Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (2 page)

“He got into his station wagon, didn’t he? Besides,” she added, pointing up, “you have a sunroof.”

I sighed and squeezed into the open space, putting the van into park. There were about six millimeters between my side mirrors and the cars on either side of me. “I’ll wait here for you.”

Peaches turned to me and blinked. “What do you mean, wait here?”

“I thought you just needed me for the car.”

“You always bring backup when you have it,” she said. “Besides, I’m going to let you take charge today. It’s good training.”

I pointed to my faded Green Meadows Day School T-shirt and my khaki shorts, which sported an enormous hole in the left leg where Rufus, my temperamental Siamese cat, had slashed them. “I can’t go in. I’m way underdressed!”

“Underdressed? Margie, you’re going into a strip club.” Peaches winked, making her heavily mascaraed eyelashes stick together. “Less is more, you know?”

And with a brief prayer that my children would never find out that their mother had taken to hanging out in a strip club, I followed Peaches inside.

CHAPTER TWO

I
groaned. “Do we really have to go in? I mean, he’s at a strip club. What else do we need to know?”

“If your husband were playing hide-the-tamale with a young woman covered in whipped cream, wouldn’t you want to know about it?”

Sadly, I knew the answer to that question. I’d found out just a few months back that my own husband had been having an affair with a young man who favored false eyelashes and sequins.

“Oops. My bad,” Peaches said, realizing her mistake. “How’s that going, by the way?”

“He keeps telling me it was just a phase.”

“A phase?” Peaches asked.

“I know,” I said. “But what else can I do?”

“Filing for divorce comes to mind,” she suggested.

“He doesn’t want to. And I’m not going to bring it up now; it’s bad enough that my mother’s coming for a two-week visit.” My mother was lovely, but she also believed she’d been Cleopatra in a former life and had recently converted to an all-raw vegan diet. Now that I thought about it, maybe spending the afternoon in a strip club wasn’t so bad. “Is the liquor free, too?” I asked.

“Nope. Ten dollars for a margarita.”

“That’s too bad.” Though since I was due at the parent orientation at Holy Oaks in two hours, it was probably for the best.

I gestured toward the entrance. “Do they really do . . . well,
you-know-what
in there?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Sometimes,” she shrugged. “I never pay that much attention—I’m usually only here for the steak. But there’s only one way to find out.” She tucked the pork-rind bag between the seats and opened the van door, smacking it into the side of the Corolla. “Oops.” She glanced up at the sunroof. “We might need to go to Plan B.”

“I do have sliding doors,” I reminded her. We crawled to the back and sidled out of the van, squeezing between the cars.

“You might want to get this thing washed,” Peaches said, brushing off her spandex minidress and pointing to the giant clean spots we’d made on the side of the Caravan.

My T-shirt now had a big brown splotch in the middle of it, and I was afraid to look at the back of my shorts. “I hope I have time to change before the parent orientation,” I grumbled as Peaches adjusted her cleavage and tottered toward the entrance in her cork platform wedges. I followed in my sensible Nike sneakers and battered shorts. Next to Peaches, I was feeling a little like Cinderella in her pre-fairy-godmother phase.

All too soon, we had stepped out of the hot August sun and were facing an enormous, shaved-head bouncer wearing a very tight pair of jeans and full sleeves of the ink variety.

“Hey there, Peaches,” he said. “Come for the New York strip?”

“You bet,” she said. “They got chocolate mousse today?”

“Nah. Strawberry shortcake,” he said, nodding toward the banner. “Theme day, you know?” He squinted at me. “Who’s your friend?”

“Business partner,” she said, and I gave a feeble wave. “Chewy, this is Margie. Margie, Chewy.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, not quite sure of the etiquette.

“First time in a strip club?” he asked, grinning.

“Oh, no,” I said airily. “I do this all the time.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, and waved us on through. “Have fun! And I recommend the Caesar salad.”

I had never been in a strip club before, so I didn’t know what to expect when we walked around the partition into the main room.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust; the lighting was low, except for spotlights directed at the stages. There were three of them—a big one down the center of the room, with two smaller stages flanking it. The center stage was currently occupied by a young woman wearing a hot-pink bob, green-and-white-striped stockings, and a very, very small apron.

