Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

  The board members were clustered together near the front of the church: the Krumbachers sat next to Deborah Golden, who was accompanied by a tall, spare man with a fringe of white hair around a shiny pate that reminded me of a mottled beach ball. Frank Golden?

  It was at least an hour before we all filed out into the narthex again, where a cluster of mourners gathered around Cavendish. I watched Frank Golden from afar. He glanced at his watch several times; after a few minutes, he stepped a few feet back from the casket, where he was joined by Marty.

  Kevin had gone to the restroom, so I sidled over to where they stood, a few feet from Cavendish.

  “Is everything under control?” Marty asked.

  “It is,” Golden said. “Is everything clear down at the shop?”

  “We’ve moved most of the boxes out,” Krumbacher said. “Do we stop selling it?”

  “We’ll finish up this shipment and revamp the formulation,” Golden said.

  “How long do I have?”

  Before Golden could answer, Kathleen materialized in front of me like a ghoul at a haunted house. I startled and took a step backward.

  “Have you thought more about having your daughter evaluated?” she asked loudly. I pulled away from her and stole a glance at Krumbacher and Golden, both of whom were now staring at me.

  “What?” I asked, taking another step back.

  “I really think you should. Also, I’ve been looking for a cookie coordinator, and thought that might be a perfect way for you to support your daughter. It’s a big job, but so vital to the troop, and I really think having her mother in such an important position would be a big help to your daughter socially.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I told her, looking around for Kevin. “Like I said, I’ll talk with Elsie about it.”

  “Isn’t it really the parent’s decision?” Kathleen asked. “Children need guidance at this age.” She advanced again, like a pit bull who had scented a hot-dog stand. I stepped back another foot, and my hip ran into something hard, making me stumble. My heel turned sideways as I tried to balance, and I instinctively grabbed something to steady myself.

  Unfortunately, what I grabbed was the top corner of George Cavendish’s casket.

  The next five seconds seemed to last about six hours. The casket lurched to the side, and there was a collective intake of breath. I reached out with my other hand, trying to steady the casket, but somehow all that seemed to do was add to the momentum.

  The huddle of mourners leaped out of the way as the mahogany coffin crashed down sideways on the green carpet. The lid that had covered the bottom half of George Cavendish sprang open, and he rolled out onto the narthex floor, giving everyone in the church an unobstructed view of his thong-clad buttocks.

  There was dead silence for a few moments, with every eye trained on those two pale mounds of flesh. Then there was a strangled cry, and Cressida Cavendish fainted, following her husband to the floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It took four of us, including the undertaker, to stuff him back into the coffin. We straightened him up as well as we could—thank God the thong stayed in place—while another group carried Cressida Cavendish and laid her out on a pew. Some of Cavendish’s pancake makeup had come off, smudging the carpet, and his mouth had fallen open, giving him a disturbingly vacant look. I tried to push his jaw back into place, but it wouldn’t budge, so instead I straightened his tie and stepped back, wishing I could melt into the floor.

  An icy silence greeted me as I stepped away from the coffin. I was heading for the front door when Kevin reappeared, looking confused.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I just knocked over the coffin,” I mumbled.

  Kevin glanced over toward Cavendish. The mourners had not reassembled; either the sight of Cavendish’s buttocks had put them off it, or they were afraid the casket might fall over again.

  “He was wearing a thong,” I added.

  Kevin let out something between a laugh and a cough. “You are something else. And I still want to know what was going on with your shorts at the new parent meeting.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. Everyone immediately turned away, as if they weren’t staring at me. “I think I’d better go,” I said. “When Mrs. Cavendish comes to, will you tell her how sorry I am?”

  “Will do,” he said as I slipped through the enormous front doors. I’d never in my life been so happy to get out of a church.

  On the plus side, I told myself as I climbed into the minivan, at least Kathleen had stopped bugging me about the Girl Scouts.

