I left Becky another message and parked on the side of the narrow, tree-lined street, wedging the van in between a Mercedes station wagon and a Porsche Cayenne. I was late—it was almost eleven—but it looked like people were still there. The last thing I wanted to do was make polite conversation with strangers over coffee, but I reminded myself that at least one of those strangers might know something about Cavendish’s Aquaman fixation—or, better yet, why someone had shot him. I squared my shoulders and marched up the long stone walkway to the massive arched front door, half expecting to see striped-stockinged legs sticking out from beneath the shrubbery.
The door chime rang like church bells, and a few moments later, the real-estate agent I’d seen that morning answered the door. She wore her long brown hair pulled back, and her cheekbones were so sharp I could have used them to slice apples. I smiled, and she grimaced as if she were expecting me to pitch her a line of cleaning products.
“Can I help you?” Her greeting was frosty.
“I’m here for the parent coffee.”
She flicked her brown eyes up and down me as if she wasn’t sure she believed me, but stepped back and opened the door anyway. “Of course. Please come in.”
“Thanks!” I said, following her through the massive door into the cool, tiled entry. An arrangement of moss balls was artfully displayed on an antique table to my left; above it was a still-life oil painting that included two dead rabbits and a bowl of fruit. “I’m Deborah Golden,” the woman said, jolting me from staring at the two lifeless, furry little bodies.
I turned back to the hostess. “I’m Margie Peterson. You have a very nice house.”
“Thank you,” Deborah said, leading me toward the distant sound of voices. She wore denim capri pants and a filmy white blouse that looked hand-embroidered. She was definitely petite; even in her cork wedges, she was still two inches shorter than me in my sandals. “My husband and I love traveling in Italy, so we decided to create our own piece of Tuscany here in Austin.”
“How nice,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“We’re in the kitchen, having coffee and pastries. Who do you have starting at Holy Oaks?”
“My daughter, Elsie,” I told her as we walked through the cavernous living room, which was well-stocked with couches that must have been built with giants in mind and a coffee table I was guessing might be a cross section of a redwood trunk. Deborah looked like she risked being swallowed by her own furniture if she sat down. On the other hand, I mused, looking at her bony frame, she probably never sat down. “Is this your first year at Holy Oaks?”
She laughed. “Oh, no. We’ve been at Holy Oaks since the school started, practically.” As she spoke, we passed the dining room—the table seated twenty, with high-backed chairs that looked like they were designed for a conclave of cardinals—and into a kitchen the size of my backyard.
The room was filled with slender, tanned women with bright white teeth, along with one man who stood in the corner looking as if he’d rather be somewhere else. The only person who appeared naturally bronze was a young Hispanic-looking woman in an apron, who was scurrying around, retrieving used plates and disappearing with them into another room. I found myself thinking that Holy Oaks might want to work on their diversity mission a bit.
A rack of copper pots that, from their gleaming exteriors, had likely never seen the top of the stove hung over a gigantic granite-topped island. Beneath the pots, there were several trays of muffins and croissants and a crystal bowl filled with fruit salad. A silver coffee urn squatted on one of the other counters, each of which was the length of a runway. I was guessing there was no Easy Mac behind the custom-made mahogany cabinet doors. “Hi, everybody,” Deborah announced. “This is Margie Peterson; she’s new to Holy Oaks this year.”
“Hi!” everybody responded, almost in chorus. I noticed a few eyebrows rising, and was sure the episode with Peaches and her cell phone would shortly be a topic of conversation. In fact, it probably had been already.
“Help yourself,” Deborah said, gesturing toward the seemingly untouched array of food. “Plates are over here.”
“Thank you,” I said, reaching for a dainty plate rimmed with poppies. I selected a chocolate-chip muffin and a croissant, added a few chunks of watermelon, and turned to make my way across the vast expanse of hardwood floor to the coffee urn, where I filled a hand-painted cup and loitered by the counter.
I’d barely sipped my coffee before an industrious-looking woman with a strawberry-blonde bob and a pair of faded mom jeans accosted me. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Kathleen Gardner. My daughter’s Catriona, and she’s in Ms. Rumpole’s class. Who is your child?”
“Elsie,” I said. “She’s in the same class.”
“My daughter’s name is Catriona,” Kathleen said a second time, taking a sip of her black coffee and nibbling on a piece of sliced pineapple. “She’s really excited about starting Holy Oaks; we’ve been reading a book a day all summer so that she’s fully prepared academically. Of course, it’s been hard to fit it in around her dancing schedule, particularly now that we’re starting with math tutoring.”
“I can imagine,” I said, glancing over her shoulder for somebody else to talk to. Preferably somebody who didn’t make me feel like I was standing on the target end of a firing range. I might have imagined it, but I thought the lone man in the corner gave me a pitying look.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I’m the room mother for Ms. Rumpole’s class, and I’ll be organizing the volunteering. It’s so important to be involved in our children’s lives, don’t you think? It really shows them that they’re a priority.” She adjusted the Peter Pan collar of her pink blouse. “What activities is your child involved in?”
