Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

  “And now,” Simpson burbled, “let me introduce our new interim headmaster, who has kindly agreed to take over while we search for a new permanent head. She’s a former kindergarten teacher with years of experience in the business community, and I’m sure she’ll do a great job keeping Holy Oaks on course. Please join me in welcoming Deborah Golden to the podium.”

  “Thank you,” Deborah said, beaming at the crowd, her veneers flashing in the lights. I glanced at the rest of the front row. Marty Krumbacher leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied, while Mitzi sat beside him, a tight smile on her surgically enhanced lips. Leonard Graves sprawled like a bald lion, his jerky-colored wife adjusting the neckline of her low-cut black dress.

  Deborah Golden went on for a while about how a well-run school was like a well-orchestrated real-estate deal, and about how the children, like her clients, would be her top priority, and then went into some extended mixed metaphor about tight ships and armies, which seemed to go on for hours. All the time, my eyes were fixed on Mitzi, who had noticed me and shot me one nasty glare before ignoring me. I drifted back to the snack table and grabbed a few more lemon squares as I waited for her to finish.

  “Unusual choice for an interim head, don’t you think?”

  It was Kevin, who was stacking pecan tartlets on his plate.

  “After what you told me at the parent coffee, it’s not a huge surprise,” I told him. My eyes fell on the door to the boys’ room, and I thought of Thumbs; thankfully, I hadn’t seen him tonight. “How long has the custodian been working here?” I asked Kevin.

  “He started a few months ago,” Kevin said. “Vicki tells me he gives her the heebie-jeebies.”

  “He gives me the heebie-jeebies, too,” I said.

  “Lupe,” he said. “But the kids call him Mr. Thumbs.” He leaned in. “Have you seen his hands?”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling my stomach contract. I hadn’t heard from Thumbs since last night, but I suspected I hadn’t seen the last of him. “Pretty big.” I took another bite of lemon bar and asked, “Did anybody do a background check on him? That scar is a little bit terrifying.”

  “I imagine so,” he said. “They must do background checks on everyone. Too much risk of scandal otherwise.”

  He had no idea how high the risk of scandal was, I thought as I polished off the lemon bar.

  “How’s Elsie doing?” he asked.

  “It’s been a tough transition,” I said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that; I kind of thought so.”

  I turned to him, wondering what he knew that I didn’t. “Why?”

  He hesitated. “Vicki mentioned something to me, and I’m not sure I should pass it on.”

  “Please do,” I said. “She won’t tell me anything except that she hates school.”

  “Well . . . she barks a lot.”

  Even though I wasn’t surprised, my heart seemed to shrink in my chest. “She barks?”

  “Yes,” he said, leaning in. “And Violet Krumbacher has started calling her Fido.”

  I glanced up to where Mitzi was sitting. “Fido,” I said. “How does she respond to that?”

  “She growls,” Kevin told me. “At least that’s what Vicki tells me.” He gave me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry to tell you, and like I said, it’s just what I’m hearing from Vicki. There’s more.”

  “What?” I asked, feeling sick.

  “Well . . . Violet tied her to a tree during recess yesterday and told her to stay.”

  “Tied her to a tree?”

  “She used a jump rope,” Kevin said. “Apparently the teacher eventually found out about it and released her, but nobody had the guts to tell the teacher it was Violet who’d done it. She thinks Elsie tied herself up.”

  “Around her neck?”

  “Her waist, I think.” He paused. “At least I hope.”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “I know,” he said. “That’s why I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks,” I said, meaning it. “I know the transition hasn’t been smooth, but . . . wow. I’m glad I kept her home today.”

  “Holy Oaks can be a tough crowd,” Kevin said, glancing at the well-dressed, well-heeled crowd. “And not just the kids.”

  At that moment, Deborah Golden finished her soliloquy, and there was a burst of polite applause.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I need to go talk to someone.”

  “Mitzi?” he asked, looking worried.

  “Yes . . . But about something else. I promise I won’t tell her you told me about Violet.”

  “Thanks,” he said. His relief was palpable. “Maybe Deborah Golden will be more open to dealing with bullying, but I doubt it.”

