Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

“He must have been high up, then,” I suggested.

  “I shouldn’t talk about it,” she told me, and I could sense her closing up. “I’ve already said too much.”

  “Well, don’t say anything else to her,” Barbie admonished. “We’re here to support our husbands, not tear them down by telling the world about their sins! And now,” she said, rounding on me. “Can you tell us a little bit about what you’ve been doing to affirm your marriage?”

  “Well, I haven’t kicked him out, so there’s that.”

  There was a titter of nervous laughter.

  “I was hoping for something a little more supportive,” Barbie said. “Like erotic foot rubs.”

  “No erotic foot rubs,” I said.

  “Bible reading together?”

  I shook my head.

  “You are sleeping in the same bed, at least?”

  “Nope. He sleeps in the office.” With the exception of last night, that was. We’d clung to our respective sides of the bed as if they were life rafts.

  Barbie sighed. “It’s a good thing you’re here. It’s no wonder your husband strayed to the other side. Obviously your marriage needs some serious work!”

  Her holier-than-thou tone set my teeth on edge. Safe space? This was about as safe as walking into a den of underfed tigers, from what I could see. “So, what’s your story?” I asked pleasantly.

  Barbie blinked. “Pardon me?”

  “I was wondering about your experiences. Is your husband gay?”

  She recoiled as if I’d handed her a snake. “Oh, no! Of course not!”

  “Then how do you know that all this stuff—the erotic foot rubs, the football, the push-up bras—works?”

  “The program has been well tested,” she said. “Even the women here have seen improvements in their marriages since they started walking this path with Jesus.” She looked around with an encouraging smile. “Right?”

  There were a few wan smiles from the circle.

  “Anyway, let’s move on to our program for the day,” Barbie said, clip-clopping back to the front of the room and retrieving a stack of papers. “Now. Today we’re focusing on how to create a harmonious home that is a haven for your hard-working husband.”

  She distributed something called The Good Wife’s Guide, which consisted of two xeroxed pages stapled together. The first page featured a grainy photo of a woman in a white dress standing by a 1950s-era stove and greeting her suit-clad husband, with two impeccably groomed children holding hands beside her. Neither of the children, I noticed, was wearing a dog collar.

  “I remember this!” Anne said. “My mother gave this to me when I got married.”

  “How long have you been married?” I asked.

  “Forty years,” she said.

  I looked back down at the list. The only update was item number three, which had originally read, Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. The word gay had been crossed out, and cheerful was inked in above it.

  “Now,” Barbie said after she finished distributing the pages. “I know the modern age has completely turned our traditional roles upside down—in fact, I’m sure that’s why so many marriages are ending in divorce these days. But there are a few things we wives can do to establish harmony and happiness in our homes.”

  I skimmed the list. Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. and then run a dust cloth over the tables was one suggestion. That wasn’t likely to happen in my house. Most of the time, I couldn’t even see the table surfaces, much less dust them. Prepare the children was another chestnut. The article recommended taking a few minutes to wash the children’s hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. Really? It was hard enough getting them dressed once a day, much less convincing them to put on a second set of clothes while I was trying to get dinner on the table.

  I looked around to see if the other women were sharing my reaction, but they were all studying their pages intently. I looked back down and read the second-to-last pronouncement. Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment and integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. Like paying someone blackmail money to keep his affair with a drag queen secret from me? I wondered. The final bit of advice was the frosting on the cake. You have no right to question him.

  Really?

  If I hadn’t questioned Blake, he’d still be cavorting with men in tights and putting a good portion of his salary toward blackmail payouts. Maybe the program came with a time machine that would take us all back to 1955.

  I had the urge to get up and walk out. But then I looked at Anne. She knew Cavendish’s wife, and I had more questions to ask her. If I left now, I might not have another opportunity. I sat back in my chair, gritted my teeth, and applied a pleasant smile to my face.

  It was a very long hour. There was a lot of talk of submitting, and lipstick, and the value of a home-cooked meal. I had no problem with cooking dinner, but again, even if I was able to magically morph into June Cleaver, it still wouldn’t solve the fundamental problem. Blake’s sexuality had nothing to do with me; I knew that like I knew the sun would rise in the morning. What made me so sad was that the women around me were being told—and seemed to believe—that their husbands’ sexuality was somehow their fault.

  Finally—finally—Barbie wrapped things up. “Did you learn a lot, girls?” she asked cheerfully.

  Jackie raised a tentative hand.

  “Yes, Jackie?”

  “Does this really work?” she asked.

  “What man wouldn’t want to come home to a home-cooked meal, a neat house, and an attractively clad wife?” she beamed. “And we all know how men are around the house. Completely clueless. We just have to show them the value we women have.” She turned to the woman with the lace collar. “He’s not going to find an amazing housekeeper on HotHomeboys.com, is he?”

  Again, I wasn’t sure housekeeping was quite what the people on HotHomeboys.com were looking for, but in the interest of interrogating Anne, I didn’t mention it.