“Umm . . . she’s thinking about taking a musical instrument.” Elsie had, after all, had a brief obsession with the kazoo she’d gotten at a Blazer Tag birthday party.
Kathleen beamed at me, exposing a line of slightly yellowed teeth. “Studying a musical instrument is so important for academic development. Particularly in math, although of course we’ve been working through the second-grade workbook, just to stay fresh. Catriona has been playing violin—Suzuki Method—since she was two. She is so talented—her teacher suggested we take her to New York to study with one of the concertmasters there. Of course, we had to decide where to put her energy, so we’re having to cut back on violin to four times a week now that she’s in the advanced tap classes.”
“Wow,” I said without thinking. “You certainly stay busy.”
“Of course,” she said. “It’s all part of creating a well-rounded child.” She took another sip of coffee. “I do hope your daughter—Elsie, is it?—will sign up for Girl Scouts. I promised Catriona I would be the troop leader, and I have lots of enriching activities planned.”
“How will you have time?”
“Oh, we always make time for our priorities,” she said.
“Speaking of which,” I said, searching for a polite exit strategy, “I didn’t have time for breakfast, and that watermelon was delicious. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to grab a bit more.”
“So, can I count you in for the Scouts?” she asked.
“I’ll ask Elsie,” I told her as I attempted to wrench myself out of her orbit. “Thanks for telling me about it!”
She had glommed on to someone else by the time I refilled my plate, and I edged toward two women with Jennifer Aniston hair and wedges. One of them, a buxom woman with a plunging neckline and a dress that reminded me of Peaches’s orange Lycra number—only several sizes smaller, and lime green—was regaling a wide-eyed woman in capri pants about her divorce. “And would you believe the judge ruled in his favor? At least I got full custody of the twins.”
“That’s a relief,” her rather less-endowed companion said feebly, taking a half step backward.
“But I have to get creative to give them the education they need. I’m appealing the judgment, of course, but in the meantime . . .
”
I started to back away, but the woman in the tight dress had spotted me. “I remember you,” she said.
“Have we met?”
“Not officially,” she said. “I just remember you and your . . . friend,” she said, her mouth quirking up in a little bit of a smile. “From the new-parent meeting yesterday.”
“Um . . . she’s a coworker, actually.”
The thin woman in capri pants peered at me. “What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“How interesting,” the thin woman replied, her smile brittle. “Was your . . . coworker working on a case, then?”
“Must have been,” I said. “Anyway, is this your first year at Holy Oaks?” I asked, anxious to change the subject.
“Yes,” the buxom redhead answered. “Both of my children are starting today; I was so lucky to get them both in. Private schools are so competitive these days, aren’t they?”
“I know. And they work so hard to build diversity,” the thin woman said, her eyes flicking to me. “What does your husband do, Margie?”
“He’s an attorney,” I said.
“Oh?” The suspicious look faded a fraction. “What firm is he with?”
“Jones McEwan.”
“My husband’s an attorney, too,” the thin woman said, looking more at ease. “I’m Melissa Truluck.”
“Margie Peterson,” I said.
“And I’m Cherry Nichols,” said the buxom redhead. “So great that we all get to know each other. We’re so lucky to be at Holy Oaks, don’t you think?”
I sipped my coffee and took a shot at steering the conversation toward the topic I was interested in. “I’m kind of surprised the headmaster wasn’t there this morning.”
“Me too,” the redhead said. “He was probably out fundraising for the new building campaign. I hear that’s the main thing the board wants from him.”
Before she could say more, someone behind me said, “New to the school?”
I turned; it was the man I’d spotted earlier—and the only other person wearing shorts. His were khaki, and he wore a polo shirt with a small constellation of bleach stains around the hem. I was encouraged.
“Yes,” I said, smiling. “How about you?”
“I have a new first grader, but I’ve got a third-grade daughter, too.” He stuck out a hand. “Kevin Archer,” he said.
“Margie Peterson,” I said, shaking his hand. “Do you like it at Holy Oaks?”
He gave me a strained smile. “It’s an interesting place.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I looked at Kevin with renewed curiosity. “Interesting?”
“Let’s just say that, although it’s a Christian school, the meek—not to mention the less well-heeled—haven’t exactly inherited the earth at Holy Oaks, if you know what I mean.”
Kevin and I exchanged notes for a few minutes; we were both public-school kids, and both had married professionals—me an attorney, him a dermatologist. But whereas I spent my child-free time running around in a van spying on adulterers, he spent his playing shuffleboard on the international circuit. I wasn’t sure which activity was more unusual.
“But I want to hear more about Holy Oaks,” I said after a few minutes. “What do you think of the school overall?”
He glanced over his shoulder, then said in a low voice, “It’s been a tumultuous couple of years, to be honest. Cavendish is the second head in three years, and the emphasis seems to be more on the building campaign than the academics.” Evidently, Kevin had no idea the school was about to be on its third headmaster.
“Why do you stay, then?”
“Victoria likes the teachers, and she’s made a good friend,” he said. “I hope Elsie has the same experience. It can get crazy around here.”
“What kind of crazy?”
