Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

  “Well, if you do, it needs to be done by bedtime,” I said. No response. I sidled over to the oven and cracked it open, releasing a wave of distinctly cruciferous hot air. There was a brownie pan on the middle rack, but the gooey green substance it contained bore no resemblance to brownies. I slammed the oven shut quickly and stepped away, tempted to open a window despite the heat.

  “What is that stuff?” Nick asked.

  “Let’s go see if the TV is hooked up,” I said, ushering him away from the kitchen. Once he settled down with his trains and an episode of Thomas the Tank Engine, I tossed Elsie her favorite rope toy, headed to the kitchen again, and grabbed the phone.

  Becky answered on the third ring.

  “It’s Margie,” I said as I retreated to my bedroom.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all day!” she said.

  “Sorry about that; I don’t have my phone. Is Bunsen bothering you?”

  “He called me this afternoon and asked me a lot of questions.”

  “He stopped by Peachtree Investigations this afternoon.” I told her about the events of the day—including the memorial service fiasco and my shot-up car.

  “Thank God you weren’t in the van at the time,” she breathed. “Margie, this is getting scary.”

  “I know.”

  “Somebody’s getting nervous, sounds like,” she said. “Thank God they shot up your van at the office, and not at your house.”

  I shivered at the thought. “But why shoot it at all?”

  “I’ll bet there’s something somebody doesn’t want you to know about going on at Holy Oaks. They’ve seen you eavesdropping and nosing around, and they’re telling you to drop it.”

  “I have the key to the school’s front office,” I said. “I was thinking I might go and investigate tonight, after my Warrior Wives meeting.”

  “Your what?”

  “It’s that Journey to Manhood support group for wives of men who . . . well, men who are trying not to be gay,” I said. “Blake wants me to go.”

  “Wow. Want company tonight?” she asked.

  I sat down on the end of my bed. “Is Rick hanging out with transvestites, too?”

  “Not at the meeting, silly. The school.”

  “You just want to go through those admissions files again, don’t you?”

  “No. I want to find out what that school is up to and write another letter to the Picayune. Of course I want to go through the admissions files—largely because a certain individual left my business card on top of George Cavendish’s tights, resulting in multiple visits from the police.”

  I sighed. “The meeting is from seven to nine.”

  “Pick me up when it’s over,” she said. “How are things going with your mom, by the way?”

  “She’s been a huge help with the kids,” I said, “but the food thing is getting to be a bit of a problem. She took just about everything I had and gave it to the food bank. I’m having to sneak the kids fast food just to get some calories into them.”

  “How long is she staying?”

  “A week. I’m not sure I can make it that long. At least Blake isn’t here, so we don’t have to share the bedroom, but what if he comes back and wants to get . . . romantic?”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  I shuddered. “I think I’d rather sleep with an orangutan.”

  Becky sighed. “You’re going to have to deal with this at some point, you know. You can’t live like a nun for the next twenty years.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I told him I’d give it a try, and I will. I hate the thought of what divorce would do to the kids.”

  “You have to take care of yourself, too,” she reminded me. “Besides, you won’t be young and pretty forever.”

  I glanced up at myself in the mirror. Young and pretty? I had bags under my eyes that were big enough to hold groceries, and some mornings I wished I could send out a search party to locate my waist. “Really, Becky?”

  “My brother thinks you are,” she said suggestively.

  Michael. I got a little flutter just thinking about him, but quickly quashed it. I didn’t want to be having this conversation right now. I had more important things to deal with. Like getting the bullet holes in my minivan patched and convincing my daughter to eat with a fork. Not to mention keeping Becky, Peaches, and me out of jail. “I’ll go to the support group, and then we’ll go break into Holy Oaks.” I got up from the end of the bed and opened the closet door, wondering what one should wear for an evening of support-group sharing followed by burgling. “Let’s just figure out who killed Aquaman, and then we can talk about my personal life.”