  “Now, for our final prayer,” Barbie announced, and we all bowed our heads. She paused for a dramatic moment, and then intoned, “Dear God, please lead us to submit to our husbands. Help us create a haven for our men and show them the value of womanhood. Please help us to guide them to the path of heterosexuality, and help them turn from the path of sin. Amen.”

  I folded the Good Wife handout and jammed it into my purse, then stood up, hoping to follow Anne out into the parking lot. As soon as I stood up, though, Barbie accosted me.

  “So glad you could join us,” she said, her powdery perfume making my nose twitch. “Have you gotten the workbook for the program yet?”

  “Ah, not yet,” I said, watching as the pink twinset headed for the door.

  “Why don’t you just fill out this form, and I’ll make sure there’s one for you at the next meeting?” She bustled over to her pile of papers and started riffling through it. “I know I’ve got one here somewhere.”

  “I, uh, really have to get home,” I said, stifling a sneeze. “Maybe there’s one online?”

  “No. I know it’s here . . .” As she spoke, Anne disappeared through the door.

  “I really have to go,” I said.

  “But—”

  “Bye!” I said, and bolted after Anne.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I caught up with Anne just as she was opening the door of her Mercedes. “It was so good to meet you,” I said, panting with exertion.

  She gave me a puzzled look.

  “I just . . . It’s so encouraging to me that you’re handling things so well,” I said. “You’re just so put-together . . . It’s inspiring.”

  I got a small smile.

  “And like Barbie said,” I plowed on, “it can be so hard not to talk about this stuff with other people. It’s so nice to find people who really understand the situation.” I paused. “I wonder
, would you be up to having a cup of coffee with me?”

  She thought about it for a moment, then shrugged a cashmere-clad shoulder. “I suppose we could.”

  “That would be wonderful,” I said. “How do I get in touch with you?”

  She fished a card out of her purse and handed it to me. Anne Zapp, it said, with a tony Westlake address. No profession listed.

  “Thanks so much. I’ll give you a call this week.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “And one last question,” I said. It was a ridiculous question and would probably totally freak her out, but I really needed to know. “Your friend . . . What kind of car does she drive?”

  “A Lexus,” she said.

  “Red?” I asked.

  “Why, yes,” she told me, looking confused. “Why?”

  “I’m, uh, working on my psychic abilities,” I said, pocketing the card. Red Lexus. Mrs. Cavendish was moving higher on my list of suspects. “I feel terrible for your neighbor—we know just how she feels. Did she have any idea he was being unfaithful?”

  She sighed. “She hasn’t told me, but I think she did.” She gave me a sad smile. “I think we all know, don’t we? We just don’t want to admit it.”

  I felt a welling in my eyes that took me by surprise. On some level, yes, I think I had known. I swallowed the lump in my throat and said, “You’re probably right.” I studied Anne, who seemed so sage, so . . . together. Did she really believe all the stuff Barbie was telling us to do? I had to ask. “What do you think of Warrior Wives?”

  She let out a long sigh. “What they teach is what I was raised with, really. I doubt it’ll help, but it’s worth a shot.” Anne’s thin face looked worn and tired. “My husband and I have shared most of our lives—it hasn’t been wonderful, but it’s still better than nothing.” She lifted her chin. “I don’t want to die alone.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. After a moment, I just said, “Thanks for agreeing to coffee. And thanks for talking with me.”

  “My pleasure,” she said.

  “I look forward to coffee,” I told her. And as I walked back to my car, I realized I meant it.

  Becky was ready to go when I pulled up outside her house and knocked on her door at a quarter after nine. She was dressed all in black—including her eyeliner—and her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. “Let’s go,” she said. “I told Rick I was going to help you out with a case, but I didn’t give him any details.” She hollered, “Good-bye!” and shut the door behind her. As we trotted down the front walk to my rental car, she remarked, “Not quite the van, is it?”

  “No,” I agreed. “It’s a bit on the small side.”

  “Any leads on who did in the van?”

  “There are a few possibilities,” I told her. I’d been wondering about it myself. Was it Deborah Golden or her husband, Frank? Deborah had caught me out twice, but I just couldn’t see her hiring someone with a semiautomatic to shoot up my minivan. Marty Krumbacher, though, was a different story; I remembered seeing him in the back room of the strip club. What had triggered someone to send me a warning, though?

  “Maybe Cressida Cavendish was upset that I knocked her husband out of his coffin,” I said.

  “God, that must have been humiliating for her,” she said. “Maybe she was the one who shot your minivan.”

  “I can see why she’d want to, but I think it’s got to be someone at Holy Oaks,” I said. “The Goldens caught me eavesdropping twice, and Krumbacher saw me at the Sweet Shop when he was having a meeting in a back room.

  “So someone at Holy Oaks killed Cavendish, you think?”

  “I just don’t know yet,” I said, thinking of what Anne had said about Mrs. Cavendish’s red Lexus. “And maybe we’ll find out something more tonight.”

  Becky opened the car door and wedged herself into the seat. “Cozy—how do you fit everyone in?”

  “It’s tight, but we figured it out,” I said.