“Strawberry Shortcake,” Peaches said as the woman wrapped herself around the candy-striped pole and then did a series of contortions that would have made the US Olympic gymnastics team jealous.

“Wow,” I said involuntarily. “I had no idea pole dancing could be so . . . athletic.”

“And lucrative,” Peaches said, pointing to the men crowding around waving money. “But someday she’s going to need the cash for bunion surgery. Look at those heels,” she said, pointing to Ms. Shortcake’s six-inch stilettos.

“Ouch.”

A few feet in front of Ms. Shortcake and her pole, a gigantic inflatable pool had been set up, and a waitress wearing pink hot pants and a bra with very small cupcakes for cups was selling cans of whipped cream to a line of men.

“You see him?” Peaches murmured.

“No,” I said, although, to be honest, I’d almost forgotten I was supposed to be looking.

“Over there,” Peaches said, nodding toward the tables close to the main stage. Krumbacher had sat down with two men in white shirts and jeans. “We’ll sit a few tables back.”

I followed her across the dark club to a table that was painted to look like a peppermint candy, then sat down on the disturbingly sticky chair.
It’s just beer,
I told myself, trying not to let my skin make more contact than necessary with the vinyl seat, and attempted a casual pose.

“You look like you’re in church,” Peaches said, leafing through the menu. “Loosen up a bit.”

“Right,” I said, slouching a little.

“I said loosen up, not pass out.” She handed me a menu. “Here.”

“It’s hard to relax when we’re the only women in here,” I muttered.

“What do you mean? There are women everywhere,” Peaches said, pointing to the gorgeous African American woman gyrating on the stage closest to us. She wore a pointed foil hat, thigh-high silver boots, and a sultry smile. And that was it.

I turned to Peaches. “Please tell me she’s not supposed to be a Hershey’s Kiss.”

Peaches grinned. “You’ll never think of them the same way again, will you?”

The waitress sashayed over before I had a chance to respond. “Can I get you ladies something?”

“Two strip steaks, please, darlin’.” Peaches looked at me. “Medium-rare, right?”

I nodded.

“And those two gentlemen would like to buy you each a drink,” the waitress added, nodding toward two octogenarians in the corner. They bobbed their heads when I looked.

“Sorry, but I’m driving,” I said.

“I’m not,” Peaches said cheerfully. “Two Cuervo margaritas, please. And tell them thanks.”

“Aren’t you working?” I pointed out.

“Supervising,” she said. “Besides, it’s been a rough week.”

“What’s going on?”

“Man troubles,” she said.

“Tell me about it,” I replied. “But not now,” I added as Marty and his buddies stood up and headed toward the back of the club. “Where’s he going?”

“Why don’t you go find out?” she asked. “I’ll take care of the drinks. If you need to take a picture, don’t forget to turn off the flash!”

I hurried after Marty Krumbacher, trying to look casual and wondering if I might fit in better if I stripped down to my bra and panties. Not enough sequins, I decided. Besides, I already felt like a Budweiser Clydesdale in a roomful of My Little Ponies. Exposing a few extra acres of post-baby stomach wasn’t going to do anything to help me look like I belonged here.

I hung back as Krumbacher and one of his friends walked down a pistachio-green hallway and into a room at the far end. I gave them a moment before trotting after them and sidling up to the door, hoping they hadn’t closed it. It was open about an inch.

Glancing behind me to make sure no one else was in the hallway, I peeked through the crack in the door.

I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe a hot-fudge-and-maraschino-cherry-studded orgy featuring Plum Puddin’ and Raspberry Tart—but, despite being in a strip club, Marty Krumbacher didn’t look like he was into tarts.

He was sitting at a table with two other men, and they were deep in discussion.

“I told you, it’s out of our hands,” one of the men said. “We’re waiting on a shipment. Without raw materials, there’s nothing we can do but wait.”

“Find another supplier,” Krumbacher said, his voice cold and hard—and remarkably similar to his wife’s, now that I thought of it. They made a pretty good match. “I have deadlines to meet.”

“But Mr. Krumbacher—”

“The next shipment goes out next Wednesday. Figure it out, or I’ll have to send Thumbs to pay you a visit.”

I had read about people blanching, but I’d never understood the term until now. The guy Krumbacher was talking to suddenly looked like a vampire had just sucked all the blood out of him.

