Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

  “I think you’ve found the smoking gun,” she said.

  “Yes. But who’s Rainbow2348?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” she said. Though I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. “Is it time to tell the police?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Let me talk to Peaches. She may have a better idea.”

  “I’ve got Elsie,” she said. “You go see what you can find out.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, giving her a big hug. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Me neither,” she said, eyes twinkling.

  “I’ve got Bubba Sue,” I announced to Peaches as I walked into the Pretty Kitten twenty minutes later, smelling rather strongly of scotch and pig manure despite my change of clothes.

  Peaches pushed back from the desk, exposing a few miles of hairless legs. “Terrific! Did the client come and pick her up?”

  “I left her a message.”

  “Where’s the pig?”

  “In my laundry room at the moment,” I said, “but she tore up the rental car. Can we charge that to the client?”

  “By tore up, you mean . . .”

  “She tried to rip out the passenger seat.”

  Peaches winced. “Did she succeed?”

  “Not completely. But that’s not the only thing,” I said. “I’ve got a lead on Cavendish.”

  “What?”

  “My mother cracked the code on the legal paper we found,” I said. “It’s usernames and passwords to e-mail accounts.”

  “Anything good?”

  I told her what we’d learned.

  “Things are coming together. I’ve got some info, too,” Peaches said. “I looked up those license-plate numbers from the Holy Oaks parking lot. Guess who one of them belongs to?”

  “Cressida Cavendish?”

  “And Marty Krumbacher.”

  I blinked. “Do you think Krumbacher might have offed the headmaster?”

  “It depends on the investments Cavendish was talking about,” Peaches said. “What was that company called? Golden Investments?” She typed it into the computer.

  “Yeah. Their biggest holding was Spectrum Properties,” I said. “Right?”

  “Let’s look that up,” she said. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “Owned by an LLC, but it doesn’t say who’s behind it.”

  “Does it list their holdings?”

  “Aha.” She grinned at me. “You’re going to love this.”

  “What?”

  “They own a lot of bars around town. Including . . .” She paused for dramatic effect. “The Sweet Shop.”

  “Rainbow2348 talked about a shipment at a shop,” I said.

  “And Desiree talked about a bunch of boxes in the back of the club.”

  “Do you think?” I asked. “It sounds shady. If we could get a picture of whatever they’re shipping, with a label, maybe we could hand everything we know over to Bunsen, and he’d start looking into Golden Investments and Spectrum Properties.”

  “Anonymously,” Peaches said.

  “Probably a good idea,” I said. “You think those boxes are at the Sweet Shop somewhere?”

  “Only one way to find out,” she said. “I haven’t had lunch yet. You up for a strip steak?”

  “Only if you’re driving,” I said. I couldn’t face another trip in the Leaf.

  The parking lot was stuffed once again at the Sweet Shop, whose marquee blared “FRESH, HOT BUNS: AMATEUR DAY!” Peaches levered the Buick between two SUVs several rows away from the door.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked, glad I’d changed into a decent pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt after my run-in with Bubba Sue.

  “We’re going to see if we can get into the back rooms,” she said.

  “What will you do if Banana Twirl is there?” I asked.

  “Hide in a dark corner,” she said as we walked up the front steps. Chewy was there again.

  “Hey, Peaches!” he said. “Looking good.”

  “You too, honey,” she said. “Hey, is Banana here today?”

  “She’s off till Tuesday,” he said. “You here for Amateur Day?”

  “Nah,” Peaches said. “Just lunch.”

  “Too bad. You’d be a hit,” he said, giving her an appreciative look. “You should try it sometime.” He nodded to me. “Your friend, too.”

  “Thanks,” I said, not quite sure how else to respond, and a moment later I followed Peaches back into the Sweet Shop.

  There was no plastic pool this time, although I thought I picked up the faint scent of spoiled milk. Carpet, I reflected, was not the wisest choice for an establishment that specialized in whipped-cream wrestling. Desiree probably could have told them that.