  “Cavendish wasn’t?”

  “Not when the big donors were involved,” he told me with a wry smile. “Big donors’ kids got carte blanche. The Sky High campaign has taken precedence over just about everything.”

  “Sky High.” I snorted, thinking of the packets of Afterburn I’d found in the custodian’s closet—and the back room of the Sweet Shop.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said. “Thanks again for letting me know about Elsie.”

  “Good luck,” Kevin called after me as I cut through the perfumed crowd.

  Mitzi was standing a few feet away from her husband, who was deep in conversation with the bald hair magnate. I walked up to her and put on a smile. “Hi, Mitzi. I’ve got something to ask you; mind if I talk to you for a few moments?”

  “I’m kind of busy,” she said, crossing her arms and inching toward her husband.

  “It’s about—”

  “I said, I’m busy.” Her blue eyes were like daggers.

  I grabbed her arm. “I know something about your husband you’ll want to hear,” I hissed into her ear.

  She shook me off, but her eyes widened slightly. I watched her consider it for a moment. “Fine,” she said curtly. “Just make it quick.”

  She followed me across the crowded lobby area to the hall leading to the first-grade classrooms. When we were halfway down, she turned to me.

  “All right. What is it?” she barked.

  I took a deep breath. “I think your husband’s a murderer.”

  Mitzi blinked at me. “What?”

  “Cavendish died in unusual circumstances,” I told her. “I think your husband might be involved.”

  “You think Marty killed him?” she asked, glancing down the hall and looking uneasy. “Why?”

  “His car was outside the apartment where Cavendish was killed.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked.

  “I just do.”

  “Even if that were true—and I have no way of knowing if you’re telling the truth—why would Marty kill the headmaster?”

  “Because Cavendish invested Holy Oaks’ funds into your husband’s company. Then he found out your husband’s company is dealing in an illicit drug that’s killed a bunch of people.” I glanced over my shoulder. “I have evidence showing Cavendish was having a crisis of conscience and wanted to divest Holy Oaks—and he might have been going to tell the police about it. I think your husband decided to silence him.”

  “Are you sure his wife didn’t off him because she saw him wearing tights in a wading pool?”

  “I thought about that, too,” I told her, “but it doesn’t add up.” Then I paused. “Wait a moment. How do you know that?”

  The color leached from Mitzi’s tanned face. “I . . . Someone must have told me.”

  Was she in on it? Or had Marty told her what he was doing? All of a sudden it dawned on me. “It was you, wasn’t it?” I said slowly.

  She had a look on her face I recognized. I’d seen it on Nick’s face when I caught him licking the frosting off all the cupcakes for his sister’s birthday party.

  “You knew about the Afterburn. And you knew Cavendish was going to turn in your husband, and that Marty would lose everything if he was convicted.�
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  “You can’t prove anything,” she hissed.

  “No, but I’ll bet Detective Bunsen can,” I told her. “Thanks for clearing things up.”

  I turned to walk back to the lobby, but she grabbed my arm. Her grip was remarkably firm; you could tell she spent some time at the gym. “Wait,” she said.

  “No,” I told her, reaching for my purse.

  But Mitzi was way ahead of me. Before I could get Thumbs’s gun out of the bottom of my purse, I felt something hard press against my back. “I knew it was a mistake to hire you,” Mitzi said, steering me into one of the classrooms.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  My mouth felt like cotton, but my palms were sweating. “What are you planning to do?” I asked.

  “I’m thinking,” she said.

  “They’ll hear it if you fire the gun,” I said, casting about for a way to get out of this situation. Things were hard enough for my kids as it was; the last thing they needed was for me to show up behind Holy Oaks with more holes in me than a colander.

  “You’re really concerned for my welfare, aren’t you?” Mitzi asked. “I’d be more worried about your kid. The one who thinks she’s a dog?”

  “And your daughter is a real joy, isn’t she?” I asked. The thought of Elsie tied to a tree pissed me off enough to eclipse my fear, at least for a moment. “Where’d she learn to tie people up? Or is that considered a basic skill in your household?”