  My mother had agreed to take Elsie to school for me that afternoon, so I cruised by Bubba Sue’s house on the way to the Pretty Kitten, my mind flashing between the horror scene I’d accidentally created at Cavendish’s funeral and Elsie’s fry phone. Who the hell puts a corpse in thong underwear? I wondered as I turned onto South Lamar. Was that one of his “last will and testament” requests? It could have been worse, I told myself. He could have still been wearing Aquaman tights. Still, if Kathleen was right, I hadn’t done my daughter any favors in the social department this morning. The least I could do for her was to get the fry phone back.

  Unfortunately, the client’s ex was mowing the lawn as I drove by. He didn’t have a shotgun, but there was a Weedwacker nearby, so I lowered my head and kept driving. Besides, I wasn’t exactly dressed for pig wrangling—and I hadn’t figured out the whole sedation-and-hog-tying thing, either.

  Peaches’s Buick wasn’t in the parking lot when I pulled up outside the Pretty Kitten. The waxing salon was doing a booming business that morning; the chorus of shrieks and moans reminded me of the haunted-house ride at Disney World.

  The answering machine was blinking, but I was afraid to check it; the less I heard from Detective Bunsen, the better. Instead, I sat down at my desk, Googled “sedate pig,” and spent the next fifteen minutes trying to estimate Bubba Sue’s weight. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I didn’t want to be gored by an angry teacup pig, either. I was just finishing up my calculations when the door opened and Detective Bunsen walked in.

  “Um . . . Hi!” I said.

  “You’re tough to get in touch with,” Bunsen said, hitching up his pants.

  “A pig ate my phone,” I told him.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I lost my phone,” I said, closing my laptop. If I told him what really happened, I’d sound like an idiot. Besides, I didn’t want to be cited for trespassing. Or attempted pignapping. “What can I do for you?” I asked, steepling my hands in an attempt to look cool and professional.

  “Your fingerprints turned up on your friend’s card,” he said. “I was wondering why.”

  I shrugged, attempting to look nonchalant, although what I was thinking was, Could this day get any worse? “I have no idea,” I lied.

  I gestured for him to take a seat in the plastic visitors’ chair. He sat down, and we both pretended to ignore the moaning from next door.

  “Where were you on the night Cavendish died?” he asked once the moaning had turned into a whimper.

  “At home,” I said.

  “Do you have anyone who can verify that?”

  “It was three in the morning,” I said, then resisted the urge to clap a hand to my mouth.

  He sat up and leaned forward, looking like a pointing dog who’s spotted a wounded pigeon. “What was at three in the morning?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Was there something at three in the morning?”

  The door opened again, and we both swiveled to look. It was Peaches, resplendent in a zebra-print pantsuit. “New client?” she asked, winking at me.

  “This is Detective Bunsen, actually,” I said. “Detective Bunsen, Peaches Barlowe.”

  “I think we’ve met before. Always a pleasure,” she said, extending a plump hand.

  Bunsen stood up and shook it. “I couldn’t reach your investigator,” he told her, “so
I thought I’d swing by.” In the silence that followed, a loud shriek sounded from next door. Peaches and I both winced involuntarily. “Interesting office space,” he remarked.

  “We get discounts,” Peaches said. “Tell them we sent you, and they’ll give you half off.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell my wife,” he said.

  “They’re good with back hair, too,” she said. “Just so you know. But I’m guessing you’re not here for waxing services.” She strode around her desk and slung herself into her chair. “What can we help you with?”

  “We found something belonging to one of Ms. Peterson’s friends at the scene of George Cavendish’s death.”

  “So you’re thinking it’s homicide?” I asked.

  “That’s the working theory,” he said. “Considering the circumstances.”

  “What were the circumstances?” I asked.

  “I was hoping you would tell me that,” he said while I tried to look innocent.

  Peaches crossed her legs. “What was the object in question?”

  “A business card,” I supplied. “He showed me a copy of it at Starbucks the other morning.”

  “Whose card?” she asked, looking genuinely interested. It was impressive.

