Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (8 page)

“Maybe I can align her chakras while I’m here,” she said, heading down the hallway to Elsie’s room. I braced myself, expecting a flurry of angry barks, but instead heard a delighted squeal. I smiled, relieved to hear my daughter sound happy for the first time in a month.

She and my mother came down the hallway hand in hand, followed closely by Blake, who was tying the belt of a blue bathrobe around his trim waist.

“I found my girl,” my mother beamed, looking twenty years younger than her age. “And who’s hiding under that blanket?” she asked, looking at where my son was curled up on the couch.

Nick sat up and held out his arms. “Grandma!”

As my mother stood with my children hugging both her legs, Blake walked into the living room. “Good morning, Constance,” he said, giving her a polite hug and turning on his client-pleasing charm. “You’re here early!”

“I wasn’t tired, so I just kept driving,” she said, her hands resting on the kids’ heads. “I got here a little early, so I stopped at Kerbey Lane for a vegan omelet. I couldn’t wait to see my grandkids.”

Elsie’s rhinestone-studded dog collar glinted in the morning light as she squeezed my mother’s leg, her face bright and smiling. It made my heart expand to see her smile again. I only hoped the first day of school would be better than I anticipated. Maybe my mother could convince her to eat with a spoon.

My daughter’s eyes lit on me, and the smile switched off. “I don’t want to go to school,” she announced.

“Let’s have breakfast first, before we think about that. Here’s your bowl,” I said, putting it on the table with a spoon optimistically wedged into it.

Elsie narrowed her eyes at me. Then she marched over to the table, pulled out the spoon, and set the bowl on the floor in the corner of the room. With one defiant glance back at me, she buried her face in the bowl. For a long moment, the only sound was slurping.

“Well, then,” my mother said brightly, even though her eyebrows were up around her hairline. The Eggos popped, and I put them on a plate and sprinkled them with dark-chocolate chips before setting them on the table for Nick. “That’s breakfast?” she asked.

“They’re whole wheat,” I said defensively. “And dark chocolate is good for you.”

“Mmm,” she said. “Have you read about the links between gluten and sugar and—”

“Let’s talk about it later,” I interrupted. “I’ve got to get everybody ready for school. Blake, can you get them their vitamins?”

The next half hour was chaos, but by the end of it, both children had their hair and teeth brushed, I’d managed to surreptitiously strip the sheets from the cot in the office, and everyone was fully dressed. (Elsie had agreed to wear the school-prescribed plaid jumper only if I promised her a trip to PetSmart.) My mother had even convinced Elsie to take off her dog collar. “I’ll see if I can polish up those rhinestones while you’re at school,” she told my daughter as Elsie surrendered it reluctantly. I mouthed thanks to her as I herded the kids toward the door, Elsie clutching her fry phone and looking at me like I was Cruella de Vil. “I’ll clean up and we can have a cup of tea when you get back,” my mother said as the kids filed out the door.

“I’ve got a parent coffee and another appointment today,” I told her. “It’s kind of a busy day.”

“Why don’t we all have dinner at Casa de Luz, then?” she asked. “I’ve heard great things about it. We can invite Prudence and Phil, too; I’ll call her this morning. That way you won’t have to cook!”

“They’re not really into vegetarian food,” I said as we headed out.

“Oh, the food is so good they won’t miss the meat!” my mother said cheerily. It wasn’t until I’d gotten the kids buckled into their booster seats that I realized I’d forgotten to pack their lunches.

CHAPTER NINE

W
e got to Holy Oaks only five minutes late, which wasn’t bad, considering the fact that I’d had to run back in and assemble two lunches while my mother made a pile of GMO-laden products in the middle of the kitchen table. Still, it was awkward filing past the “Sky High!” fundraising banner into the middle of the opening hymn, which sounded something like a musical limerick about Jesus and flowers and new beginnings.

“Are you sure I can’t have my fry phone?” Elsie asked.