  “Touchy,” she said.

  “I’ll call you when it’s over.”

  “You don’t have a cell phone,” she reminded me.

  I groaned.

  “I’ll see you at 9:20, then,” Becky said. “Give or take a few. I’ll tell Rick you need to go get a drink.”

  “You won’t be lying,” I said before hanging up.

  The Journey to Manhood “Warrior Wives” group turned out to be in the fellowship hall of a Baptist church on the south side of town. I closed the door of the tiny car behind me and adjusted my black cardigan—I’d decided dark was good for burgling, and besides, it was the nicest thing I owned. So what if it was still almost ninety degrees in the parking lot?

  As I headed for the metal double doors, bracing myself for what was to come, I reflected that it might be better than being at home with my mother and children. The broccoli–brussels sprout casserole had not been a resounding success; even my mother had deemed it inedible, and to my relief, she relented and let us order pizza. (Plain cheese, no sauce, on Elsie’s, of course.)

  “What kind of meeting is this, Margie?” my mother had asked when I came back in from taking the trash bag with the casserole’s contents out to the curb. The smell was so strong the plastic bag didn’t have a chance. “Is this about Elsie’s . . . dog fixation?” she whispered.

  “Actually no,” I said. “It’s . . . just about relationships,” I added lamely.

  “I’m really worried about her,” she told me. “I know nutrition must play a part, but I’m not sure that’s all there is. Are you sure this school is the right kind of place for her?”

  “She’s only been there a couple of days,” I said.

  “But it sounds like there’s no opportunity for self-expression.” She pushed the bangles up on her arm. “Plaid jumpers, navy polo shirts . . . is it any wonder she’s wearing a dog collar as an accessory?”

  “She wore that before school started,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, but the stress of the environment can’t be helping.” My mother reached for another piece of her artichoke-asparagus pizza. “When did all of this start?” she asked.

  “Around the end of last school year,” I said. “That’s when she started wanting us to call her Fifi and using a water bowl instead of a glass.” I sighed. “She actually bit one of her classmates at Green Meadows.”

  My mother winced. “Ouch.”

  “That’s what the kid said.”

  She steepled her hands under her chin, much as I had done earlier in the day, and the bangles slid back down her arm with a clank. “How are things between you and Blake?” she asked. “It seems like your auras are a bit . . . cloudy.”

  I shifted in my chair and reached for another piece of pizza. “Oh, you know,” I said. “Same as every marriage.” With a few rather glaring exceptions—but again, there was no need to discuss that with my mother. She’d be trying to sign us up for yogic vegan Tantric sex counseling, or prescribing a diet of oysters and artichokes. “When you have kids, they’re really the focus.”

  “It’s not good for your partnership, though,” she said. “Your father and I didn’t make our relationship a priority, and I’ve always regretted it.”

  I knew I hadn’t spent nearly enough time with my mother since she’d arrived—and that I owed her a debt of gratitude for all sh
e’d done for me and the kids—but right now, the last thing I needed was a dissection of my parents’ failed marriage. I grimaced and swallowed my guilt. “Shoot,” I said, looking at my watch and standing up. “Is that the time? I’ve really got to run, Mom.”

  She sighed. “I worry about you, sweetheart.”

  “I know, and I love you for it,” I said, giving her a quick hug. “Thanks so much for your help with the kids. I’ll probably be back late. Call me if you have any trouble.”

  “I’ve been calling you all day and you haven’t answered.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. I . . . lost my cell phone.”

  “Margie, Margie, Margie. How do you keep it all together?”

  Keep it all together? I’d met schizophrenics who were doing a better job of keeping it all together than I was. I let out a short, barking laugh and escaped out the back door, thankful to have avoided further interrogation.

  Now, as I pushed through the double doors into the coffee-and-hymnal-scented fellowship hall, I felt a twinge of apprehension. It was not assuaged when a circle of depressed-looking women in plastic chairs turned to look at me.