  “Becky Hale,” Bunsen answered.

  “She must have given it to him at some point,” I supplied.

  “That’s one explanation,” Bunsen said. “But something tells me it’s not the one I’m looking for.”

  “What happened to him, anyway?” I asked, as if I had no idea he had been killed by a gun while marinating in urine. “He looked pretty good in the casket this morning.”

  “Again. I was hoping you would tell me that.”

  I was saved from answering by the sound of gunshots.

  Both Peaches and Bunsen hurled themselves under the desk, ending up in a ball of zebra print and khakis. “Get down, Margie!” Peaches hissed, reaching out and yanking at my leg. I fell backward, landing on the floor just as another flurry of gunshots sounded.

  As I crouched behind a chair, I heard the click of a gun being cocked, and Bunsen crawled out from under the desk, creeping toward the window. Tires screeched from the parking lot just as he got to the window.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “They’re gone,” he said.

  “Did you get the plates?” Peaches asked.

  “No. Not even the make. It was a red car.”

  “What kind?” I asked.

  “Midsize,” he said, still peering out the window. “Maybe a Camry, or a Lexus; it turned the corner before I could tell.”

  “Is everyone okay?”

  “No one seems to be hurt,” he said, surveying us. “But what kind of car do you drive?”

  “A Dodge Caravan,” I said.

  “I thought so.” He stood up, brushing off his khakis, and reached for his phone.

  “Why?”

  “I hope your tires are still under warranty,” he said.

  It wasn’t just the tires that were in trouble. We filed outside and stood staring at my perforated minivan as sirens sounded in the distance. Shattered glass glittered on the pavement—the rear window was blown out—and I counted ten bullet holes in the back of the van. Two of the four tires were flat.

  “Somebody must have a thing against minivans,” Peaches said as Bunsen squatted to inspect the bullet holes.

  “Or private investigators,” Bunsen suggested. “Any idea who might have done this?”

  “I can’t think of anyone,” I said, feeling cold despite the heat radiating off the pavement. Was someone trying to send me a message? And if so, who? I glanced at Peaches, who shook her head slightly.

  “What kind of gun did they use?” Peaches asked.

  “It was a semiautomatic,” he said. “Not something to mess around with.” He walked around the car. “Somebody doesn’t seem too happy with you. What investigations have you been working on?”

  “We did have an infidelity case recently, but that client isn’t with us anymore.”

  “I can’t imagine why not,” he said dryly. “Any reason the client might want to shoot you?”

  “Not that I know of.” I cleared my throat. “We’re also working on a pignapping case.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Missing pig,” Peaches clarified. “Ex-husband stole a breeder. We’re recovering it.”

  Bunsen cocked an eyebrow. “Is this the pig that ate your phone?”

  Fortunately, at that moment a police car pulled into the parking lot, so I didn’t have to answer. Wanda Schwarz, the manager of the Pretty Kitten, walked over to us, her high heels clopping on the pavement. “What happened?” she asked. “I was in the middle of a Brazilian, so I didn’t get to see.”

  “Someone shot up Margie’s van,” Peaches said.

  Wanda’s French-manicured hand leaped to her necklace-draped throat. “That’s terrible! It’s a good thing they didn’t hit the store windows.” She glanced at Peaches. “I didn’t realize subletting the office would be so dangerous. My clients were terrified.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Well.” She crossed her skinny arms. “Is this a regular occurrence?”

  “Oh, no,” Peaches said. “First time.”

  At that moment, one of the policemen ran a hand over the hood of Peaches’s Buick. “Vinnie did a great job. The bat marks are all gone; it looks like new.”

  Wanda looked at Peaches. “Bat marks?”

  “I was in a bad part of town,” Peaches said. “A mob attacked me; nothing I could do. Anyway, I’ve got loads of client calls,” she told Wanda, retreating toward the plate-glass door. She turned to the cop. “Let us know what you find out, okay?”

  “Will do, Peaches. I’m sure we’ll see you soon,” he said, and his partner barked out a laugh.

