Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (34 page)

Even though I got home at eleven, Elsie and my mother were still up. I gave my mother a very edited version of events, and she hugged me. “Congratulations on solving the case!” she said. “I’m so glad Becky is off the hook. And to be honest, I’m thrilled Elsie won’t have to go back to that awful place anymore.”

“I just have to try to get the tuition back,” I said.

“I shouldn’t think that would be a problem, considering the circumstances. We’ll have to celebrate at dinner tomorrow!”

“Ah, yeah. We’re going to Fleming’s Steakhouse,” I reminded her.

“What?”

“You can have the steamed spinach,” I said. “Blake’s coming, too.”

“Hmm,” she said, sounding less than thrilled.

There was a squeaking sound from the laundry room. In all the excitement, I’d forgotten about the piglets—and their missing mother. Would we ever see Bubba Sue—or Rufus—again?

“There are the piggies,” Elsie said. “I helped feed them tonight.”

“Good for you!” I said, and noticed she was clutching her fry phone. “Grandma gave you your fry phone back?”

“She did,” Elsie said. “But the buttons don’t work.”

“I’ll work on that,” I said. “Sorry, honey.” I squatted down and stroked her silky hair. “But I’ve got great news for you!”

“You found Bubba Sue and Rufus?” she asked.

“Ah, not yet,” I said, feeling a stab of remorse. What was I going to tell the client when she called? “The good news,” I said, trying not to worry about the rogue sow, “is that you never have to go back to Holy Oaks again.”

“Really?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Really,” I told her. “We’re going to talk to the principal at Austin Heights tomorrow, to see if we can get you into the same class as Zoe.”

“Oh, Mommy . . .” She ran to me, throwing her arms around me.

Unfortunately, at that moment, my front doorbell rang. I looked at my mother.

“Who’d be ringing the door at eleven p.m.?” my mother asked.

I didn’t know, and was a little afraid to find out. Would Thumbs ring the doorbell? I had a bad feeling I hadn’t seen the last of him.

“Why don’t you tuck Elsie into bed?” I suggested to my mother. “I’ll go answer the door.”

She nodded, steering my daughter back to her bedroom as I went to the front door.

I turned on the front porch light and peered through the peephole. An anxious-looking woman about my age, only thirty pounds lighter, was pacing my front porch.

I cracked the door open. “Can I help you?”

Her head snapped up. “Are you Margie Peterson?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank God. I’m Janette, Bubba Sue’s mom. I’m here to pick her up.”

I blinked. How was I going to tell her Bubba Sue was out gallivanting around the streets of Austin Heights?

“It’s a little late,” I said.

“I know,” she told me. “But you weren’t answering your phone, and I know my grandpiggies are due any day now. I can’t wait to meet them!”

“Actually,” I told Janette, “she just gave birth this afternoon.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness. And I wasn’t there for it? Poor, poor Bubba Sue! To have to go through that alone. And she’s so sensitive!”

Sensitive
was not a word I had come to associate with Bubba Sue, but I nodded and smiled politely.

“Why don’t you come in and I’ll introduce you to them?” I said. Eventually I’d have to tell her I’d lost Bubba Sue. Maybe it would be easier to absorb the news if she was surrounded by her grandpiggies.

“How many are there?” she asked as she followed me through the house to the laundry room.

“Six,” I said.

“Ooh! I was hoping we’d get six,” she said as I opened the door.

The laundry-room floor was covered in pig droppings, but Janette didn’t seem to mind. “Oh, they’re so sweet! And this one has a little dot on her nose, just like her mommy!” She turned to me then, a crease between her brows. “Where is my big girl, anyway?”

“Umm . . .”

I was saved from answering by a terrible bellowing noise, followed by a volley of four-letter words. “Back in a minute,” I said, closing the laundry-room door and following the swearing—it had started again—to the living room.

The security light in the backyard was on, revealing a man pressed up against my sliding glass door. A few yards away, an enormous, rabid-looking sow pawed the dirt and scowled at him, a murderous look in her piggy eyes.

Bubba Sue was back.

And so was Thumbs.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

A
s I stood watching the standoff, the laundry-room door opened behind me, and Janette hurried into the living room.

“My sweet girl!” she said. “There you are. But who is that man?”

“He’s an intruder,” I said, handing her my phone. “And he’s dangerous. Call 911,” I told her, regretting having given Thumbs’s gun to Bunsen earlier tonight.

“What are you going to do?” Janette asked. “Do you think he’ll hurt Bubba Sue?”

“I’d put my money on Bubba Sue, to be honest. As long as she can keep him from getting to his gun.”

“He has a gun?”

“That’s why we’re calling 911,” I told her.

“How are we going to save my baby?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Something nudged my foot; I looked down. The piglets were out of the laundry room and making a beeline for their mother.

“Oh, no!” Janette cried. “The grandpiggies! Come back!” she said, launching herself after a little black porker who was tottering toward the sliding glass door, oinking in excitement.

Bubba Sue’s ears pricked up; she now looked both angry and anxious, and I found myself marveling at the range of emotion a pig could convey. Thumbs, on the other hand, seemed wary—or at least that’s the impression I got from the way he was backed up against the glass door. Something gleamed in the brownish grass. Another gun. How many did he have?

I shivered; he’d come to get his revenge on me. And the only thing standing between him and his gun was Bubba Sue.

Jeanette scooped up the black piglet who was bumping against the sliding glass door, but the other five had seeped out of the laundry room and begun gamboling around my living room.