  “Hello!” sang the group leader, a plump, chirpy-looking woman with shiny black hair and a bright-red skirt suit. She wore six-inch stiletto heels that made me wonder how she stayed upright. “Are you here for the Warrior Wives group?”

  “Um, yeah,” I said, edging toward one of the vacant chairs.

  “Welcome!” she said with a smile so bright I had to resist the urge to squint. “I’m Barbie Ford, the leader of the Warriors. We were just about to join in our opening prayer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I sat down and bowed my head as Barbie launched into the prayer. There was a flowery smell in the room that competed with the scents of old coffee and dusty paper; it made my nose itch.

  “Dear God,” she intoned, the chirpiness replaced by a sepulchral voice that made me check to see whether someone else was leading the prayer. “Please help us to embrace our femininity so that we can lead our husbands from the path of sin, and help them break their ungodly habits. Please help us help them see that they have been seduced by wickedness, and that the scars of their past can be healed with prayer and by following your path. Please help us as we work to become more attractive, so that we support our husbands as they work to turn away from sinful lusts.” She took a deep breath, and concluded, “In Christ’s name we pray. Amen.”

  I looked up, expecting to see expressions of disbelief—or at least disgruntlement—on my fellow group members’ faces, but they all looked . . . chastened, somehow.

  My mind sorted through the prayer I had just heard. Path of sin? Ungodly habits? Work to become more attractive? I’d heard of Throwback Thursday, but Barbie Ford appeared to be firmly planted in the Middle Ages.

  Of course I’d struggled with the idea that I, somehow, had caused my husband to be attracted to men in corsets. Apparently self-blame was common among straight wives; I’d read enough online forums to know that. And of course it had been hurtful to learn that my husband wasn’t—couldn’t—be attracted to me. But I’d never considered his liking for men “wicked”—nor thought that by wearing stacked heels and Victoria’s Secret lingerie and blow-drying my hair I could somehow “convert” Blake to the straight-hitting team. In fact, the main issue I was struggling with was my obvious and glaring lack of judgment when selecting a husband. I’d had absolutely no idea Blake was gay. What else had I gotten wrong? And, presuming I ever even went out to dinner with a member of the opposite sex again, how would I avoid the same mistake twice?

  I appeared to be in the minority, however, because as I examined my fellow group members, I noticed a decided slant toward ultrafeminine decor. Everyone but me was wearing a skirt or a dress, and with the exception of one woman in pearls and cashmere, they’d troweled on more makeup than the trannies at the Tuesday Night Drag Queen Showdown at the Rainbow Room.

  And three of them were clutching Bibles.

  “Now,” Barbie began, striding around the circle like a lion tamer. The scent of floral perfume intensified as she passed, making my nose itch. “Let’s start by introducing our newest member.” She turned on me with an expectant smile.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Margie.” I paused, feeling like I’d done my part, but Barbie continued to stare at me expectantly. If she’d had a whip, she would have cracked it.

  “And what brings you to Warrior Wives?”

  What the heck did she think brought me to Warrior Wives? Did she think that maybe I just was looking for something new to spice up a Wednesday night? “Um, well, my husband’s at the Journey to Manhood retreat right now, and he asked me to come to this group.” I forced a smile. “So here I am.”

  “Oh, he’s doing Journey to Manhood?” one of the women cooed. She wore a floral dress with a lace collar that was starched so stiff it hovered about an inch above the neckline. “Fred did that a few months ago, and since he came back, I haven’t found a single visit to HotHomeboys.com on his laptop.”

  “That’s wonderful news!” Barbie beamed. “Did you check his phone, too?”

  “Oh,” the woman said, straightening her collar and looking worried. “I didn’t think about that.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” Barbie reassured her. “The program is just magical. Our men, you see,” she said, addressing me, “usually are . . . damaged by some tragedy in their boyhoods. Something that prevents them from claiming their masculine identities.”