  My boss gave a half wave and disappeared into the building, leaving me with Bunsen and the two patrolmen.

  “I hope you’re not impounding my van as evidence,” I said. “I’ve got two kids to pick up this afternoon.”

  “You can keep the van, but I don’t think you’re going anywhere anytime soon,” Bunsen said, pointing to the ruined tires. “Does your insurance cover rentals?” he asked.

  I sighed. “I guess I’m about to find out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I did have rental-car insurance, which was a plus. Unfortunately, however, the only vehicle left on the lot was an electric car the size of a shoe box.

  “Don’t you have anything a little bigger?” I asked the attendant, a young man with the irritating habit of ending every sentence on an up note. I kept feeling like I was expected to answer a question.

  “Big convention in town!” he sang. “You’re lucky we’ve got this one!”

  I opened the door of the tiny car—a Nissan Leaf—and peered inside. “Assuming I can fit the booster seats in, where do I put the backpacks?”

  “Oh, the trunk is ample,” he said, popping the back hatch to display six cubic inches of storage space.

  I sighed. “You’re sure there’s nothing else?”

  “Only other thing I have is a Hummer, but it’ll cost you a hundred extra a day.”

  I contemplated the car’s dollhouse-scale trunk. If I did manage to get Bubba Sue, she’d have to sit in the backseat; there was no way I could stuff her into the rear of the car. “I guess this will have to do,” I said, and ten minutes later I was heading toward Holy Oaks, the engine roaring like a sewing machine. If I needed to sneak up on anyone, I reflected, this was the car to drive.

  If I felt out of place in a minivan, driving a subcompact electric car made me feel like an alien. Despite Austin’s environmentally friendly reputation, the parents of Holy Oaks largely leaned toward the Hummer end of the car spectrum. Luxury Hummers, that is.

  I pulled into the carpool line, feeling dwarfed by the Porsche Cayennes and Cadillac Escalades growling like giant, expensive beasts around me. When I inched my way up to the front door, Elsie wouldn
’t budge until I waved at her.

  “Where’s the van?” she asked after she’d wedged herself into the booster seat, her backpack on her lap. Words! She was using words. I put on my best mom smile.

  “I had an . . . accident this afternoon. It’s being repaired.”

  “What about my fry phone?”

  “I’m working on it,” I told her lamely as we pulled away.

  “I want my fry phone,” she said. She crossed her arms and kicked the back of the seat. “I hate this car. I hate Holy Oaks. I want to go back to Green Meadows.”

  And then she burst into tears.

  My mother wasn’t at the house when we got home. Went to food bank—dinner in oven! was scrawled on a note on the kitchen table. Back before 6.

  Elsie had stopped crying but still wasn’t what you’d call happy. She wouldn’t tell me anything about what was going on at school, so I sent a quick e-mail to her teacher and then started scouring the cupboards for snack options. It was a short and unsuccessful search.

  “Where’s Grandma?” Nick asked as I cut up an apple. Thank goodness apples were still on the approved list. I made a mental note to stop by the grocery store and stock up on nonperishable edibles like Ritz Crackers and Fruit Roll-Ups. I couldn’t fit them in the trunk, but there might be room in the glove compartment.

  “She had an errand to do,” I told him.

  Elsie, whose eyes were still swollen from crying, wrinkled her little nose. “What smells bad?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, as if I hadn’t noticed the sulfurous miasma wafting from the oven.

  “It smells like bathroom again,” Nick announced through a mouthful of apple.

  “Maybe Rufus missed the litter box again,” I suggested. Speaking of Rufus, I hadn’t seen much of him since my mother arrived. Maybe he was as traumatized by the pantry clearing as I was—or maybe my mother had tried doctoring his food with kale chips. Was there such a thing as vegan cat food? I wondered. “Anyone have any homework?” I asked.

  Elsie—who had her pink collar back on and was curled up on the sofa cushion she liked to call her dog bed—growled.