  As a woman in three square inches of lime-green spandex writhed on the center stage, Peaches and I headed toward a corner table that was close to the back hallway.

  “Should we head back now?” I asked after we’d slid into our sticky seats.

  “Let’s get a drink first,” she said.

  “Really, Peaches?”

  “I’m still recovering from my date the other night.”

  “The guy from HonkytonkHoneys didn’t work out?”

  Peaches looked at me. “He drinks Chelada.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Bud Light and Clamato.”

  “That sounds repulsive. Is it really a drink?”

  “It shouldn’t be, but it is. He had six of them, and then he tried to kiss me.” She shuddered. “When I turned him down, he got on the mechanical bull, and threw up all over the bar. It smelled like Manhattan clam chowder.”

  I sat for a moment, watching as the dancer stripped off another square inch of spandex, and trying to put the image of regurgitated Clamato out of my mind. “Talked with Jess recently?” I asked.

  Before she could answer, the waitress materialized behind us, her tanned, flat midriff—which was about the diameter of my forearm—glowing in the bright-pink neon light. “What can I get you gals?”

  “What’s on special?” Peaches asked.

  “We’ve got screwdrivers and Screaming Orgasms half-price till three,” she said.

  “Two Screaming Orgasms,” Peaches said, and the waitress smiled and sashayed off to the bar.

  “I’ll drive,” I told Peaches. “Anyway, what about Jess?”

  “He still hasn’t called,” Peaches said.

  I crossed my arms. “For God’s sake,” I said. “I’m trying to work things out with a man who sleeps with drag queens, and you won’t call Jess because you argued over ice cream?”

  The men at the table next to us glanced over. Peaches shifted in her chair.

  “Here’s the deal,” I said. “I’m going to go to the restroom.” I glanced at the back hallway. “And you’re going to call—or at least text—Jess, before I get back.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Do it,” I said and stood up.

  It was only a few steps from our table to the back hallway, which was lined with doors. All of them were shut. Which one was the storeroom?

  I took a deep breath and reached for the knob of the first door. It was locked. I moved down the hallway, trying the next three; they were locked, too. It wasn’t until the fourth door that I had any luck. I pushed it open and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  “What are you doing?” bellowed an extravagantly liver-spotted man flanked by two athletic twenty-year-olds in compromising positions. It was one of the octogenarians who had bought us drinks last time we were here, I realized, recognizing the Darth Vader–shaped blotch on his arm.

  “Sorry,” I said, averting my eyes. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Hey,” he said, recognizing me. “I remember you. You and your friend were looking real good in the pool the other day. Here for Amateur Day?”

  “Ah . . . no,” I said.

  “Well, if you’re not busy, there’s room for a third! I’ve got enough Viagra to last me all afternoon!” He patted his nake
d lap.

  “I’m good, thanks,” I told him. “Sorry to interrupt.” I slammed the door closed behind me, wishing I could bleach my eyeballs. Those young women were earning every penny. I just hoped they were putting some away for therapy.

  The next door was unlocked, too, but this time I was slower in opening it.

  Thankfully, there were no octogenarians—or anyone else—inside. Just boxes.

  I closed the door behind me and flipped on the light. There were boxes, all right—dozens of them. I started rifling through them, but didn’t find anything incriminating. Swizzle sticks, napkins—there was even a box of pasties. And I didn’t want to think about why the Sweet Shop needed an industrial-size box of colored frosting.

  I had rifled through almost all of them before I found an unopened box in the corner.

  It was light—only a couple of pounds—and the return address was somewhere in Guadalajara. I slit the tape with my keys and opened the box.

  It was lined with little black packets, all of which had a blurry star and the word AFTERBURN emblazoned on the front.

  I snapped a picture of the open box with the packets visible inside, then tucked the box back in behind the frosting. Unless I was wrong, this was the investment that was causing Cavendish ethical heartburn. Spectrum Properties didn’t just own strip clubs—it was manufacturing, or at least distributing, drugs that were killing people all across Texas. Heck, Thumbs might even be distributing the stuff to the kids at Holy Oaks. It was a terrifying thought.