Whatever was going on here was weird, but not the kind of thing Mrs. Krumbacher was interested in. Would she be happy, I wondered, or sad that her husband wasn’t getting it on with one of the bonbons from an X-rated
Nutcracker
?

“Better get going,” Krumbacher said, standing up and stretching. “I don’t want to miss Shortcake.”

I turned to run back to the table. Unfortunately, I bounced off a nubile young woman wearing nothing but a cupcake wrapper as a skirt. She was accompanied by a jeans-clad man who was looking at her like he’d just spent six months on the Atkins diet and she was his first dessert.

“Can I help you?” she asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Is the ladies’ room back here?” I asked as Krumbacher stepped out of the room behind me. I flicked my eyes to him, and his locked on mine. I gave him a weak smile before turning back to the cupcake woman.

“You’re in the wrong hallway,” she said. “These rooms are for . . . private dances.” As she spoke, the man behind her licked his lips.

“Thanks,” I said, and excused myself, hurrying away from Krumbacher.

“How’d you do?” Peaches asked when I scuttled back to the table.

“Not so hot,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“He was meeting with a couple of guys, talking about shipments and someone named Thumbs. Then I turned around and bumped into a cupcake lady, and he saw me.”

“He saw you?” Peaches groaned. “First rule of private investigation: don’t let them see you.” She took a sip of one of the fishbowl-size margaritas that had appeared in my absence and then said, “He’s looking at you.”

“Great,” I said.

“Hi there, ladies!” It was the octogenarians. “Don’t mind if we join you,” the taller one said, sliding into the sticky seat next to mine. His friend, who was like the little teapot—short and stout, only wearing glasses with lenses so thick I wondered if he’d borrowed them from the Hubble Telescope—pulled up a chair next to Peaches.

“Actually—”

“I’ve not seen you in here before, sugar,” the man next to me cooed, sliding a skeletal hand onto my thigh. “Ooh.” He gave my leg a squeeze. “Nice and plump. I like a woman with a little meat on her bones.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t. Instead, I reached down and pried his bony fingers off my leg, wondering how on earth this man had made it through eight-plus decades of life without learning not to call a woman you wanted to sleep with “plump.” On the other hand, perhaps that’s why he spent his Sunday afternoons trying to pick up women in strip clubs.

“I like your dress,” purred the guy next to Peaches, switching to his reading glasses to get a better look at her cleavage. “I like the way it matches your hair.”

“Thanks, hon,” Peaches said absently, taking another swig of her margarita.

“How come you’re all covered up?” asked the man next to me, who was inching his chair closer and looking like he was considering making another try for my leg. His arm was covered in liver spots the size of Chihuahuas. It was a little alarming, really.

“Have you had that checked?” I said, pointing to one that looked a little like Darth Vader’s helmet. “It looks like it could be melanoma. See how the borders are irregular, and it’s darker at the top?”

“If you’d like, you can give me a full-body checkup. I’ve got another one right down here.” He reached for his belt buckle and started to undo the clasp.

Fortunately, at that moment the announcer came on. “Gentlemen,” she purred, “are you ready to have some fun?”

Liver Spots tucked the tongue of his belt back in, to my relief, and from the whistles and hoots that erupted around me, I was guessing the answer was yes. Even Krumbacher seemed to have forgotten about me; he was handing a wad of bills to the whipped-cream salesgirl and tucking three cans under his elbow. “Well, then, head on down to the pool, gentlemen, and help Strawberry Shortcake and Banana Twirl kick off Whipped Cream Sunday!”

As we watched—evidently the lure of whipped-cream-covered flesh was enough to distract Liver Spots from his campaign to show me his moles—Shortcake and Banana Twirl minced down the runway, their slick lips pushed into provocative pouts. Shortcake slipped out of her heels and peeled off her striped stockings one at a time, leaving her dressed in about six inches of green dental floss.

Banana Twirl had a bit more to take off, and after slowly removing a bright-yellow bikini top and a green scrap of fabric that I was guessing was supposed to be a banana leaf, she took a provocative twirl around the pole, which resulted in howls from the crowd.

“Her signature move,” Peaches said knowledgeably as Liver Spots grunted in appreciation.