Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

  “Did something happen yesterday?” I asked. She crossed her arms and turned away.

  “I’ll take her to school,” my mother volunteered. “We can stop and pick up something for lunch on the way. Would you like that?” she asked Elsie.

  My daughter turned toward her and nodded.

  I hesitated. What about lunch? There was no way Elsie was going to eat the dried seaweed snacks my mother had tried to tempt her with. “Thanks,” I said, handing my mother the jumper. “But—and I know your feelings about processed foods—would you please make her a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich?”

  My mother heaved a sigh.

  “Please? I’m willing to think about making some changes, but today, I need her to eat something.”

  “I guess I can pull something out of the bags I haven’t taken to the food bank yet . . .”

  “Thank you,” I said, relieved. “We’ll talk about nutrition later.” I kissed my daughter on the head and hurried Nick out to the minivan, glad to have avoided a showdown with Elsie. Maybe today would go better for her. I hoped so, anyway. “Please remind her to take her dog collar off!” I called over my shoulder.

  “I’ll take care of it,” my mother said as the door to the garage closed behind me.

  I got to the Pretty Kitten around nine, after dropping Nick off and stopping for a Starbucks coffee and a gluten- and sugar-filled chocolate muffin. I still hadn’t gotten around to calling Bunsen yet, and since, as far as I knew, my iPhone was still lodged in Bubba Sue’s intestines, there was no way to know if he’d left a message.

  Peaches was on the phone when I walked into the office. I popped the last bit of muffin into my mouth and sat down across from her.

  “I’ll have her call when she gets here,” she was saying, adjusting her stretchy top and eyeing me.

  The muffin stuck in my throat. I took a big swig of coffee to wash it down and nearly choked. “Who was that?” I wheezed when Peaches hung up.

  “Your buddy down at the police station,” she said. “You’re not returning your phone calls.”

  “I can’t. Bubba Sue ate my phone,” I said, still coughing.

  Peaches blinked, and her eyelashes stuck together. She was wearing makeup today, I noticed, and had upgraded to a slinky pink spandex dress that hugged her curves. Things must be looking up for her. Which made one of us. “Bubba Sue what?” my boss asked.

  “She ate my phone,” I repeated. “And that pig is not teacup-size. She’s the size of a refrigerator, and she’s mean. I was out there three times yesterday, and so far I’m down a fry phone, an iPhone, and a cat carrier.”

  “She ate the cat carrier, too?”

  “No. She got her head stuck in it and bashed it to pieces against the fence.”

  Peaches winced. “What happened to the fry phone?”

  “The fry phone still seems to be intact, but I can’t get to it without being charged by a giant pig.”

  “Ouch. How’d Elsie take it?”

  “She doesn’t know,” I said. “I told her I left it at the office; I’m just praying I can figure out how to get it back.”

  “Well, at least nobody saw you.”

  I sighed. “Actually . . . that’s not entirely true.”

  Peaches stared at me.

  “Bunsen called when I was in the backyard last night. The ringer woke up Bubba Sue, and she started squealing, and the guy came out into the yard with a shotgun,” I told her grimly. “If you could research pig tranquilizers, that’d be great.”

  “Maybe a bottle of Benadryl in a cupcake?” she suggested.

  “I want to knock her out, not kill her,” I reminded Peaches. “Besides, she’s pregnant—too many drugs would be bad for the piglets.”

  “You’re worried about the piglets?”

  “She’s a mom,” I said. “A bitchy mom, but she’s still a mom.” I took another sip of coffee. “Oh, and I told Becky what we did.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Margie.” Peaches rocked back in her chair. “What happened to our deal?”

  “I couldn’t lie to my best friend. If she went to jail because I made a mistake and didn’t tell her what I’d done, I’d never sleep again.”

  “You’re killing me.” Peaches reached in her pink dress for here-cigarette and took a deep drag. “What the hell happened to the ‘one week’ thing?”

