Detective Bunsen’s drawl was next. “Mrs. Peterson, this is Detective Bunsen. A few things have come up during the investigation of the Maxted homicide. We need to talk. Call me.”
I copied his number down below Attila’s.
Had they already figured out I had visited Maxted’s building? For the first time, I felt a prickle of fear.
TEN
We arrived at Sullivan’s only ten minutes late. Elsie carried the blue carnations, which I had removed from the vase and wrapped in wet newspaper and a Target bag. Not the classiest presentation, but it was better than tipping over a vase and swamping the minivan—or my mother-in-law—with a half-gallon of smelly water.
Blake strode ahead of us and held the door open as we straggled through. We had been in such a rush to get out of the house that we hadn’t had much of an opportunity to talk. Which was good, because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hold it together if we did. Besides, I wasn’t ready to spring the news about the rabid cat in the laundry room just yet.
Prudence and Phil were already seated at a round table by the window. When we made our entrance, Prudence stood up and rushed over, looking natty as always in a royal blue Chanel suit that matched her eyes. “Darlings, where were you? We were worried something had happened!” Her eyes alighted on my striped face. “Margie, what happened to your face?”
“Just an accident,” I said.
“A cat scratched her,” Nick said.
“Oh, that Rufus. He’s been trouble from the beginning, hasn’t he? What you need is a nice terrier, or a poodle.” She kissed Blake on either cheek, a habit she had picked up during the seven days she had spent in Paris the previous year. Then she turned to the children. “How are my sweet grandchildren? Elsie, come here, darling, your face is smudged. And let me tuck that shirt in for you.”
“Happy birthday, Gramma.” Elsie proffered the bouquet.
“She picked them out herself,” I said hurriedly.
Prudence formed her mauve-lined lips into a faint moue of distaste. “Did she? Well. They certainly are interesting.” She laid them on the table and hugged her granddaughter. “Thank you, sweetheart. That was very thoughtful of you.” Elsie beamed.
Then my mother-in-law turned and pinched Nick’s cheek. Her powdered brow furrowed as she looked up at me. “He’s looking kind of skinny, Margie. Are you sure you’re feeding him enough?”
I pasted on a smile. “He must have inherited your great metabolism, Prue. I just took him for his annual checkup. He’s doing fine.”
She eyed him critically. “It’s not all metabolism, my dear. It’s willpower.” She sighed. “Well, we’ll get him a big, fat steak tonight, anyway.”
I bit my tongue and turned to my father-in-law. He was a quiet, benevolent presence in my in-laws’ household, and I’d grown quite fond of him over the last eight years. As I watched, he squatted down and enfolded Elsie into a big hug. “How’s my favorite girl?” he asked.
“Good, Grandpa. Do they have spaghetti here? Because Lady likes spaghetti.”
Uh-oh.
But Grandpa took it in stride. “Oh, so you’re Lady today?” He chuckled. “Well, Lady, we can order whatever you like.”
Phil stood up and pulled me into a brief hug. “You’re looking lovely tonight, Margie. Thank you for coming to meet us.”
I flushed. My black pants were still wrinkled. Some had yanked them off of their hanger, and I had found them crammed into the corner of my closet. The blouse was one I had bought in better, slimmer times, and I was just praying the buttons would hold.
“Thanks,” I said. “I wouldn’t have missed it.” We all took our places at the table, and after I had distributed crayons and coloring books to Elsie and Nick, I turned to Phil, who was sitting to my right. “How’s work?”
“Oh, same-old same-old,” he said. Although retirement age had come and gone for Phil, he continued to put in fifty-plus hours a week at 3M. He said it was so he could keep up with his wife’s spending habits, but I harbored the private suspicion that he just couldn’t face twenty-four hours a day at home with her. “How about you?” he said. “I heard you got a part-time job.”
Before I had a chance to answer, Prudence leaned toward me. “Margie, darling, I was wondering if you wanted to help me organize the Junior League fashion show. I know decorating’s not your thing, but we could really use help addressing and stamping the invitations, and arranging for rentals.”
