I blinked at him for a moment, startled by his curtness. His breathing slowed as he drifted back to sleep. I knew he was getting ready for a big case, and granted, it wasn’t every day I came home in a dress that was half torn off, but what happened to civil conversation? As I watched his chest rise and fall, my mind turned to the cell phone in the bathroom of the Rainbow Room. Had the dead transvestite been calling my husband? And if so, why?
My stomach fluttered slightly as I stood up and tiptoed to the bathroom.
#
Someone was shaking me.
I swam up through a dream involving Cassandra Starr and Esther Williams, who were performing Swan Lake under a disco ball.
“Where is the minivan?” My husband hovered over me, smelling like aftershave and shampoo.
“You smell nice,” I said groggily. “What about the minivan?”
“Where exactly is it? You brought home the bumper. What happened to the rest of it?”
The events of the previous evening came reeling back to me. “It got towed,” I said.
“You smashed it up so much it wouldn’t run?”
“No, it got towed later. After the accident.”
“After the accident?”
I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “Why do you need it?”
“Because I have clients to meet with, and my car smells like the inside of a dumpster.”
My eyes shot to Nick, who lay spread-eagle on the bed. I’d forgotten about that.
I bit my lip. “Can you drive it with the windows down?”
His blue eyes were uneasy. “Margie, I don’t know what’s happening to you. It’s like you’re turning into your mother or something.”
My mother? I’d taken a job as a private investigator, not a Tarot reader. I pushed my hair behind my ears and tried to come up with a response, but the first thing that popped into my mind was the call history on the dead woman’s phone. Now was probably not the time to bring that up. “Look,” I said. “Call a taxi. I’ll take care of the car today, and I’ll get the minivan back.”
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he stalked out of the room, leaving the smell of aftershave in his wake. I glanced at the clock. Five-forty-five. As I burrowed back into the covers and tried to banish thoughts of Blake, the Rainbow Room, and the dead woman’s cell phone, it occurred to me that I had no way to get my children to school that day. The car seats were still in the minivan.
#
“Your home number was on a dead transvestite’s cell phone?” Becky asked as we tooled down Mo-Pac toward Green Meadows Day School. When I’d called her at seven-thirty and told her about the minivan, she’d offered to help immediately.
I adjusted my seatbelt and glanced over my shoulder at the kids. I’d told Becky a few of the details, but hadn’t had a chance to tell her the whole story. “I don’t want to talk about it in front of Elsie and Nick.”
“Fine,” she said, checking her pink lipstick in the rearview mirror. Then she flipped it up and honked at the station wagon in front of us, which was lumbering along at ten miles an hour below the speed limit. “But as soon as we drop them off, I want every detail.”
“What about Nick?”
“He can sit in the car for a few minutes while you fill me in outside.”
We arrived at Green Meadows Day School just after eight-thirty. Becky stayed with Nick while I hustled the kids to their classrooms and ducked into the office to deliver the photos for the school newsletter.
“Ah, Mrs. Peterson.” Mrs. Bunn stared at me from behind her massive desk, a look of anticipation on her bloated features. “On time this morning, I see. I was hoping you would stop by. We need to chat about your daughter.”
“Can we set up a time to do that? I’d talk about it now, but somebody’s waiting for me in the parking lot.” I flashed her a toothy smile and pulled the CD out of my bag. “Here are the pictures for the newsletter, by the way.”
As I slid the CD onto the desk, Mrs. Bunn sidled out from behind it like a giant crab. I found myself mesmerized by a black hair bobbing on the end of her chin as she launched into her topic. “I think this is something that needs to be dealt with immediately.” She crossed her ham-like arms over her ample chest, and my hand drooped as it reached for the door. “You may not be aware of this, Mrs. Peterson, but your daughter seems to believe that she is a dog.”
“A dog?”
“Yes. A dog.”