  “We’ve still got a week. Becky’s okay with it. In fact, she helped me steam open Cavendish’s mail last night.”

  “You steamed his mail open?” Her eyes glinted. “You’re a quick study, girl. But I wouldn’t mention that to Detective Bunsen.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “Maybe it’s a good thing Bubba Sue ate your phone. What did you find out?”

  “Holy Oaks has a ton of money invested in a firm that belongs to one of the board members,” I told her, “and the investment returns are like fifty percent a year.”

  Peaches grabbed a pen. “What’s the name of the company?”

  “Golden Investments,” I told her. “Their biggest holding is something called Spectrum Properties, according to what the statement says.”

  She jotted the names down. “I’ll see what I can find out. Anything else?”

  “A letter from an admissions office, and an angry note from a mom who paid big bucks for the Acorn Scholars program and didn’t get her kid into the school of his choice. She wanted a refund.”

  “See? I told you we should look at the parents,” Peaches said sagely. “Maybe you can go interview her after we talk to Desiree.”

  “When are we meeting with her, anyway?” I asked.

  She glanced at her watch. “We’re supposed to meet her at a coffeehouse near campus in half an hour.”

  “We should head out, then.”

  “I’ll drive this time,” she said. I eyed her critically; she didn’t look as if she’d had anything to drink that morning. In fact, she was looking pretty chirpy, which was a nice change of pace.

  “How are things with Jess?” I asked.

  “No change,” she said, “but I’m meeting a guy from Honkytonk Honeys.com for lunch.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “He’s cute. Blond hair, blue eyes, looks good in a western-style shirt, loves to go dancing . . .”

  “Sounds a lot like Jess,” I said. “You should call him, you know.”

  She scowled at me and grabbed her purse. “You might want to figure out your marriage to Mr. Twinkle Toes before you start dishing out the relationship advice.”

  I sighed and followed her out to the Buick, wincing as a woman shrieked next door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Desiree looked completely different without the dog collar.

  When we walked into the Coffee Bean she was sitting at a table in the corner, looking about twelve years old. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, she wore a pink T-shirt with khaki shorts, and an enormous textbook was open on the table in front of her.

  “Can we get you a coffee?” Peaches asked as she pulled up a chair next to her.

  Desiree darted us a nervous smile and pointed at her iced tea. “No, thanks,” she said, and I was guessing from the expression on her face that she regretted agreeing to talk to us. I could see why; we were the oldest people in the coffee shop by about twenty years, and Peaches’s tight pink dress wasn’t what you’d call inconspicuous.

  “Margie?” Peaches asked.

  “Just a small coffee,” I said, and Peaches lumbered off to flirt with the barista.

  “What are you working on?” I asked Desiree.

  “Cognitive psychology,” she grimaced. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow.”

  “Is psychology your major?”

  “Yes, but I’m kind of leaning toward interior design. I might do a masters in it.”

  “You’ve got a knack for design, but I’ll bet psychology comes in handy in your . . .” I almost said “profession,” but ended with “line of work.”

  “Not really,�
� she said, turning slightly pink. Dominatrix by night, shy sorority girl by day; it was an interesting combination. “Most of them just want someone to listen to them,” she continued. “If you just nod and sound sympathetic, they keep coming back for more. I’ve got a lot of regulars.”

  “Did . . . Mr. Cavendish talk much?” I asked.

  Her brow wrinkled. “Who?”

  “Aquaman,” I prompted.

  “Oh. Yeah, right. I keep forgetting his real name.” She chewed on the end of her pen with pearl-white teeth. “He talked a lot, but I didn’t pay too much attention. They all complain about their wives.”

  “What did he say about his wife?”

  “The same as the rest of them. Didn’t ever have the time to listen, too busy with her book club and her running group to pay attention to him, wore granny panties to bed. Just like every other married woman in Austin.” As she took another sip, I did a personal inventory. I had to own up to granny panties, but I’d never belonged to either a book club or a running club. It was true that I’d been a bit preoccupied with the kids the past few years, but considering my husband’s sexual proclivities, I doubted even a dog collar and bustier would get things going in the bedroom again. Desiree let out a small, superior sigh. “If I ever get married, I’ll know what to do, that’s for sure.”