The Junior League again? I shot Blake a look, but he was focusing on arranging his napkin in his lap. “Actually,” I said, “I’m really pretty busy right now.” I had nothing against the Junior League Fashion Show. After all, it consumed my mother-in-law’s attention for fully half of each year, for which I was grateful. But I just wasn’t very interested in clothes or fancy events. Or in the Junior League itself.
“It’ll be so much fun,” she said. “Bitsy McEwan’s debuting her new line,” she said. “All the profits go to charity, of course.”
“How nice,” I said.
Blake perked up. “She is?” He turned to me. “You should think about it, Margie. It’s a good networking opportunity. It could really help with my career.” Of course. In addition to being the president of the Junior League and a budding fashion designer, Bitsy McEwan was married to Herb McEwan, one of the founding partners of my husband’s law firm.
I gave him a tight smile. “I’ll think about it.”
At the mention of career, Prudence’s blue eyes brightened. “Any word on that partnership yet, sweetheart?”
Blake flushed. “The vote isn’t until February, mother.”
Despite my anger over his lie, my heart twinged for him. Part of the reason he worked so hard was because his mother had spent her married life castigating her husband for his failure to elevate the family to country club status. Although Phil had moved up the ranks at 3M, where he was a senior manager, he’d never made VP, and Prudence’s dreams of living in a mansion by Lake Austin had never come to fruition. Although they lived in a very nice house next to a golf course, it still wasn’t enough for Prudence. So she’d set her sights on her son.
“Well, let us know when it happens,” my mother-in-law said. “We’ll have a celebration!”
“How’s the redecorating going?” I asked Prudence as a distraction. Last year the style had been Tuscan. This year she was changing everything in her 1950s ranch to resemble a French chateau. No wonder Phil still had to work.
“Oh, the redo is fine, but Graciela’s work has fallen off terribly,” she said.
“Is she okay?” Graciela had been Prudence’s housekeeper for fifteen years. She was a hard worker, and always reliable.
“Well, her husband went to Mexico to see his dying mother or something, a few months ago, and he hasn’t come back yet. Bitsy tells me she’s been slacking off at her house, too.” She leaned over the table and whispered hoarsely “He’s illegal, you know. He uses those wolf people to get across the border.”
“You mean coyotes?” I said.
“Yes, that’s it. Anyway, he was supposed to be back a few weeks ago, but she hasn’t heard from him. Probably fell for some senorita back in the old country.”
I felt a flicker of worry. That didn’t sound like Eduardo to me. I thought of Graciela’s teenaged daughters, now in high school. Without their father around, how was Graciela making ends meet? “Is there anyone she can talk to, to find out?”
Prudence shrugged a Chanel-clad shoulder. “I don’t know. I just hope she gets this straightened out soon. Her work has really fallen off… it’s been a month since she’s done the windows.”
“I have to go potty,” Elsie announced.
“Excuse me,” I said, and got up from the table.
Prudence stood up and shouldered her massive Coach purse. “I’ll join you.”
As Elsie closed the stall door behind her, Prudence pulled me aside. Her breath, as always, smelled like mint. I raised my hand to my mouth. Had I had onions with lunch?
&n
bsp; Prudence spoke in a low voice. “I’ve noticed things seem a little tense between you and Blake lately, so I brought you a few things to help out.”
“Oh, no, we’re fine,” I protested.
She opened her purse and pulled out two books. “Here. These are for you.” I stared at the paperbacks she shoved into my hands. The one on top was How to Be a Domestic Goddess.
“Prudence, no, really,” I said. “Blake has just been under a lot of stress at work…”
“It’s the other one that really made the difference in our marriage,” she said. I slid the top book aside and almost gagged. The one underneath was titled Sex Secrets of Happy Wives.
I could feel my face turning beet red. My mother-in-law had just handed me a sex manual. “Prudence….”
