Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (5 page)

“Why not? It’s our anniversary, after all,” he said, handing me a glass of chilled white wine.

“Oh. Right.” I pasted on a smile, realizing with a rush of embarrassment that I’d forgotten the date. I was surprised Prudence hadn’t reminded me. “Thank you,” I said, and took a big sip of wine—after the day I’d had, I needed it—and peered into the pan on the stove, where two pork tenderloins were sizzling.

“What happened to your clothes?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I spilled something on them; let me go change.” I escaped the kitchen to what used to be our bedroom and changed into a fresh pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Not the most romantic getup for an anniversary dinner, but romantic wasn’t what I was going for. I took a look at myself in the mirror; I’d gained a couple of pounds over the summer, and I needed a haircut. Maybe when my mother was here I could slip away for a few hours. I tossed my dirty clothes onto the growing pile of laundry, arranged my face into what I hoped was a pleasant expression, and headed back to the kitchen. “What’s cooking?” I asked.

“Italian marinated pork tenderloin,” Blake said. “I picked it up at Central Market.” He gave me one of those breathtaking grins of his, all straight teeth and sparkling eyes. “I figured you could use a break in the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking another sip of wine and hoping this didn’t mean he wanted to try to get romantic.

“Becky called, by the way. I told her you’d give her a ring back.”

Becky? I felt a surge of hope. Were things looking up? If so, that was the only relationship that had any glint of hope.

I studied Blake as he poked at the pork tenderloin with a fork. Although our first year of marriage had been wonderful, filled with spontaneous trips to the beach, candlelight dinners, and passionate nights, things had cooled quickly and never warmed back up. My funny, dashing husband had morphed into someone who was snippy, intolerant, and very worried about what the neighbors thought of us—particularly of me.

I’d written it off as the stress of having children, whose natural tendency toward entropy was obviously a challenge to someone who kept his socks folded and ordered not only by color, but by shade. About six months ago, though, the underlying reason for Blake’s frustration had surfaced when I found a photo of him with a beautiful transvestite in his lap.

Blake had relocated to a hotel room for a week, begging me not to tell anyone what I’d found. He’d then pleaded with me to let him move back in, telling me it was just a phase, and that he had put it all behind him. (I resisted the urge to ask exactly
what
he’d put behind him.)

I’d reluctantly agreed, provided he stayed in his office while we worked things out. After all, I reasoned, I had grown up believing that marriage was a commitment you made for life, and it would be better for the kids to have both parents living in the same house. And I was worried about my sweet daughter, who had been withdrawing from both of us more and more lately, lost in her dog persona. She needed all the support she could get right now; I was on the verge of sending her to the Canine Center for Training and Behavior. Or a psychologist.

At least Blake had been less snippy the last few months, which was nice, and even folded laundry once in a while, a welcome change. Things hadn’t exactly been lovey-dovey, though. At first, I found myself questioning every moment of our years together. I had truly believed Blake was in love with me when he slipped that silver wedding band on my finger. How could I have been so wrong? And what else in my life had I misjudged? I thought about today’s episode in the pool at the Sweet Shop, then told myself that all private investigators occasionally wound up in compromising situations. Besides, if I hadn’t been looking for a job with some excitement, I would have taken Becky up on her offer to sell Mary Kay.

The truth was, Blake and I were more like roommates than husband and wife. We hadn’t gone to counseling—Blake hadn’t been comfortable with it—so we were kind of in a trapped-in-amber situation. Every once in a while, Blake made an overture toward me. We both seemed relieved when I declined.

I was still angry at the way the marriage and life I had envisioned had been destroyed. If Blake had just been honest all those years ago, I wouldn’t be trapped in a bad marriage with two young kids. Could I live this way for the next fifteen years? I wondered.

Blake and I had occupied the same house for months now, barely touching. As much as it pained me to hurt my children, I was beginning to think it was time to start considering divorce. My home life was nightmarish; the tension was terrible, and I was worried it was affecting the kids—Elsie in particular. Would it be better for Elsie and Nick if I soldiered on in a dead marriage, or would it be kinder to them both if we separated? The thought made my stomach churn. How would I support my kids as a single mom? I wasn’t making big bucks as a private investigator, to say the least. I had spent many sleepless nights turning things over in my head. Was it worth it to stay? More and more, I was thinking it was time to end things.

Which is why it was so disconcerting when Blake raised his glass and said, “To eight years together, and many, many more.”

“Umm . . .” I said, not raising my glass.

His face grew serious. “Margie,” he said. “I know the last months have been tough. But I think I’ve found the solution.”

A solution to homosexuality? What, was he going to ask me to dress up in overalls and work boots before hopping into the sack? Or maybe strap on a dildo?

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He thrust a brochure into my hand. “It’s called Journey to Manhood,” he said, hope burning in his eyes as I stared at the cover of the brochure, which featured a shirtless, muscular young man surrounded by other, equally muscular men standing in an attractive sylvan setting.

I looked up at Blake, confused. “What is it?”

“It’s a program that helps men discover their manhood. I’m driving out to Dripping Springs the day after tomorrow. It’s a four-day retreat.”

“You mean . . . one of those gay-conversion programs?”