I laughed with relief. From Attila’s tone, I was expecting to hear she thought Elsie was a budding ax murderer. “I guess it’s from watching Lady and the Tramp. At least she’s not howling at the moon.” Attila blinked, unmoved. I tried a different tack. “I’m sure this is fairly common. Don’t all kids go through phases like this? Where they pretend to be something they’re not?”
“Mrs. Peterson, I don’t think you comprehend the serious nature of this problem. Your daughter refuses to drink from a glass. Mrs. Pitken caught her pouring her milk into a bowl and lapping it up the other day. She continually moves her lunchbox to the floor, where she rips her food apart with her teeth rather than using utensils. Furthermore, she has taken to licking—and even biting—her schoolmates on the playground. I’m sorry to report that she’s spent a good bit of time in the office recently.”
Mrs. Bunn didn’t look sorry at all. In fact, her brown eyes looked almost gleeful. “Mrs. Peterson, is there a problem in the home?” she asked.
Licking? Biting? Barking from time to time was one thing, but even I had to admit that crawling around and licking your milk from a bowl was a bit much. I smiled my brightest smile anyway.
“No, no,” I said. “Everything’s fine.” No need to tell her that I’d recently participated in a drag queen contest, my minivan was smashed, and a transvestite had called my home phone number before being murdered and discovered by me in the ladies’ room. Mrs. Bunn’s brown eyes bored into me. “I’m sorry about Elsie’s behavior,” I stammered. “She’s always had an active imagination, and we watched Lady and the Tramp a few weeks ago… I knew she liked to pretend to be Lady, but I didn’t realize it was such an issue…”
“And there’s another thing.”
“Another thing?” I arranged my face into as pleasant an expression as possible. “What is it?”
Mrs. Bunn’s beady eyes were like laser beams. The other day, something occurred that made me wonder… is it possible that there is an alcohol problem in the home?”
“An alcohol problem?” I blinked. Unless you considered an overdose of amaretto cookies an alcohol problem, the answer would have to be no. Although a few more tete-a-tetes with Attila might send me running for the peach Schnapps. “Not at all. Why?”
Mrs. Bunn looked unconvinced. Her voice was frosty. “When Miss Pitken asked Elsie to stop barking atone of her classmates on Monday, your daughter inquired as to whether Miss Pitken had been… imbibing.”
Before I could stop myself, I snorted. “Elsie asked if Miss Pitken was drunk?”
Mrs. Bunn drew herself up. If she had been taller than five-foot-three, she would have looked down her hooked nose at me. “I assure you, Mrs. Peterson, that Green Meadows Day School does not consider this behavior a laughing matter.”
“Oh, no,” I said, recovering. “I don’t either. I was just surprised. Blake says that sometimes… I’ll ask him to stop. I didn’t realize Elsie had picked that up.”
“Well, that may be the case, Mrs. Peterson, but I still feel obligated to recommend you take the child to a professional counselor.” She handed me a card.
“A professional counselor? Are you sure that’s necessary? Surely all kids go through phases like this…”
“One of her classmates had to visit a doctor after Elsie sank her teeth into his arm earlier this week. I would have to say that the level of delusion and aggression your daughter is expressing is indicative of some deeper issues.”
I took a deep breath. “A counselor, though. Don’t you think it seems a bit much to send a five-year-
old to a therapist?”
“Mrs. Peterson, I must inform you that if you do not choose to avail yourself of a psychologist’s services, we will have to ask Elsie to leave the school.”
Leave the school? Attila was playing hardball today. I tucked my hair behind my ears and straightened my shoulders. “I’m sorry she’s been a problem for you. If you think she needs to see a counselor, we’ll take her.”
Mrs. Bunn nodded. “Good. And if you continue to have trouble with Nick’s toilet training, I highly recommend her for him as well. As I’m sure you know, late toilet training can sometimes be a red flag.”
Nick, too? “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me,” I lied. If I didn’t get out of here soon, she’d be launching into Freudian theories about my son’s reluctance to stop playing with trains long enough to visit the potty. “I’ll call the counselor this afternoon.”