“Just read it. Between that book and a nice diet and exercise regimen—I’ll give you the number of my personal trainer if you want—you’ll have Blake eating out of your hand in no time.” At that moment, Elsie’s thin voice piped up from behind the stall door. “Mommy, can you wipe me?”
“Sure, honey!” I shoved the books into my purse and escaped into Elsie’s stall. I’d never been so anxious to wipe a bottom in my life.
“If you have any questions, give me a call. And I’ll set you up with Rocco whenever you’re ready. He’s really the best.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“I’ll see you back at the table, dear,” she called over the stall door.
As I pulled Elsie’s skirt down and flushed the toilet, I reflected that this was the second time today I’d gotten unsolicited marital advice. I thought about the Domestic Goddess book in my bag. Was it that obvious that my marriage was in trouble? And could pot roast and a working knowledge of the Kama Sutra really make a difference?
By the time we got back to the table, the salad had appeared, and we made it through the appetizer phase and into the main course without any barking or biting from my daughter, or my mother-in-law. Although Elsie ate her spaghetti by sucking it from the plate strand by strand like Lady—I’d insisted she leave the bowl on the table, rather than moving to the floor—I kept Prudence on the safe topics of redecoration and the upcoming fashion show. The evening went smoothly, right up to the moment when I lifted the lid to the birthday cake.
The waitresses and waiters who had gathered around to wish my mother-in-law a happy birthday fell silent. I flushed and jammed a few candles in. As we began to sing, a smothered titter sounded from the back of the crowd of black-and-white clad wait staff.
Across the top of the cake, in bright blue letters, the woman at the bakery had scrawled HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRANDMA PRUDE.
#
“How could you have missed that?” Blake threw the minivan into reverse, and we jerked backward out of our parking place.
“What do you mean? I ordered the cake. I picked it up. How was I supposed to know they’d screw it up?”
“You didn’t check?”
The anger I had suppressed all day flared up. “No,” I hissed. “I didn’t check. I was too busy trying to find something presentable to wear for Sullivan’s.”
“This wouldn’t have happened if you’d ordered it from Lucy’s.”
“Yeah, but we would have been out an extra thirty bucks.” I glanced over my shoulder. Nick’s eyes were saucer-sized. I lowered my voice. “Look… can’t we talk about this later, when the kids are in bed?”
“Not tonight. I have to go back to the office.”
“What?”
“I have a deposition tomorrow. I told you about it last week.”
My stomach churned again. Another late night at the office… or was it something else? I sighed. “I guess it’s up to me to get the kids to bed, then.”
“I did it last night, didn’t I?”
We rode home the rest of the way in silence.
#
Blake was already gone by the time my alarm clock rang the next morning, and I wondered if he’d even come home. His sink bore a film of whiskers and shaving cream. He had been back at least long enough to shave.
I threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, gave the kids a wake-up call, and headed downstairs to down a cup of coffee and a bagel. As the caffeine percolated through my sluggish body, I assembled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, dressed, shod, and finger-combed my children. Then I grabbed my tennis shoes, distributed cups of dry Cheerios, and herded everyone to the car. For the first time that week, we were going to be on time.
It was only when I pulled into the parking lot of Green Meadows that I realized I’d left my shoes on the driveway beside the minivan.
As I padded past the office in white athletic socks, Mrs. Bunn waved furiously through the window. At first I thought she was applauding my punctuality, then I remembered she had wanted to talk about the school picnic photos. I delivered my children to their classrooms and crept back to the office, hoping she wouldn’t notice the absence of shoes.
“Mrs. Peterson,” she trumpeted as I closed the door behind me. “We need to talk. In my office, please.” She paused for a moment. “And what is wrong with your face?”
“Cat injury,” I said. I followed her into the antiseptic room she called an office. My eyes roamed the crowded room. Not a speck of dust sat on any object, and the walls were festooned with photos of previous students. Judging by the hair in the photos, she’d been at Green Meadows at least since the seventies. I sat gingerly on a diminutive wooden chair. Attila closed the door with a thud and waddled across the small room, wedging her bulk behind her desk with some difficulty. Her little eyes focused on me as she sank into her leather chair with a huff.
