Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

  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 ridicu
lous. 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.

  “I’ll explain when you get here. I promise you’ll be home in time to take the kids to school.”

  “But—”

  “Thanks, hon. See you in a few.” And she hung up.

  I sat in bed for a few minutes, still trying to process the conversation. Move a body? Whose body?

  And why?

  I got up and threw on a pair of shorts, wondering if Peaches had killed someone. If so, and if I had anything to do with relocating the body, wouldn’t that make me an accessory to murder?

  But Peaches hadn’t said she’d killed anyone. She’d just said there was a body. But if the body had died of natural causes, why would she want to move it?

  After tossing on the T-shirt I’d worn that day—if I was going to be moving a dead body, there was no point in putting on something clean—I called Peaches again, but she didn’t answer. Cursing under my breath, I entered the address into my phone’s GPS, tiptoed out of the bedroom, scrawled a note to Blake, and slipped through the back door and into the sultry Austin night.

  The GPS led me past the high-rises of downtown. The streets were virtually deserted except for a few homeless people and late-night strollers—or stumblers, depending on how close they were to Sixth Street. Once I crossed IH-35, the architecture got a whole lot shorter, with a mix of gentrified bungalows interspersed with boarded-up old houses, barbecue and taco restaurants, and neon-colored billboards recommending ways to Enviar Dinero a México!!!

  The address was in a gentrifying area not too far from the roughest part of town, east of IH-35. There were more people on the street in this area, and I checked the locks on my van as I passed a pack of young men who seemed to be eyeing my back bumper with interest. Were they staring because it was falling off, or because they were considering tearing it off and selling it to a chop shop?

  My worries over my bumper receded as I pulled up behind Peaches’s Buick. She must have picked it up after I’d dropped her off. The fresh paint job gleamed in the streetlight. Whoever had done the bodywork had done a good job; the baseball-bat-size dents had cleaned up beautifully, and the car was no longer missing large swaths of paint and glass. I checked the address on the GPS and stepped out of the van, locking the door behind me.

  To my relief, the apartment was on the first floor. At least we won’t have to drag the body down any stairs, I told myself as I took a deep breath and tried to imagine what might lie behind the windowless front door.

  I knocked lightly, half hoping no one would answer. It was not my lucky day. I’d barely lowered my hand before the door fell open, and I found myself facing a young woman in a leather bustier and a studded dog collar my daughter would have killed for.

  “Who the hell are you?” she asked, eyeing me as if I were the one wearing a leather bustier and a dog collar. I kept my eyes on hers; it was too awkward to look anywhere else.

  Peaches’s voice came from somewhere behind her. “Is that Margie?”

  The woman in leather cocked an eyebrow at me, and I nodded.

  “Think so,” she yelled back, still giving me a speculative look. “I thought you said you were calling some muscle.”

  “She’s stronger than she looks,” Peaches said, coming up behind the woman in the bustier. “Beefy.”

  “Beefy?” I said. Granted, maybe I did have a bit of a chocolate addiction, but . . . beefy? “You’re not exactly sylphlike yourself, you know.”

  “Keep your pants on and get in here,” she said, waving me inside. I risked a quick glance downward. I did have pants on, but the woman who’d answered the door definitely did not. As I stepped inside and the leather-woman closed the door behind me, I reflected that I’d seen more female flesh in the past twelve hours than I had in the past year.

  And I was about to see a dead body, too. Oh, boy.

  “So,” I said, not sure how to broach the subject of the corpse. “The Buick looks just like new.”

  “Tony did a good job, didn’t he?” Peaches asked, tugging her dress down. “I’m glad I got it back tonight—this isn’t the kind of job where you want to call a cab,” she said. “Did you bring the van?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good,” she said. “Because I don’t think we can fit him in my trunk.”

  “I am not putting a dead person in my minivan,” I said, holding up my right hand. “I drive my children to school in that van!”

  Peaches sighed. “Let’s at least show you what we’re looking at.”