  No wonder Holy Oaks was making 50% annually off its investments. I had just pocketed two of the packets and was closing up the box when the storage-room door opened.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  It was Strawberry Shortcake.

  “Um . . .”

  “The amateurs are meeting next door,” she said, saving me the trouble of coming up with an explanation.”

  “Thanks,” I said, shoving the box into the corner with my toe.

  “Did you bring something else for the stage?” she asked, running a critical eye over my jeans/T-shirt combo.

  “No,” I said. “This is my first time.”

  “Well,” Strawberry said, tapping a stiletto heel, “maybe one of the girls can lend you something. Although it might be a little small on you.”

  “I’ll be okay,” I said, following her out of the storage room and down the short hallway.

  “It’s in here,” she said, throwing open the last door on the left and ushering me inside.

  It might be Amateur Day at the Sweet Shop, but most of the women in the backstage room appeared to have professional aspirations. There were dresses and skirts in a rainbow of sherbety colors, and the material of choice appeared to be pleather.

  “First time?” asked a woman in a pink-and-black catsuit with matching eye shadow.

  “Yeah,” I said, staring at her outfit, which fit her like a too-tight glove.

  “Do those jeans have Velcro?” she asked.

  “What? No,” I said, edging back toward the door. “Just a regular old zipper.”

  “You should check out some outfits with Velcro,” she told me. “This outfit looks like it would take forever to get out of, but one pull”—she grabbed the front of her pants and gave a swift tug, revealing a sequined G-string and a slightly jiggly spray tan—“and it comes right off.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Say. Is there a ladies’ room nearby?”

  “Nerves, eh?” she asked. “It’s right through here,” she said, pointing through a door on the far side of the room.”

  “Thanks,” I said, hurrying over to it and letting myself out of the perfume-saturated room—and into freedom. I didn’t care whether Peaches had drunk her Orgasms yet—we were getting out of there.

  I turned to head down the hallway when a large, muscular figure appeared at the end of it—unfortunately, the end between me and the exit. My stomach tightened: it was Thumbs, with a murderous look on his face. What was he doing here? Abandoning my ladies’ room escape plan, I turned and plunged back into the perfumed horde backstage. I was pushing my way toward the other door when Catsuit grabbed my arm.

  “Come on,” she said. “You’re up.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  But . . .”

  “I know you’re nervous,” she said. “But it’s better to get it over with. Besides, you don’t want to have to compete with all of these outfits. You’ve got a great”—she paused—“girl-next-door kind of thing going on, but it’ll look kind of drab after Pink Squirrel over there.” She pointed to a woman dressed entirely in pink satin, except for a bushy polyester tail.

  “I’m not here for Amateur Day!” I yelled.

  “Just best to get out there,” she said. “You’ll come alive when those stage lights switch on. I promise you.”

  And before I could say anything else, she shoved me out through the stage door.

  “Please welcome our first contestant for Amateur Day,” bellowed the speaker behind me. “Give it up for . . .” There was a pause, during which Catsuit was presumably conferring with the announcer. “Cinnamon Buns!”

  As I stood there, staring into the lights, the DJ cued up “I Believe in Miracles.” Which, to be honest, felt kind of appropriate. There was a choking noise from the right side of the stage; I squinted into the lights and spotted Peaches, who had just spewed half of a Screaming Orgasm all over herself.

  I stood motionless for a long moment, aware of dozens of pairs of eyes locked on me.

  “Dance!” somebody yelled from the back of the room. As the music blasted on the speakers, I swayed back and forth a little bit, hoping that this was a nightmare and that I’d wake up. As Hot Chocolate asked, “Where you from, you sexy thing?” the room around me devolved into dissatisfied mutterings, so I attempted to put a bit more swing in my hips and marched down the catwalk. This seemed to help a little, but there were still some noises of disapproval, so I reached down and untied my right sneaker.

  “Turn around!” someone called from the back.