  “Tragedy?” I asked, reviewing what I knew of Blake’s past and wondering if failing to make the varsity soccer team freshman year qualified. “Like what?”

  “The usual suspects. Molestation, abuse, an absent father . . . All of these things tend to make men choose the more submissive, feminine role.”

  I cleared my throat. “Submissive?” Blake was many things, but submissive wasn’t one of them. At least not in my experience.

  She nodded wisely. “That’s why masculine retraining is so important for them. And why we have to work extra hard to emphasize our femininity.”

  “I’m confused,” I said. “If a man is struggling with attraction to other men, then wouldn’t dressing more femininely be kind of . . . counterproductive?”

  “But we have to reinforce their roles!” Barbie said. “If they want to watch Monday Night Football, the living room is theirs, and we serve them beer and chips. We encourage them to make the decisions around the house, instead of usurping their roles. And, of course, we attend church together—that is just so important in supporting a marriage.”

  I had a lot of questions for Barbie. Like how watching burly men in tights run around on a field and slap each other’s asses was supposed to quell any same-sex fantasies, and how church attendance would magically decrease my husband’s attraction to men in satin dresses. On the other hand, I hadn’t tried wearing a satin dress myself, so maybe there was something in it. Though in truth, the thought of enticing my husband to sleep with me had all the appeal of trying to seduce a goldfish. But I’d told Blake I’d support him, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “Jackie, are there any improvements with Paul? Did your trip to Victoria’s Secret help things out in the bedroom?”

  Jackie, a slightly round woman in a black sheath dress and painful-looking platform heels, flushed. “I got the push-up bra and garter belt, just like you said, but it didn’t go too well.” She looked down as if ashamed. “He said he had a headache.”

  “Hmm,” Barbie said. “Well, just try again. Maybe a different color next time?”

  “Maybe,” Jackie said with a weak smile.

  Barbie turned her attention to an older woman in a pink twinset and khaki skirt. Her makeup was tasteful; in fact, she reminded me a little of my mother-in-law, Prudence, only sadder. “How about you, Anne?” the chirpy leader asked.

  “Well, I felt very . . . alone for a long time,” she said, fingering her string of pearls. “But . . . and this may sound weird . . . my friend�
��s husband just died . . . and the police think he was having some kind of kinky sex. It made me feel like I wasn’t the only one in an abnormal situation.”

  “Sex with other men?” Barbie asked.

  The older woman’s cheeks turned a delicate pink. “They don’t know, but evidently there was . . . urine involved,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  I sat up straight, thinking maybe turning up at Warrior Wives wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It had to be George Cavendish she was talking about. How many men did you find dead and covered in urine? Even in Austin, it seemed like a fairly unusual way to go.

  Anne sighed. “I guess I’m hoping . . . that maybe we can . . . bond over it.”

  “Did she know he was being unfaithful?” I asked.

  “Margie!” Barbie gave a little trilling laugh. “You’re asking questions, but we haven’t heard your story yet!”

  “My story?” I didn’t really want to tell it. “It’s still a bit . . . raw,” I said.

  “Better out than in,” Barbie said. “We’re all friends here!” Something about her tone was less than convincing.

  “All right.” I took a deep breath. “I found out my husband was sleeping with a transvestite named Selena Sass. He’s off at Journey to Manhood, like I said, and I’m here.” I turned back to Anne. “But back to you. What a terrible shock that must have been for your friend,” I said sympathetically, hoping to prime the pump.

  “Thank you for your story,” Barbie told me, then clip-clopped back over to Anne. “But as far as your friend is concerned, I’m not sure it’s good to confide in her. If attraction to men is an identity your husband is trying to leave behind, it won’t help to be reinforcing it in the community. That’s why we’re here! This is a safe space.”

  “How do you know her?” I asked Anne.

  “We’ve been neighbors for years,” she told me. “She’s worried about what will happen if the news hits the paper. It will be a real scandal.”