“Mrs. Peterson,” she wheezed. “Something has come to my attention that simply must be discussed. I knew things at your household were a bit… a bit unorthodox, but until now I didn’t realize the level of depravity we were dealing with.”
I blinked. “Depravity?”
“Depravity,” she repeated, enunciating each syllable.
As I tucked my sock-clad feet under the chair, Attila opened her desk drawer and extracted a photo. “Mrs. Belmont discovered this when she was selecting photos for the school newsletter.” As she slapped the four-by-six rectangle down on the desk, I shriveled in my tiny chair.
It was the photo of Pence.
I snatched it off the desk. “I’m so sorry. I’ve taken a new job… I’m a private investigator… and I guess I forgot I’d made double prints. I can’t believe I didn’t take it out.”
Attila narrowed her green eyes at me, sniffing as if she was trying to scent a lie. I suppressed a groan. Why had it been Lydia Belmont who had found it? I could imagine the look on her laser-treated face when she found the photos. I would have bet my last nickel it wasn’t shock. A gleeful smile was more likely. By lunchtime, every parent in the school, which included several of my husband’s coworkers, would know I had submitted a picture of an obese man clad in Saran wrap to the school newsletter.
I slouched in my chair, trying not to think about Blake’s reaction when he found out.
“You’re a private investigator?”
My focus snapped back to Attila. She was chewing her lip and eyeing me as if I was a chicken she was considering turning into pot pie. Probably deciding whether to call Child Protective Services. “Yes,” I said. “I mean, well, not officially…”
Her bushy black eyebrows shot up. “Not officially?”
“I mean, I don’t have a license… but I’m working as an investigator for a local firm. Chasing down adultery cases, mainly.”
Attila licked her bottom lip. Pot pie, indeed. “What firm do you work for?”
“It’s called Peachtree Investigations.”
“And are the children aware of your new… occupation?”
“They know I work, but they’re a little hazy on the details.”
“Good, good,” she said.
Good? What had happened to depravity?
“Any progress on the psychologist yet?”
I blinked. No
castigation? No accusations? Either Attila had begun attending anger management classes, or something was up.
When I confessed that I hadn’t gotten around to it yet, she gave me an understanding nod. “I can’t recommend Dr. Lemmon enough. I think you’ll be pleased with the results.”
“I’ll call today,” I said. Attila continued to study me. I cleared my throat. “Is there something else you wanted to talk to me about?”
She leaned back in her chair, adding a fourth chin to the collection that nestled above the collar of her dress. “When you work,” she said slowly, “I presume you do so with the utmost confidentiality.”
I nodded.
“Good.” She leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “I need your assistance with something.”
What had been twinge of misgiving escalated to major foreboding. What was it she wanted me to do? Trail her husband? Track down a love child? I shifted in the tiny chair and tried to maintain a pleasant facial expression.
“What I am about to tell you,” she continued, “must not leave this office.” Her jowly face hardened. “Do you understand?”
I nodded again.
Attila pried herself from the chair and waddled over to the window. Her rippled back jiggled slightly as she spoke. “We have an unfortunate… situation at Green Meadows Day School that has developed since the school year began.”
“Oh? What’s going on?”
Attila turned to face me. Her fleshy lips were a thin line. “I will be blunt with you, Mrs. Peterson. Significant amounts of money have been disappearing, and I have been unable to trace the source of the problem.” She sighed. “It appears, I’m afraid, that someone at the school is a thief.”
“A thief?”
“Yes. Someone has been embezzling funds.”
I glanced at the filing cabinets that lined the office. Did she expect me to go through all of the school’s financial records? I suppressed a groan. “And you want me to….”
“I want you to find out who is responsible.”
I slumped in my chair. I’d read somewhere that companies often hired forensic accountants or something to track down missing money. Trained accountants. Accountants who were good at math. I hadn’t balanced my own checkbook since sometime in the mid-nineties, and could barely remember how to do long division.
Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out Page 10