As I watched, Bubba Sue lowered her head and charged at Thumbs, squealing with piggy fury. Thumbs dodged to the left just in time, and she rammed full force into the sliding glass door. Janette screamed as the glass shattered with a loud crack, and Bubba Sue hurled herself into the living room.

“Oh, Bubba Sue!” Janette called, hurrying to her side.

But Bubba Sue had no time for her owner; she was fixated on Thumbs. As Janette tried to hug her, she turned and lunged after Thumbs, who was reaching for his gun. He bent over it, presenting an appealing target to Bubba Sue. She lowered her head, charged across the brief expanse of patio, and rammed him between the butt cheeks just as he began to stand up. He yelped and flew up into the air about three feet, sending the gun flying through the air. As it hit the grass, there was a bang and a flash, and the other half of the sliding glass door exploded.

“Oh, Bubba Sue,” Janette moaned, but I wasn’t there to comfort her. As Thumbs attempted to stand up, both hands cradling his bruised bottom, Bubba Sue rammed him again, this time in the crotch. He doubled over with a moan as the pig pawed the grass again. It had not been a good twenty-four hours for him, I thought as I hurried across the glass-strewn patio to pick up the gun. I turned and aimed it at Thumbs.

“Bitch,” he said as he turned to face me. As the sound of sirens filled the humid night air, I clicked back the hammer. “What is wrong with you, lady?”

“Good girl, Bubba Sue!” Janette said behind me. She was struggling to gather the piglets and keep them out of the broken glass, but it was like trying to herd toddlers; as soon as she got two corralled, one of them squirted out and gamboled over toward its mother. “Come here, Bubba Sue,” she called. “Let’s get our babies inside, away from the glass!”

Bubba Sue snorted and gave me an appraising look that made my insides turn watery. Was she remembering the hog-tying episodes? My intrusion into her yard? Now that Thumbs was down, was I next on her list? I was searching for an escape route and trying to brace myself for impact when she tossed her head, snorted again, and trotted back in to her owner as if she hadn’t just been attempting to disembowel Holy Oaks’ custodian.

“That’s a good girl,” Janette cooed as a knock sounded on the front door. “Isn’t she sweet?”

“I’ll get the door,” my mother called from somewhere inside the house. A moment later, two confused policemen walked into the living room. They surveyed the broken glass, the six piglets, and the man clutching his crotch, then turned to me with a questioning look.

“I can explain everything,” I told them.

By the time Blake got home the next evening, we’d cleaned up most of the glass, Bubba Sue and her piglets were safely with their owner, and the reporters had mostly stopped calling. Even Rufus had come slinking back, announcing his return by leaving a steaming pile of poop in the middle of the kitchen floor. Thumbs had been carted off to jail for attempted burglary; I hadn’t heard anything about the waxing incident yet, and as far as I was concerned, no news was good news. And Elsie had actually eaten with a spoon!

Things were almost back to normal. Or what passed for normal in the Peterson house, anyway.

“How was your retreat?” I asked my husband, who had put down his suitcase and was staring at the plastic-covered hole where the sliding glass door used to be.

“It was good,” he said, glancing at my mother, who had just emerged from the kitchen with a mug of green-smelling tea. We’d cleaned up most of the piglet poop, but there was still a slight livestock aroma in the house. “What happened to the house?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Margie’s a hero!” my mother crowed. “And Elsie never has to go back to Holy Oaks again!”

“What?” Blake asked, looking confused.

“I promise, it’s a good thing,” I told him as Elsie and Nick barreled into him. He knelt down and hugged them both, giving them kisses on the head.

“We missed you, Daddy!”

“I missed you, too, sweethearts,” he said, and looked up at me. “No dog collar?” he mouthed.

I smiled and shook my head. Since she’d learned she was going to school with her friend, she’d taken it off and not even talked about it. She refused, however, to let her fry phone out of her sight. Given my track record with it, I couldn’t blame her.

“We should probably talk before Fleming’s,” he said. “There’s a lot to catch up on.”

“I wish we could, but we’re short on time; we’re supposed to be there in twenty minutes, and I haven’t changed yet,” I said. “Can we talk afterward?”

“I guess,” he said, looking pained.

“Great. I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I said.

We got to Fleming’s only ten minutes late. Prue and Phil were waiting for us. My mother, looking a bit out of place in her turquoise caftan and crystal beads, wrinkled her nose at the smell of meat frying in browned butter.

“Good to see you, Blake,” Phil said, clapping my husband on the back. Blake winced, then covered it with a smile. “Make lots of contacts at your retreat?” his father asked, beaming at his handsome son.

“Yeah,” Blake said, looking like someone had dumped a cup full of fire ants down his pants.

Elsie saved him from having to say more by turning to Prue and saying, “I never have to go back to Holy Oaks again!”

Prudence looked confused. “What?”

“It’s a long story,” I told her. I seemed to be saying that a lot lately.

“Once we get seated, I’ll take the kids to look at the poor lobsters,” my mother said, “and Margie can explain everything.”

“I’m going to get to go to school with Zoe!” Elsie said.

“You sound very happy,” Prue said, sending me a questioning, worried look. “But we paid a full year’s tuition, and school’s been in session for only a week!”

“I promise you’ll be on board with it. I’ll explain in a few minutes,” I told her.

Blake looked preoccupied—almost nervous—as we sat down at the table and the waiter took our drink orders. What had happened during his retreat? I wondered. What was it he had wanted to tell me?

“So,” Prue said brightly, turning to Blake as Nick began tearing his bread into bits and forming them into a squadron on the white tablecloth. “What was this retreat you were on?”