“I would hate for you to lose it,” I told her, patting my pocket. “I’ve got it right here. I’ll keep it safe.”

She gave me a look that suggested she didn’t completely believe me. To be honest, I couldn’t blame her; my track record wasn’t exactly unblemished when it came to the fry phone.

“Promise. And sweetheart, I know you like being called Fifi, but I think that’s probably something we should save for home,” I reminded her as the door swung shut behind us.

“Don’t want to,” Elsie said, balking a few steps inside the door and clinging to my leg.

“Your teacher’s over there,” I said, pointing to a motherly looking woman whose brown bouffant hairstyle was straight out of a 1959
Redbook
magazine. “See? She’s saved you a spot.” I led my daughter to the empty plastic chair at the end of the first-grade row, conscious of several pairs of eyes on me. I hoped it was only because we were late, and not because the news of Peaches’s colorful phone conversation had spread through the population like chicken pox. Still, that was nothing compared to what the headmaster had been up to last night. Had he been identified yet?

I gave Elsie’s shoulder a squeeze. She looked up at me as if we were at the owner surrender department of the Austin Animal Center. I handed her her backpack and lunchbox—which I’d filled with leftover Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, mozzarella cheese sticks, and grapes—and forced myself to step away. I knew Elsie wouldn’t touch the grapes—they weren’t white or artificially colored—but lunch-packing was always a triumph of hope over experience. My daughter whimpered as I stepped away from her, and my heart squeezed. Ms. Rumpole smiled at Elsie, directing her attention to the words of the hymn, which were displayed on a video screen at the front of the room, but while the rest of the room sang about rainbows and sunrises, my daughter bent her head and began sniffing her lunch box. I prayed she wouldn’t drop to all fours and start barking.

I drifted to the back of the room, my anxiety growing as I left my dark-haired daughter among the sea of largely blond, singing children. Again the urge rose in me to snatch her up and hustle her back to the minivan, but I tried to ignore it. I couldn’t keep her home forever; she had to learn to make friends and figure things out on her own.

When the hymn ended, the woman who had run the parent orientation—the headmistress of the lower school, I remembered now—clicked across the terrazzo floor to the front of the room, beaming at us like a spotlight. A big, gold cross gleamed on her bony chest. “Usually Mr. Cavendish would be here to greet you, but he’s been, ah, detained this morning,” she began.
That’s one word for it,
I thought. “Refrigerated” was another. For just a moment, her smile wavered, and she looked as if she wasn’t sure how she’d found herself standing in front of a bunch of plaid-encased children singing an off-key tune about Jesus. It was enough to make me wonder if she had some idea, somehow, that the headmaster was on a slab in the morgue this morning, rather than behind the desk in his home office. At least, that’s where I was guessing he was; odds were good he was no longer “marinating” in a wading pool on the curb of Chicon Street. Had Peaches and Desiree left his wallet with him? And if they had, had someone stolen it before the police were called? If so, it might take longer to identify him.

“We’re excited about all the bright and shining faces here this morning. If this is your very first day, let me be the first to welcome you to a new year at Holy Oaks Catholic School!”

There was polite applause, after which she launched into a description of how wonderful the faculty was and how great the new facilities would be when they were built. “Just think how amazing it will be to have a university-grade science lab and four squash courts!” As I wondered what a squash court was, I glanced around the room, looking for friendly faces. I came up empty.

On the other hand, there were at least a few people I recognized from the newspaper. Leonard Graves, who had made his fortune selling expensive shampoo to women, sat in the back, sprawled over a chair as if he were a lion claiming his territory. It was ironic that he should have made his fortune in hair-care products; his head gleamed like a polished bowling ball. His wife, whom I’d seen in the paper promoting a local reality show about modeling, sat primly beside him, looking like a well-dressed stick insect. Her tan, sinewy arms reminded me of beef jerky, and all of her body fat appeared to have been surgically relocated to her lips.