  “What are we looking at, anyway?” I asked, wishing I’d never answered my phone.

  “We didn’t kill him,” Peaches said. “Promise. We’re just putting him in a place where he won’t get Desiree in trouble.”

  I grimaced, feeling fairly sure that coming here was a really, really, really bad idea, but followed my boss into the living room anyway. The space was tastefully decorated, with light-blue couches and a green-and-blue swirly rug that looked like it could handle all kinds of stains. “Where did you get that rug?” I asked, thinking it would look good in my own living room.

  “Isn’t it cute?” Desiree said, adjusting the strap of her bustier. “I found it at Pottery Barn last week. End-of-summer sale; it was thirty percent off.”

  “If you’re done with the HGTV highlights, he’s in here,” Peaches interrupted from down the hallway.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that,” I said, and headed down the hall to where she stood next to an open door.

  If the living room looked like something out of a lifestyle catalog, the bedroom—if you could call it that—was decorated in a style I’d call “Spanish Inquisition.” An assortment of whips and flails lined the walls, and a series of complicated-looking leather harnesses hung from a beam in the ceiling. The only thing out of place was the pink-mermaid wading pool in the middle of the floor. And the dead man in it.

  “Why is he wearing green tights and a belt?” I asked. He was pale and paunchy, and had fallen so that he was half out of the pool. A big red gunshot wound gaped in the middle of his back, and blood was pooling on the pink vinyl. It wasn’t the first dead body I’d seen, and I’d known it was coming, but it was still a shock.

  “And goggles,” Peaches added.

  “He had a thing for water,” Desiree said. “He liked me to call him Aquaman.”

  Peaches sniffed, and I wrinkled my nose. It smelled like the kids’ bathroom when we were potty-training Nick.

  “Water, eh? You mean, like golden showers?” Peaches asked.

  “Yeah.” Desiree sounded a little sheepish. “He paid extra for me to pee on him,” she said. “I always had to drink two Big Gulps before he came over.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking,” I said.

  “It’s better than the ones who want to pee on me,” she told me.

  I didn’t want to think about that, so I focused on the more important issue. “Who shot him?”

  “I don’t know,” Desiree said. “I cuffed him and left him alone for a few minutes. He usually liked to marinate for a little while.”

  “What were you doing while he was . . . marinating?” Peaches asked.

  “Buying curtains online,” she said. “The sale ends tomorrow. Anyway, I was just putting in my order when I heard a gunshot. I came in here, and he . . . he was dead.”

  “Nobody else noticed the gunshot?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “It’s a rough neighborhood. You get us
ed to it.”

  I couldn’t imagine getting used to gunshots, but I supposed anything could become normal if it happened often enough. “How did the killer get in?” I asked.

  “Patio door,” Peaches said, pulling back a red-velvet curtain. The sliding glass door behind it was open. “Forced it.”

  I looked at Desiree. Despite her Morticia Addams boudoir getup, she looked very young. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just can’t tamper with a murder scene this way.” I looked at Peaches. “Neither of us should be here.”

  Tears welled up in the young woman’s eyes, and she hugged herself. For a moment, something about her reminded me of Elsie. Maybe it was the dog collar. “I can’t have him found here. My parents will disown me, and the police . . . I don’t know if they’ll believe me. I’ll never be able to finish school, and I’ll have to do this for the rest of my life.” She flicked a hand at a rack of whips.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

  “You’ve got to help me,” she said, reaching for my hand. “My parents have no idea this is how I put myself through school; it would kill them if they found out. My mother . . .” She shuddered. “I’d lose her forever.”

  I sighed. “But it’s tampering with evidence. And I can’t risk being connected with a murder. My kids have too much disruption in their lives already.” I looked at Peaches. “How do you know each other?”

  “Desiree helped me on an infidelity case,” my boss explained to me, “so I owe her a favor. And all she wants us to do is move him out of the apartment.”