  Mitzi poked the gun into my back harder. “She was talking the talk; maybe Violet decided she needed to walk the walk. Besides,” she said, “your kid is weird. You don’t see Violet wearing a cheap rhinestone dog collar and pretending she’s a Pekingese.”

  “Oh, I’m sure your kid would prefer the diamond-studded spiked version from Tiffany’s,” I said. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “That Violet tied Fido to a tree?” she asked. “I suggested it. I’m just surprised your daughter didn’t pee on the trunk.”

  The casual cruelty of it stunned me. Mitzi Krumbacher had instructed her daughter to bully Elsie, I realized. I couldn’t let this woman kill me. No way was Mitzi going to orphan my children.

  “You really don’t want to kill me yet,” I said.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  I had to admit I was stumped.

  Fortunately, at that moment, Kathleen Gardner bustled into the room. “Oh,” she said brightly. “I’m just in here getting a few more of the Girl Scout sign-up forms,” she explained, completely oblivious to the fact that Mitzi Krumbacher was pointing a gun at me. Mitzi turned her body away from Kathleen, who was rifling through a drawer next to the teacher’s desk. “Ms. Rumpole said she put them in the top drawer . . . Ah. Here they are.” She grabbed the forms and turned to me. “So, Margie. Have you given any more thought to—” Her eyes fastened onto the gun in Mitzi’s hand. “What’s that in your hand?”

  “A toy gun,” Mitzi said, her voice dripping with condescension. “I was just showing it to Margie.”

  “It doesn’t look like a toy,” Kathleen said, walking over to get a closer look. I took the opportunity to take a few steps away from Mitzi, wondering if I could make it to the door faster than she could shoot me. Unfortunately, the answer was likely no; I wasn’t exactly a natural sprinter.

  “That’s real mother-of-pearl on the handle, isn’t it?” Kathleen asked. “It looks like a .22. I was considering picking one up for Catriona in a few years, for when she goes to college, just in case. She’s just so young and beautiful . . .” A crease formed between her brows as she finally realized what was happening. “Why are you pointing that gun at Margie?”

  Mitzi let out a long-suffering sigh. “Oh my God, Kathleen. Really? If I hear another word about your daughter, I might strangle her myself. Now get over there and stand next to Margie,” she said, waving her over to me.

  “That wasn’t very polite,” Kathleen bristled.

  “I’m holding a gun,” Mitzi pointed out. “I don’t have to be polite. Now move.”

  Kathleen put one hand to the neck of her buttoned-up pink blouse. “Me? But all I’m doing is getting the Girl Scout forms.”

  “Go stand by Margie,” Mitzi said. “And shut up about your daughter. I need to think.”

  So did I. Kathleen came to stand next to me, her round face drained of color. How were we going to get out of there? As much as I had imagined bad things befalling Kathleen, I felt terrible for dragging her into this. How loud was a .22? Would Mitzi shoot us while everyone was in the front room of the school? Or would she wait until later?

  Mitzi’s blonde head snapped up suddenly. “Let’s go,” she said, waving us toward the door.

  Kathleen held up a Girl Scout form. “But—”

  “Shut up,” Mitzi barked. “Now move.

  Together we walked through the classroom to the door to the hallway. Kathleen went first; I followed, glancing down toward the lobby. Kevin was standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against a wall. “Kevin!” I yelled, waving.

  He waved back.

  “I said, shut up,” Mitzi hissed behind us. “The gun is in my purse, but it’s still aiming at you.”

  I turned away from Kevin, walking slowly down the corridor. Would he get the message that something was wrong?

  When we reached the end of the hall, I glanced over my shoulder. Kevin wasn’t there.

  Things weren’t looking good for the home team.

  “I really don’t think this is necessary,” Kathleen said as Mitzi shooed us out the door and into the hot Texas evening. “I don’t know what Margie did, but I had nothing to do with it. Where are we going, anyway?”

  “Into the woods,” Mitzi said. “Shhh.”

  Although I usually enjoyed a walk along a nature path, I was learning to hate the narrow trail behind Holy Oaks.