  I stifled both a snort and the urge to tell her to call me in ten years. Instead, I said, “How did you and . . . Aquaman . . . meet up, anyway?”

  “I used to work at a strip club,” she said. “He was a regular, and when I started doing private work, he was one of my first clients.”

  “Which strip club?” I asked.

  “It’s called the Sweet Shop, over by the old airport.”

  “That’s how we got to be friends,” Peaches said, sashaying back to the table after placing her order. “I met her when I was in for the strip steak a few months ago, and she agreed to do some work for me. She’s an awesome honeypot.”

  I felt my own cheeks turn a little pink as I remembered the time Peaches had tried to get me to be a honeypot—a woman who lures a straying man to cheat. The guy I was trying to lure turned out to be gay, and I’d accidentally ended up participating in a drag-queen contest. It hadn’t been one of my better days.

  “Do you know Marty Krumbacher?” I asked, anxious to change the subject.

  “Oh, I know Marty, all right,” she said. “He was a client for a while.”

  “Really?” Peaches asked, leaning forward.

  “He was big into domination. He was really into those leather collars, and the ball gags.”

  Ball gags? Peaches and I exchanged glances. Mitzi would have loved to know that, but since we were no longer working for her, there was no reason to tell her. Even though I did feel a stab of pity for her. No woman wants to find out her husband is sleeping with another woman. Or man. Particularly when there are ball gags involved. “Was he a regular at the Sweet Shop?” I asked.

  “I think he was a part owner of the place, or something. He was always with the manager. They’d have meetings in the back room, without any of the girls.”

  I remembered the meeting I’d seen at the Sweet Shop a few days ago. “What was he involved in?”

  “There were a bunch of shipments coming into the place,” she said. “There’s a storage room in the back; there’d be big deliveries a few times a week.”

  “Did Cavendish say anything about his job?” I asked.

  Her smooth brow furrowed. “I think so,” she said. “Something was bothering him. Some investment thing.”

  “Did he mention what the trouble was?”

  She gave the pen another nibble. “He wanted to get out of it, but he couldn’t. He was having some kind of moral crisis.”

  Which was ironic, I thought, considering he was confessing to a prostitute. “Why?”

  “There was something wrong with it. I’m not sure what.”

  “Why couldn’t he get out of it?”

  “Something about a board,” she told me, shrugging. “I wasn’t really paying attention.” She reached for her iced tea and tucked the straw into her mouth as Peaches retrieved our drinks from the bar—a small mug of coffee for me and a giant milkshake-like drink for herself.

  Peaches sat down again and crossed her legs, which made her skirt ride up another few inches. I resisted the urge to tug it down for her. “So,” she said, looking at Desiree. “Did he mention anything else he was worried about? His wife, maybe?”

  “He did mention a woman he’d been sleeping with.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Peaches said. “What’d he say?”

  “He was having second thoughts about her, too. He’d done her a favor, but wanted to back out.” She sipped her tea. “Said it was too late, though.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “I don’t know. I put the pacifier in, and that was, like, the end of the conversation.”

  I blinked. “A pacifier?”

  She shrugged. “Only on his bad-baby days.”

  “Bad-baby days,” Peaches repeated.

  “Oh, yes. I had to put him in time-out a lot. I always kept a box of Depends for him.”

  Peaches let out a long, low whistle.

  I chose not to find out more about bad-baby days. “So he didn’t mention a name?”

  “He did, now that you mention it. Something flowery. Lily? Rose?” She shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  “What was the favor?” I asked as Peaches sucked on her straw.