He winced. “I’m not gay,” he hissed, glancing around to make sure the kids were out of earshot.
Thomas the Tank Engine
played in the background, a strange soundtrack to this conversation. “I just have . . . feelings, sometimes. This will help get rid of them.” His handsome face reddened. “Anyway,” he said, flourishing a pair of tongs, “your mom will be here, so she’ll be able to help with the kids.”

I leafed through the brochure, which described the retreat as a “supportive environment for men dedicated to resolving their same-sex attractions,” detailing three days of “emotional healing, self-exploration, and catharsis.” I turned the page to a description of “father-and-son holding” and “emotional release work,” and found myself wondering whether the apparently high level of physical contact had something to do with the whole “catharsis” experience. I just couldn’t see how having a bunch of repressed gay men giving each other deep, loving embraces would do anything but exacerbate any difficult “feelings.”

“Blake—” I began.

“There’s a class for wives, too,” my husband rushed in before I could say more. “I’d love to sign you up.”

I sighed. I appreciated his desire to keep our marriage intact, but just didn’t see how a few days of sharing with other repressed gay husbands could change his attraction to men in dresses any more than a weekend girls’ retreat could change my feelings about the scene where Colin Firth emerges from the lake in
Pride and Prejudice
. Now that I thought of it, Blake had always seemed to drift into the TV room when that scene came on. Colin Firth might be the one thing we still had in common.

I looked at my husband of eight years. He sounded so hopeful that I couldn’t bear to tell him no. “I guess I could try it,” I said, attempting to sound supportive.

“It’ll all be different,” he said. “I just know it.” He put down the tongs and gave me an awkward peck on the cheek.

I finished my wine and poured myself another big glass.

The pork was a little tough, and Elsie refused to touch it or the salad Blake had made, instead holding out for a bowl full of noodles and a dish of vanilla milk—she was a big adherent of the “all-white” diet. Still, dinner went fairly well, considering the circumstances. I excused myself to get the kids down, picking out the longest books in the house to read to them, while Blake lingered in the kitchen, putting the dishes into the dishwasher.

“Thanks for dinner,” I said when I returned to the kitchen a half hour later. “It was delicious.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “Happy anniversary, Margie.” He slid the forks he was carrying into the silverware basket and leaned toward me.

I took an involuntary step back and raised my hand. “Let’s talk after your retreat,” I said, and he moved away from me, too, something like relief flashing in his eyes. I gave him a strained smile. “Let me know when you’re heading out.”

“If anyone asks, it’s a business trip,” he said quickly. “Professional development.”

“Of course.”

“By the way, how did the parent orientation go?”

“It was . . . interesting,” I said, deciding to omit the part about Peaches’s hooker conversation and my whipped-cream-covered wardrobe. “The talk was mainly about the building campaign,” I said, “although I have the uniform and lunch information, now.”

“What’s the policy on jewelry?” he asked.

“Just a small cross or stud earrings,” I told him. “So the rhinestone dog collar is probably out.”

“How are we going to break that to her?”

I sighed. “I don’t know,” I said. “To be honest, I’m concerned about Elsie, Blake. I think Mrs. Bunn was right—maybe it’s time to look into counseling.” When the director of Green Meadows Day School had suggested Elsie see a psychologist, I’d thought she was making a mountain out of a molehill, but I had to admit that my daughter’s behavior had been growing increasingly . . . eccentric. Despite my efforts to connect with my shy but curious little girl, she had been withdrawing more and more into her dog fantasy world. I was worried about her. Maybe it was a phase, maybe not.

“She doesn’t need counseling,” Blake said, waving my suggestion away. “It’s just a phase. She’ll work through it.”

Just like Blake is going to work through his feelings for men in shiny dresses, I thought. Right.

“I guess we’ll see how it goes,” I said, unconvinced. Maybe being surrounded by a bunch of girls in uniforms would help her get past her dog phase. One could always hope.

I yawned; it had been a long day, and there was no point discussing it now. “I’m heading to bed,” I said. It was too late to call Becky; I’d have to catch up with her tomorrow. “See you in the morning.”

I was dreaming of giant women wearing tinfoil and pouring chocolate syrup onto miniature Darth Vaders when my cell phone rang. I sat up and squinted at the number: it was Peaches.

I grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

“Margie. I’m so glad you’re up.”

“I’m not,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Or I wasn’t, anyway, until you called.”

“I need your help.”

I peered at the clock. “It’s three in the morning.”

“I know,” she said, “and I hate to bug you, but I’m in a little bit of a bind here.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, wondering if she needed to be picked up from a bar. She’d been hitting the sauce a bit hard the last week or two. In fact, it was probably a good thing her Buick was in the shop.

“You’re not going to like it,” she said. “But I can explain everything.”

“Are you in jail?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Peaches said. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just need you to help me move a body.”

CHAPTER SIX

I
sat up straight, clutching the phone. “A
what
?”

“You heard me the first time; don’t make me say it again.” She rattled off an address. “How soon can you get here?”

“You’re kidding me. Right?”

“Nope.”

“But—”

“If you leave now, it’ll be fifteen minutes—twenty, tops. The faster the better, really, before he gets too stiff to move.”

“Too stiff to move?” I rubbed at my eyes. I could not believe I was having this conversation.