  “Why are you doing this?” Kathleen complained. “All I did was get the Girl Scout forms. I really don’t think pointing guns at people is the kind of modeling we want to do for our children—”

  A bullet pinged off a tree to our left, and Kathleen shut up. So that’s what it takes, I thought. Then I realized that Mitzi wasn’t the only one who was armed. I slipped my hand into my purse, feeling around for the gun.

  “Kneel down,” Mitzi said.

  “But . . .” Kathleen said. “My daughter . . .”

  “She’ll survive,” Mitzi said.

  Kathleen turned around. “Without a mother? You mean to kill me?”

  “I can’t wait,” Mitzi said. She raised the gun; at the same moment, there was a crashing sound. Mitzi’s head whipped around. I threw myself at Kathleen, rolling us both over onto the ground. There was another shot, and then a crack as a broom handle connected with the .22, sending it flying into the underbrush.

  I looked up to see Kevin standing over Mitzi.

  “What are you doing?” she asked him.

  “Keeping you from committing a capital crime,” he said. “What is going on here?” He looked at me. “This isn’t about what Violet did to Elsie, is it?”

  As he looked at me, Mitzi lunged into the underbrush.

  Kevin and I reached for her simultaneously, each grabbing a smooth leg and hauling her out of the bushes. Since she weighed less than a hundred pounds, it wasn’t a struggle. Kevin rolled her over, and she sat up and glared at him, leaves in her mussed blonde hair. “These two women assaulted me,” Mitzi told him.

  Kathleen blinked at her. “We did no such thing.” She turned to Kevin. “This woman threatened to kill my daughter. All I did was go into a classroom looking for forms, and she waves a gun at us and marches us into the woods. She’s a madwoman.”

  “Seriously, Kathleen?” Mitzi picked a leaf out of her hair. “Killing you would have been a public service.”

  “What is going on here?” Kevin asked me.

  I sighed. “Mitzi killed the headmaster because she was afraid he was going to tell the authorities her husband was a criminal, and then he’d lose his fortune and go to jail.”


  “A criminal?”

  “It seems that one of Holy Oaks’ big investments was responsible for the synthetic marijuana that is killing people all over Texas. Cavendish wanted to pull out and was going to go to the police.”

  Kathleen sat up straighter. “But that’s totally against the mission of the school. It’s a Christian program.”

  “You are so fucking naive,” Mitzi snarled. For once, I had to agree with her.

  “Sky High certainly was the right name for the fundraising campaign,” Kevin pointed out, leaning against the broom. “I guess we should call the police.”

  As I reached in my pocket for my phone, Mitzi hurled herself into the bushes again.

  “Shit,” I said, going after her, but I was too slow. By the time I got to her, Mitzi’s hand was already closing on the gun. As my hand gripped her ankle, there was another cracking sound, and Mitzi went limp.

  I looked up. Kevin stepped back, still holding the broom in his hand, and shook his head. “I feel a little bad for saying it, but man, that was satisfying.”

  “Shall we tie her up to a tree?” I suggested, letting her ankle go and standing up.

  “She deserves it,” Kevin said, “but it would probably be better to let the police handle it.”

  I knew he was right, but it sure was tempting.

  “You again,” Detective Bunsen said as we walked back into Holy Oaks. The first responders had arrived just as Mitzi came to. She clearly wasn’t too damaged by Kevin’s expert hit; even as the EMTs shone a light into her pupils, she was batting her eyelashes at the male responder. “These two women just dragged me out here and started threatening me,” she told him. “And that man hit me with a broom. All because my daughter is more popular than theirs.”

  Now, the throng of well-dressed parents looked stunned by the arrival of a leaf-covered Mitzi Krumbacher, whose arm was being gripped by a young policewoman. “Honeybunny!” Marty said, running over to his wife. “What are you doing?”

  She flashed him a look of pure hatred, then began to simper. “I don’t know why they’re holding onto me. Honey, we need to call our attorney right now. This woman tried to kill me, and now they’re blaming me!” She pointed a taloned hand at me, and Detective Bunsen raised an eyebrow.