  “He didn’t say.” She sipped her tea again and let out a long sigh. “I still can’t believe he died in my apartment—it’s been a really shitty week. First that, now this test tomorrow.” She sighed again. “Do they know who killed him yet?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I’m just hoping the cops don’t trace him back to me. They would have by now if they could, wouldn’t they?” she asked, toying nervously with her straw.

  “I don’t know,” I said, thinking of my deal with Becky. If we didn’t find out what had happened soon, Peaches and I were going to have to talk with Detective Bunsen, and the cops were going to know exactly where George Cavendish had been when somebody put a bullet in his back.

  “Why are you so interested in his personal life?” the young woman asked, then narrowed her blue eyes. “Did the cops figure out you were involved?”

  “They found something of ours at the scene,” Peaches said. “We’re trying to figure out what happened so we don’t have to spill the beans on where it all went down.”

  Desiree’s eyes got big. “You wouldn’t tell them where you found the body, would you?”

  “We might have to,” I said. “Now, are you sure you don’t remember anything else?”

  “But . . . you promised you’d keep it quiet!”

  Peaches shrugged a pink-clad shoulder. “We’re working on it,” she said. “The more you can tell us, the better the odds we can keep it on the down-low.”

  “Shit,” Desiree said, and bit down hard on her pen. “Let me think. I told you about the investment thing, and the chick named Lily or Rose or whatever.”

  “Did you see anything unusual that night?” I asked.

  “Not really,” she said.

  “Any cars on the street that were different from what was usually parked outside?” Peaches prompted. “Anyone new walking around the neighborhood?”

  “I don’t remember anyone,” she said, then straightened. “Wait. When I closed the curtains just after John . . . I mean, Cavendish got to my apartment, I noticed there was a car outside I don’t usually see.”

  Peaches leaned forward, almost spilling out of her dress. “What was it?”

  “It was a Lexus,” she said. “It was bright red; that’s what caught my eye.”

  “What kind?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Not an SUV or anything. Four doors, I think.”

  “I don’t think I saw a Lexus when I got there,” Peaches said, and turned to me. “You?”

&
nbsp; “Where was it parked?” I asked.

  “Behind Cavendish’s car.”

  “I don’t remember it. And it wasn’t there when we took the . . . pool out of the apartment,” I said, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. Best not to mention dead bodies in public places.

  “It’s worth checking into,” Peaches said. “Margie, can you poll the parking lot at the school?”

  “I’ll look today,” I said. “You didn’t catch a license-plate number, did you?”

  She twirled a lock of blonde hair. “Nope.”

  “Well, it’s something,” Peaches said, taking another slug of her coffee-milkshake concoction. “So. We know he was sleeping with someone with a flowery name and having second thoughts about it, and we know he wanted to get out of an investment, but the board didn’t want him to jump ship.”

  “And that a red Lexus was parked outside her apartment before . . . the incident,” I added.

  “Got anything else?” Peaches asked.

  Desiree shrugged. “If I think of anything, I’ll call you,” she said. “But please . . .” She reached out and grabbed Peaches’s hand in an iron grip. “Don’t tell the cops what happened. I’m begging you, Peaches.”

  “We’ll do the best we can,” Peaches said, trying to wrench her hand out of Desiree’s manicured clinch. “Seriously, though, anything you think of—anything at all—you call us. Got it?”

  Desiree nodded vigorously as we stood up to leave. Peaches was inspecting her hand for fingernail grooves as we headed toward the door. I glanced back at Desiree. The young woman was still staring at her psychology textbook when we left, but she didn’t look like she was taking much in.

  “Poor thing,” I said as I pulled the door of the Buick Regal closed behind me. My car smelled like French fries, old chicken nuggets, and now my mother’s patchouli oil, so we took Peaches’s car whenever we could.

  “What? Desiree? Sheesh.” Peaches massaged her hand. “That girl’s got a hell of a grip.”

  “I hope she doesn’t have to tell her parents about what she’s been doing for money,” I said. “Maybe this will make her rethink her part-time job.”

  “It’d be hard to make that kind of money slinging burgers,” Peaches said.