My eyes moved on, landing on Deborah Golden, who Prudence had informed me was a real-estate agent with a lock on all the million-dollar-plus lake properties in Austin, and made more money in a day than I would in two years. She looked a bit older than the photos I saw plastered on “For Sale” signs in my mother-in-law’s neighborhood, but still beautiful, with chiseled cheekbones and dark-brown hair. I wondered which child was hers.

The hair prickled on the back of my neck, and I turned to see Mitzi Krumbacher staring daggers at me, her enormous green earrings swinging menacingly under her impeccably highlighted and styled hair. Peaches had told me she’d gotten an earful yesterday afternoon; apparently Mitzi had terminated our agreement and was demanding a refund. I gave our former client a weak smile and turned away, tugging at my T-shirt hem. I’d had to buy an assortment of plaid and khaki uniform clothes for Elsie, but no one had told me the adults had a dress code, too.

As I stood pretending to listen to the woman with the gold cross drone on, Mitzi edged over to me, smelling like a funeral-home floral arrangement.

“Hello,” I said with a polite smile.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed through a clenched jaw. “I fired you.”

“I’m here as a parent,” I told her. “It’s my daughter’s first day of school.”

“She won’t last,” Mitzi said, venom in her voice. “I promise you. She’s going to be completely out of her league.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” I said, my stomach contracting as she stalked off. I hated to admit it, but I was afraid Mitzi might be right. Thank goodness my mother had talked Elsie into leaving the dog collar at home—and I’d managed to confiscate the fry phone. I patted the plastic toy in my pocket, reassuring myself that it was still there.

As the service droned on, I edged toward the door. I maneuvered myself to place a potted palm between me and Mitzi, and I leaned against the back wall as the chaplain led everyone in the Lord’s Prayer. We had just reached the “forgive us our trespasses” part when the glass doors opened.

A man and a woman walked in, both wearing blazers. For a moment I wondered if they were parents, and my stomach flipped over as I recognized the man.

It was Detective Bunsen, and he was staring right at me.

CHAPTER TEN

T
he last time Bunsen and I had met, he had seemed disappointed that he wasn’t putting me behind bars for murder. Something told me his opinion of me hadn’t changed much since then. I looked back at the terrazzo floor, mumbling through the end of the Lord’s Prayer and attempting to look pious and completely unaware that the headmaster had recently died in a wading pool, looking like an incontinent Aquaman wannabe.

But Bunsen sidled up to me after the “Amen,” murmuring, “Ms. Peterson. I’m so glad to see you here.”

I did my best impression of startled, and swore to myself never to help anyone move a body again. “Detective . . . Bunsen, right?” I blinked innocently. “I didn’t know you had a child here. What grade?”

“I don’t have a child here,” he said as the music teacher—a woman with a pouf of gray hair and a thin, disapproving mouth—led everyone in a rousing rendition of “Kumbaya.” “But I’m pleased to find you here.”

“Why?”

“We found a dead man in East Austin this morning.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry to hear that. But what does that have to do with me?”

“We’d like to talk to you about your friend Becky Hale,” he said.

My mouth turned dry. “Why?”

“There seems to be a connection between your friend and the dead man.”

I swallowed again. “She wrote an article about him in the paper a few months ago, but other than that . . .” Too late, I realized I wasn’t supposed to know who the dead man was. I’d never functioned well on short sleep.

“Interesting,” Detective Bunsen said. “Did you and your friend plan this together?”

“Plan what?” I asked, as if I hadn’t just said the stupidest thing possible.

“I think we need to chat,” he said with a grin that sent a shiver down my spine.

“The headmaster of Holy Oaks is dead,” I told Becky on the phone as I backed out of my parking space a few minutes later, narrowly missing a Porsche Cayenne. I wished I was done with Bunsen, but I wasn’t; when I glanced in the rearview mirror, he was right behind me. We were going to Starbucks so he could interrogate me, unfortunately.

“Wow. Really?” my friend asked.