  I shuffled around a little bit so that I was backward, feeling my face heat up. I glanced to the side; the Holy Oaks custodian was watching me, the scar on his face looking more menacing than ever. What was he doing here? I glanced at his hands—his enormous thumbs were hooked into his jeans pockets.

  My mouth turned dry, and I stood up. There was a smattering of boos, so I bent down again.

  How the hell was I going to get out of there?

  I kicked off the first sneaker and then started on the next, noticing as I looked between my feet that the candy-striped pole was only a couple of feet away. A few seconds later, I slipped off the second sneaker in what I hoped was a seductive manner and shimmied over to the pole, which I grabbed onto like a lifeline. The audience seemed to perk up a bit as I leaned against it. How hard could it be to swing around a pole?

  Grabbing it with both hands, I launched myself to the right. It wasn’t too bad, I decided after a few turns, and then switched directions. As Hot Chocolate crooned, “I love the way you touch me,” the other octogenarian of the drink-buying duo materialized at the foot of the stage, clutching something that looked like a quarter in his veined hand. “Take it off, honey!” he yelled in a high, thin voice. “I got something for ya!”

  I let go of the pole and took a surreptitious glance down the front of my V-neck. I was wearing a sports bra. Good coverage, but not, as I understood it, traditional strip-club garb.

  “Come on!” somebody hollered from one of the tables. I glanced back at Thumbs, who continued to stare at me through slitted eyelids, and reached for the hem of my T-shirt, still attempting to swivel my hips.

  It was just about the last thing in the world I wanted to do, but with Thumbs over by the side of the stage, I didn’t see that I had much of a choice. I lifted my shirt as slowly as possible, feeling it still was way too fast. After a brief struggle to get my arms out, I twirled it over my head and tossed it to Peaches, but
I missed; it fell on one of the stage lights not too far from the octogenarian.

  The sports bra, evidently, was a bit tame for the Sweet Shop; the response was less than electric. I glanced over my shoulder, considering making an exit out the back, but I knew Thumbs would follow me. I unbuttoned my jeans slowly, which was enough to get a few lackluster hoots, and unzipped the zipper. Then, praying the song would end before I finished, I hooked my thumbs around my jeans and began to lower them, exposing the front of my bleach-stained Jockey full-coverage briefs.

  The octogenarian went wild. “Just like Mabel used to wear,” he hooted, waving his quarter in the air.

  I hadn’t gotten my jeans halfway down my legs before I understood Catsuit’s praise of Velcro. I stood hopping on one foot, struggling to get my left leg out of my jeans. I teetered for a moment, then fell headlong into the quarter-waving octogenarian’s lap.

  Peaches was there in a flash, disentangling me from his surprisingly firm grip. “What the hell are you doing?” she yelled into my ear.

  “I’ll explain later. Get me out of here!” I said.

  As I grabbed my jeans and yanked them up, the octogenarian shoved the quarter into my sports bra.

  “Thanks,” I said automatically, and looked up to see Thumbs advancing, a rather unpleasant expression on his face.

  “Let’s go,” I said, eyeing Thumbs.

  “I got your purse,” Peaches said, tossing a ten at the table and nodding to the waitress, who was staring slack-jawed at the two of us. “Let me get your shoes . . .”

  “We can come back,” I said.

  “But—”

  I didn’t wait for her to answer. As the octogenarian fished in his pocket for another coin, I trotted to the front door, not daring to look back for Thumbs. Peaches followed me soon after, and as I dashed across the hot parking lot to the car, a few men at a bus stop gave me appraising looks. “Unlock the car!” I yelled as I saw Thumbs emerge from the front door of the club. Peaches was right behind me, huffing hard and smelling like Baileys Irish Cream.

  “Shit,” she wheezed.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said as I slid into the passenger seat. Peaches hustled in after me and locked the doors, gunning the Buick into reverse and barely missing Thumbs, who was still advancing on us like a gorilla on steroids. I watched him in the rearview mirror as we squealed out of the parking lot. I had a bad feeling this wasn’t our last encounter.