  “It’s kind of refreshing not having McDonald’s cups and napkins all over the floor,” she said. “And it smells”—she sniffed—“clean!” She adjusted her feet and turned to me. “How did the Warrior Wives thing go, by the way?”

  “Awful,” I said.

  “Really? What did they tell you?”

  I pulled The Good Wife’s Guide out of my purse and handed it to her. “Add in Victoria’s Secret underwear, Bible readings, and erotic foot rubs, and you’ll supposedly have the cure for homosexuality.”

  She turned on the overhead light, skimmed it, and wrinkled her nose. “So it was a bust,” she said, looking up at me. “I’m so sorry, Margie.”

  “I really didn’t think it would work, anyway. On the plus side, I found out that Mrs. Cavendish drives a red Lexus. One of her neighbors was there.”

  “What does a red Lexus have to do with anything?”

  “Desiree saw one parked outside her apartment the night Cavendish died.”

  “You’re thinking she followed him there and shot him while he was in the wading pool?”

  “I can understand the impulse,” I said. “But I don’t have a lot of evidence.”

  “Maybe there will be something in his office,” she mused as we merged onto MoPac.

  “That’s what I’m banking on,” I said.

  The parking lot at Holy Oaks was deserted, much to my relief. Perky Desk Girl must have had a spare key somewhere; there were no cars that I could see. Security lights blasted the entrances, but the buildings were dark. Both of us had grown quiet as we got closer to the school; I think we were nervous.

  I parked on a side street—it felt funny being the only car in the parking lot—and handed Becky a pair of latex gloves.

  “What are these for?”

  “Fingerprints,” I said. “They already found your business card on the body. You don’t want them to find your fingerprints in his office, do you?”

  “Good thinking,” she said, pulling a flashlight out of her back pocket. “But didn’t they already go through his office?”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  She pulled on her gloves. “You have the keys?” she asked as I killed the engine.

  I fished in my purse and pulled them out. “I don’t know which one is for the door.”

  “They don’t have a security system, do they?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do we do if they do?”

  “Run back to the car, I guess.”

  “Maybe we should have parked closer,” she suggested, but neither of us turned back. We slunk through the parking lot, looking up for cameras. “And maybe we should have worn ski masks.”

  “Hard to find ski masks in Texas in the summer,” I pointed out.

  “Paper bags, then.”

  “Maybe next time.”

  Perky Desk Girl had a lot of keys. It took ten tries to find one that turned in the front-door lock. I could hear the bolt snick back, and I held my breath as I pulled the door open.

  “I don’t hear an alarm,” Becky said. “So that’s good news.”

  The security lights blazed through the glass windows; it was almost as bright as day in the front lobby. It only took two tries before we breached the front office door and found ourselves standing in the nerve center of Holy Oaks. It was darker inside the office, and I had to switch on my flashlight. After my experience with Bubba Sue, I’d taken to keeping a flashlight in my purse.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  I pointed to the admissions files. “Find the file for Cherry Nichols, would you?” I asked, remembering the way Mrs. Cavendish had looked at her at the memorial service.

  “Why?”

  “Just a hunch,” I said, and started trying keys in Cavendish’s office door.

  “Did you see if it’s locked?” Becky asked as she riffled through the files.

  “I’m sure it is,” I said, but tried the knob anyway. To my surprise, it turned easily.

  “Told you,” Becky said, br
andishing a file. “I found her,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s look at it later,” I said. “I want to get out of here; I have a bad feeling about tonight.” And I did. Did the school have a silent security alarm? I wondered.

  I swept the walls of the small office with the light. Diplomas from Duke and Yale hung on the wall, along with a picture of a much younger Mrs. Cavendish on the bow of a boat, her dark hair blowing in the wind and her face full of hope.

  “No computer,” Becky noted.

  “I’m sure the police have it.”

  “How about I tackle the file cabinets while you take the desk,” Becky suggested.

  “Sounds like a plan. If you see anything about Golden Investments or the board, grab it.”

  “Will do,” she said.

  Any hope I had of finding clues to Cavendish’s secret life were quickly quashed. He was not, to my chagrin, a sloppy man; even his pens were lined up neatly in the top drawer, and the rest of the drawers were filled with tidily stowed office supplies. Maybe the police had taken anything incriminating.

  “Here’s something on Golden,” Becky said from the file cabinet.

  “What is it?”

  “Investment statements, it looks like.”

  “Grab them,” I said as I opened another drawer filled with rubber bands and staplers. “I’m finding nothing.”

  “Did you check the drawer bottoms?” she asked.

  “What?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you read Agatha Christie or P. D. James?”

  “What’s P. D. James?”

  “An awesome mystery writer,” she said. “Check the drawer bottoms. That’s where people hide things all the time.”

  “In mystery novels,” I reminded her.

  “Just try it,” she said.

  I got off the chair and sat down on the floor, training my light on the underside of the desk. “Nothing here,” I said.

  “Did you pull out the drawers?”

  I slid the tray drawer out first: nothing. Not that I expected there to be. But on the fifth drawer, I discovered an envelope taped to the particleboard.

  “I need to start reading P. D. James,” I told Becky.