Mrs. Bunn nodded in approval, the task of ruining my day accomplished. Another thing to check off her list. “And before you leave… when will you have that article to accompany the photographs of the picnic?” She inclined her head toward the photo pack on her desk.
With everything that had happened during the last twenty-four hours, the article on the class picnic was pretty low on the priority list right now, right behind cleaning toilets and organizing my sock drawer. “I’ll get to it as soon as possible,” I said.
Mrs. Bunn nodded sharply. Audience dismissed. I grabbed for the doorknob and bolted into the cool morning air.
Nick was asleep in the back seat when I slid back into the Suburban. As we left the parking lot, I related my conversation with Attila.
Becky’s eyes grew round as she turned onto the entrance ramp to Mo-Pac. “She wants you to take Elsie to a therapist?”
“If I don’t, she’s going to expel Elsie.”
“Expel her?” She swerved onto the freeway, narrowly missing a blue Mini. “That witch! There’s nothing wrong with Elsie! Kids go through phases. So she thinks she’s Lady. Just because she doesn’t want to be Cinderella doesn’t mean she needs to have her head examined.”
“Well, unless I want to find another preschool, I have to take her. Who knows? Maybe it will be good for her.”
“Good for her? She shouldn’t have to go at all! That woman has gone too far.”
I sighed. “I agree. But what am I going to do? She’s the director.”
“We should pull our kids from the school. Send them somewhere else.”
“But where?” Waiting lists for Austin preschools were longer than War and Peace.
“I guess you’re right. Still, it’s criminal, what that woman gets away with.” She cut a station wagon off and pulled into the left lane, reaching over to pat my leg at the same time. “Don’t worry about Elsie. She’s just got a lot of spirit.”
I hoped she was right.
Becky glanced in the rearview mirror. “Nick’s still asleep. Forget about that Bunn woman. I want to hear more about last night.”
My worry about Elsie faded into the background as I filled Becky in on what had happened at the Rainbow Room. When I related my trip up and down the runway, Becky laughed so hard I had to reach out and grab the steering wheel to keep the Suburban from veering into the median.
“You took third place in a drag queen contest?” she wheezed.
“Yes. But don’t you tell a soul about it. Bunn already thinks we’re a family of raging alcoholics. I don’t need her thinking we’re sexual deviants, too.”
She wiped her eyes. “I was wrong about you selling Mary Kay. This is much more exciting.”
“What gets me is, where are all these transvestites coming from? I mean, I’ve gone for years without running into one, and now I’ve met at least a dozen in one day.”
“Well you were at a gay bar. On drag queen night…” She started giggling again.
I gave her a light whack on the arm. “But what about the one at the Como Motel?”
Becky rolled her eyes. “Margie, come on. This is Austin. Ever seen the personal ads in the back of the Chronicle? And a transvestite ran for mayor a few years ago, remember?”
“I guess that’s what happens when you start having kids,” I said. “Your exposure gets limited to old Disney movies and other people with kids.”
“I’ll bet you meet lots of interesting people in your new career,” Becky said with a wicked smile. “I can’t wait to hear about your next case…”
“I’ll only tell you if you promise not to tell anyone else,” I said sternly. “I’m in enough trouble with Attila as it is.”
“My lips are sealed. But I can’t believe the zipper popped… can I tell Roger about it? Pleeaasse?”
“No. He’ll tell Blake, and I don’t think our marriage would ever recover.”
She sighed. “You’re probably right. So tell me how you ended up finding the dead woman. Or man. Whatever.”
I described what I’d found in the bathroom, then related what had happened when I tried to dial 9-1-1. “I still can’t believe a dead transvestite’s phone auto-dialed my house. What do you think I should do about it?”
“Did you ask Blake if he knew her?”
“I just can’t imagine him being buddy-buddy with a drag queen named Selena. He’s so worried about appearances; he doesn’t even like it when Nick tries on Elsie’s dress-up clothes.”
Becky grinned. “Good thing I changed Nick out of that pink skirt then.”
“I forgot to take him out of Elsie’s skirt?”
