. I popped the last bit of muffin into my mouth and sat down across from her.

“I’ll have her call when she gets here,” she was saying, adjusting her stretchy top and eyeing me.

The muffin stuck in my throat. I took a big swig of coffee to wash it down and nearly choked. “Who was that?” I wheezed when Peaches hung up.

“Your buddy down at the police station,” she said. “You’re not returning your phone calls.”

“I can’t. Bubba Sue ate my phone,” I said, still coughing.

Peaches blinked, and her eyelashes stuck together. She was wearing makeup today, I noticed, and had upgraded to a slinky pink spandex dress that hugged her curves. Things must be looking up for her. Which made one of us. “Bubba Sue what?” my boss asked.

“She ate my phone,” I repeated. “And that pig is not teacup-size. She’s the size of a refrigerator, and she’s mean. I was out there three times yesterday, and so far I’m down a fry phone, an iPhone, and a cat carrier.”

“She ate the cat carrier, too?”

“No. She got her head stuck in it and bashed it to pieces against the fence.”

Peaches winced. “What happened to the fry phone?”

“The fry phone still seems to be intact, but I can’t get to it without being charged by a giant pig.”

“Ouch. How’d Elsie take it?”

“She doesn’t know,” I said. “I told her I left it at the office; I’m just praying I can figure out how to get it back.”

“Well, at least nobody saw you.”

I sighed. “Actually . . . that’s not entirely true.”

Peaches stared at me.

“Bunsen called when I was in the backyard last night. The ringer woke up Bubba Sue, and she started squealing, and the guy came out into the yard with a shotgun,” I told her grimly. “If you could research pig tranquilizers, that’d be great.”

“Maybe a bottle of Benadryl in a cupcake?” she suggested.

“I want to knock her out, not kill her,” I reminded Peaches. “Besides, she’s pregnant—too many drugs would be bad for the piglets.”

“You’re worried about the piglets?”

“She’s a mom,” I said. “A bitchy mom, but she’s still a mom.” I took another sip of coffee. “Oh, and I told Becky what we did.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Margie.” Peaches rocked back in her chair. “What happened to our deal?”

“I couldn’t lie to my best friend. If she went to jail because I made a mistake and didn’t tell her what I’d done, I’d never sleep again.”

“You’re killing me.” Peaches reached in her pink dress for here-cigarette and took a deep drag. “What the hell happened to the ‘one week’ thing?”

“We’ve still got a week. Becky’s okay with it. In fact, she helped me steam open Cavendish’s mail last night.”

“You steamed his mail open?” Her eyes glinted. “You’re a quick study, girl. But I wouldn’t mention that to Detective Bunsen.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing Bubba Sue ate your phone. What did you find out?”

“Holy Oaks has a ton of money invested in a firm that belongs to one of the board members,” I told her, “and the investment returns are like fifty percent a year.”

Peaches grabbed a pen. “What’s the name of the company?”

“Golden Investments,” I told her. “Their biggest holding is something called Spectrum Properties, according to what the statement says.”

She jotted the names down. “I’ll see what I can find out. Anything else?”

“A letter from an admissions office, and an angry note from a mom who paid big bucks for the Acorn Scholars program and didn’t get her kid into the school of his choice. She wanted a refund.”

“See? I told you we should look at the parents,” Peaches said sagely. “Maybe you can go interview her after we talk to Desiree.”

“When are we meeting with her, anyway?” I asked.

She glanced at her watch. “We’re supposed to meet her at a coffeehouse near campus in half an hour.”

“We should head out, then.”

“I’ll drive this time,” she said. I eyed her critically; she didn’t look as if she’d had anything to drink that morning. In fact, she was looking pretty chirpy, which was a nice change of pace.

“How are things with Jess?” I asked.

“No change,” she said, “but I’m meeting a guy from Honkytonk Honeys.com for lunch.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“He’s cute. Blond hair, blue eyes, looks good in a western-style shirt, loves to go dancing . . .”

“Sounds a lot like Jess,” I said. “You should call him, you know.”

She scowled at me and grabbed her purse. “You might want to figure out your marriage to Mr. Twinkle Toes before you start dishing out the relationship advice.”

I sighed and followed her out to the Buick, wincing as a woman shrieked next door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

D
esiree looked completely different without the dog collar.

When we walked into the Coffee Bean she was sitting at a table in the corner, looking about twelve years old. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, she wore a pink T-shirt with khaki shorts, and an enormous textbook was open on the table in front of her.

“Can we get you a coffee?” Peaches asked as she pulled up a chair next to her.

Desiree darted us a nervous smile and pointed at her iced tea. “No, thanks,” she said, and I was guessing from the expression on her face that she regretted agreeing to talk to us. I could see why; we were the oldest people in the coffee shop by about twenty years, and Peaches’s tight pink dress wasn’t what you’d call inconspicuous.

“Margie?” Peaches asked.

“Just a small coffee,” I said, and Peaches lumbered off to flirt with the barista.

“What are you working on?” I asked Desiree.

“Cognitive psychology,” she grimaced. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow.”

“Is psychology your major?”

“Yes, but I’m kind of leaning toward interior design. I might do a masters in it.”

“You’ve got a knack for design, but I’ll bet psychology comes in handy in your . . .” I almost said “profession,” but ended with “line of work.”

“Not really,” she said, turning slightly pink. Dominatrix by night, shy sorority girl by day; it was an interesting combination. “Most of them just want someone to listen to them,” she continued. “If you just nod and sound sympathetic, they keep coming back for more. I’ve got a lot of regulars.”

“Did . . . Mr. Cavendish talk much?” I asked.

Her brow wrinkled. “Who?”

“Aquaman,” I prompted.

“Oh. Yeah, right. I keep forgetting his real name.” She chewed on the end of her pen with pearl-white teeth. “He talked a lot, but I didn’t pay too much attention. They all complain about their wives.”

“What did he say about his wife?”

“The same as the rest of them. Didn’t ever have the time to listen, too busy with her book club and her running group to pay attention to him, wore granny panties to bed. Just like every other married woman in Austin.” As she took another sip, I did a personal inventory. I had to own up to granny panties, but I’d never belonged to either a book club or a running club. It was true that I’d been a bit preoccupied with the kids the past few years, but considering my husband’s sexual proclivities, I doubted even a dog collar and bustier would get things going in the bedroom again. Desiree let out a small, superior sigh. “If I ever get married, I’ll know what to do, that’s for sure.”

I stifled both a snort and the urge to tell her to call me in ten years. Instead, I said, “How did you and . . . Aquaman . . . meet up, anyway?”

“I used to work at a strip club,” she said. “He was a regular, and when I started doing private work, he was one of my first clients.”

“Which strip club?” I asked.

“It’s called the Sweet Shop, over by the old airport.”

“That’s how we got to be friends,” Peaches said, sashaying back to the table after placing her order. “I met her when I was in for the strip steak a few months ago, and she agreed to do some work for me. She’s an awesome honeypot.”

I felt my own cheeks turn a little pink as I remembered the time Peaches had tried to get me to be a honeypot—a woman who lures a straying man to cheat. The guy I was trying to lure turned out to be gay, and I’d accidentally ended up participating in a drag-queen contest. It hadn’t been one of my better days.

“Do you know Marty Krumbacher?” I asked, anxious to change the subject.