“Umm . . . Well, here’s an example. One of the first-grade girls had a birthday party,” he said, glancing around again to make sure no one was listening. “They sent a limo to pick up each girl, and then brought them all to a spa for mani-pedis and makeovers.”
“In first grade?”
He nodded.
“Wow,” I said, then remembered my real purpose was to find out what exactly had happened to Aquaman. “So the parents can be a bit over-the-top. What do you think of the headmaster?”
“George? He’s been here two years. The board is happy with him—apparently he’s made a lot of money for the capital campaign.” He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s best if you know what you’re getting into. If one of the big donor families doesn’t like you, you may find your daughter out on her ear.”
It wasn’t surprising, based on what had happened to Becky’s daughter, but I felt my stomach turn over. What had I let Prue get me into? “Money talks, eh?”
“Money rules,” he said darkly.
“Who should I watch out for?” I asked.
“The Krumbachers and the Goldens,” he whispered. “And—”
“Kevin! I haven’t seen you all summer!” It was Mitzi Krumbacher. She shot me a nasty look as she inserted herself between us, then turned to Kevin with a smile that showed off all her veneers.
My new acquaintance took a step back, looking surprised by the attention and maybe a little guilty. “Mitzi,” he said. “How are you?”
“Just back from a trip to the South of France,” she said, waving her hand and distributing a cloud of expensive perfume. “How about you?” She grinned in what I surmised was supposed to be a flirtatious manner, but the facial paralysis made it hard to tell. “Have you been taking home any more national titles?”
“Not this summer. The next tournament is in October,” Kevin said. “Mitzi, have you met Margie?”
I stuck a hand out and applied a polite smile. “Yes, we’ve met. You have a first grader?”
“Violet,” she bit out. “Anyway, Kevin, there’s someone I want you to meet. If you’ll excuse us . . .” Without waiting for an answer, she hooked his arm and led him off.
I watched as she pulled Kevin over to another corner of the vast kitchen, then I drained my coffee and refilled it so that I wouldn’t fall asleep standing up. I listened to the conversations around me as I sipped my coffee, hoping to hear something related to the headmaster, but the primary topics seemed to be lakeside real estate, exotic summer vacations, pedicures, and after-school enrichment activities.
I was about to go back for another muffin when Deborah Golden’s phone burbled from a few feet away from me. She hurried over and picked it up, looking irritated by the interruption. Then her eyes widened, and she excused herself from the kitchen. I abandoned my pastries and followed her.
Her voice floated down the vast hallway, and I slipped behind a column that looked like it had been looted from a Florentine church. “What do you mean, he’s dead?”
So someone knew. Who was on the other end of the line? I wondered. At least I could probably cross Deborah Golden off the list of suspects.
“Shit,” she said, which kind of surprised me. “That creates all kinds of problems. But it’ll be a while till we get an interim, so we have time. Have they been through his office yet?” There was silence for a moment. “Do what you can. I’ve got half the first-grade parents here. I’ll call you back when it’s over.”
Uh-oh. No time to escape. I edged around the column as Deborah Golden’s wedges clip-clopped toward me, but either the column needed to be wider or I needed to be skinnier.
“Can I help you?”
Deborah Golden’s voice was cold, and her face bore no trace of the fake smile she’d greeted me with.
“Yes, actually,” I said. “Lovely pillar, by the way,” I added, stroking the antique marble and feeling like a total idiot. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Just to the left of the front door,” she told me, still sounding distinctly unfriendly. “Were you hoping for a secret button, or a passageway?” she asked, with a poi
nted look at the column.
I gave what I hoped was a light laugh, but it sounded more like I was gagging. “Of course not. Just admiring your beautiful house,” I said, and drifted off toward the jumble of antlers hanging in the living room.
It was almost noon by the time I managed to extricate myself from Little Tuscany, thankful to be back in my derelict minivan. It had been an interesting morning. Was Deborah Golden worried about the police finding something in Cavendish’s office? I wondered as I put the van in drive. And what kind of “problems” did his death create?
My mother was in full swing when I stopped by the house to pick up the cat carrier and grab a sandwich. My first clue that she was doing something industrious was that all the windows were open. Which is not ideal at noon on an August day in Texas.
“Hello, darling!” she called out as I cautiously stepped through the front door into the sauna that was my house. There was some kind of chiming music coming from the kitchen, and Rufus had retreated to the top of the television, which was no longer in its customary location against the wall. He hissed when I reached to pet him.
“Mom?” I called. “What are you doing?”
“Just doing a little space clearing,” she said. I followed her voice to the kitchen, where the entire contents of my cabinets and pantry had been disgorged onto the table. My mother balanced on a stool, reaching for a jar of applesauce. She wore a long, flowing, tie-dyed skirt and a tank top, and her hair was pulled up into a loose bun. I couldn’t help noticing the sweat stains on the tank top.
“You mean pantry clearing,” I said.
“Well, that’s part of it,” she said. “I can’t believe how many refined food products you have. No wonder Elsie is having trouble.”
“Who said she’s having trouble?”
Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) Page 8