“You had a lot on your mind yesterday.” Becky swerved into the right lane. “You know, maybe Blake didn’t know her as a transvestite. Could she have been a client of his somehow?”
“I don’t know. I peeked into his wallet and found one of his business cards. It looked like he had a pretty good day job.”
Becky turned to stare at me. “You peeked into his wallet? Isn’t that illegal?”
“Watch out!”
Becky’s head swiveled toward the windshield again. Her foot slammed down on the brake just in time to avoid crunching the back end of a VW Beetle.
I relaxed my grip on the door handle. “I didn’t leave any fingerprints. It turns out Selena Sass was actually a company VP named Evan Maxted during office hours.”
“Talk about a double life. Executive by day, enchantress by night….” She swerved off the freeway. “Do you think maybe he was one of Blake’s clients?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. This is all so weird.”
“So what did Blake have to say about it?”
“He doesn’t know anything about last night. He was asleep when I got home. He hasn’t been himself lately. He’s distracted all the time, irritable. And this morning, he was pissed about the minivan.”
“That man needs to go to sensitivity training.”
Normally I wouldn’t agree with her. Blake might be anal, but he was also thoughtful. The way he’d been acting lately, though, I had to admit she had a point. I sighed. “Right after I find a school that teaches men to recognize dirty socks.”
#
Ten minutes later, I trundled through the impound center in the wake of a man with so much snuff jammed under his lip that it looked like he had a tumor. As we moved through a sea of cars, he shot a brown stream of tobacco onto the cracked pavement. I was concentrating on staying out of range when he came to a stop.
“Here she is.”
I looked up at the crumpled hulk of metal that was my minivan and swallowed. “Are you sure this is it?”
He glanced down at the form in his hand. “That’s what the papers say.” He walked around the Caravan, running his hand across the buckled metal. “What did you do to it?
“I had a little run-in with a truck.”
“Looks like you smacked the hell out of it.”
“I didn’t realize it was this bad. How much do you think it would take to fix it?”
He sucked air through his teeth, somehow managing not to choke on a chunk of Skoal. “All I can say is, I s
ure hope you got it paid off.” He handed me the keys. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” As he ambled back toward the office, I slid into the driver’s seat and shoved the key into the ignition, praying that at least the engine was functional. I breathed a thank you to the man upstairs when it roared to life on the first try.
When I rolled through the chain-link gate into the front parking lot, Becky’s eyes widened. She rolled down her window. “Oh my God. Blake is going to die.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it. Is Nick still sleeping?”
She glanced behind her. “Yeah, he is.” Then her eyes focused on the Caravan. “What are you going to do?”
I leaned back and closed my eyes. “When I think of something, I’ll let you know.”
SEVEN
I stepped out of the elevator onto the twentieth floor of the Bartleby Bank Building at 10:30, suddenly conscious of my loose denim shorts and bleach-spotted polo shirt. Perhaps I should have changed into something that looked less like something on the Goodwill bargain table. I had been short on time, though; Becky had offered to keep Nick for a few hours while I figured out what to do next, and I didn’t want to waste it trying on khakis that I’d outgrown.
After stopping in a Starbucks for a pumpkin spice latte with extra whipped cream and a big slice of lemon pound cake, I had decided to deal with Blake first. Now, as I pushed through the glass doors into the plush lobby of Jones McEwan, I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea.
Blake’s office was decorated in late Twentieth Century Donald Trump, or, as Becky put it, No Dime Left Unspent. The marble entry gave way to velvet carpet, and the massive mahogany front desk looked like something Louis XVI would have had commissioned. As always, the lobby smelled of furniture polish and money, overlaid with a hint of expensive cologne. Unlike the fug I usually inhabited, which was flavored with eau de children.
Minnie, the receptionist, looked dwarfed behind her desk, which was quite a feat. Despite a number of forays into the Atkins diet, she was still a woman of substance. She adjusted her glasses and smiled at me. “Hi there, Margie. Looking for Blake?”
Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out Page 6
