“Just because nothing shows up in the background check doesn’t mean it’s a dead end. Did you talk to the neighbors?”
My husband is lying to me! I wanted to scream. My marriage is a sham! Instead, I said, “Yeah. A nice old lady down the hall.” The coolness of my voice startled me. “Apparently two people visited him,” I said, “but I have no idea who they are.”
“What you need is to get into that apartment.”
My eyes shot to the laundry room door. Rufus still hovered outside, but the rumbling had stopped. “I already did.”
“You got in? How?”
“I told the neighbor he was watching my cat for me.”
She snorted. “And that worked?”
“Yeah. The only problem is, there was a cop there.”
“I should have told you to wait a few days for them to clear out,” she said. “What did you do when there wasn’t a cat in the apartment?”
“There was one. It’s now in my laundry room.”
She wheezed with laughter, which turned into a hacking cough. “You’re shitting me. What are you going to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. The cat was the least of my problems. First I had to figure out what to do about my husband. “By the way,” I said, straining to keep my voice casual, “I did a little research on my friend.”
“Yeah?”
I swallowed hard. Steady, Margie. Steady. “One number kept popping up on the cell phone records. Any idea how to track it down?”
“Have you tried calling it?”
“Um, no. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Give that a try first. Say you’re a pizza delivery service, and you’re calling to tell them they won a free pizza, so you need their address.”
“Really? People fall for that?”
“Sometimes. If they hang up on you, it’s no big deal. If you call from home, make sure you block the number. Everybody’s got Caller ID these days.”
“What if no one answers?”
If nobody answers, I have a friend who can track it down, but that costs money. Find anything else?
If I said it, somehow, it would make it more real. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the prickle of hot tears. “Missing money,” I croaked.
“Missing money? What do you mean?”
My voice wobbled slightly. “There should be more money in a bank account than there is.”
“How did you find that out?” There was something in Peaches’ tone that made me wonder if she’d figured out exactly how close my ‘friend’ was.
Shame burned through me as I tried to think of what to tell her. My husband had stolen money from our family, and I’d had to go through the family files to find out. No, no. I couldn’t tell Peaches that. I couldn’t even admit it to my best friend.
“Okay, okay,” Peaches said finally. “You don’t have to tell me. How much is missing?”
I gripped the phone. “About two thousand a month,” I whispered.
She let out a long, low whistle. “You can do a lot with two thousand a month. Drugs, a second apartment for a mistress… Can you get the credit card records?”
Nightmare scenarios reeled through my head. “I already did,” I said. “Everything’s in cash.”
“Well, unless you know where he stashes his receipts, you’re out of luck. We could always put a tail on him.”
“No,” I said hurriedly. Putting a tail on him would mean I would have to admit to Peaches that I was checking out my husband. “Let me see what else I can find out first.”
My eyes fell on the latest newsletter from Green Meadows, and I remembered my conversation with Attila that morning. “By the way, do you know anything about tracking down an embezzler?”
“Your friend’s embezzling, too?”
“No, this is for someone else. Another friend.”
“Christ. And here I thought you were a meek little housewife. What kind of people are you hanging out with? You gonna call to ask about busting up a drug deal next?”
I blinked back tears. “I hope not.”
TWELVE
The Rainbow Room wasn’t quite as busy at noon as it was for the Tuesday Night Showdowns, but it did a pretty brisk lunch trade. After Bitsy had hung up, I’d called and found out it opened at eleven-thirty. I drove downtown and arrived just after twelve. If Cassandra were there, I’d have plenty of time to ask her a few questions about Evan Maxted before picking up my kids at two.
The cold air raised goose bumps on my arms and legs as I walked past clusters of men in business suits and a few women—or were they men?—in low-cut tops and abbreviated skirts. Fortunately, this time I’d remembered to bring a sweatshirt with me, and I pulled it over my head as I settled myself at a barstool. Adonis wasn’t on duty, but a short Hispanic guy named Domingo was.
“What can I get you?” he asked. The diamond stud in his nose sparkled pink under the neon lights.
“Just a diet Coke,” I said. “And could I have a lunch menu?”
He slid a sticky laminated menu across the bar toward me and turned to fill a glass with ice. When he plunked my diet Coke on the counter, I asked if Cassandra was around.
“Cassandra?” He eyed my sweatshirt. “Why do you want to talk to Cassandra?”
“We have a mutual friend,” I said.
“She’ll be here at one,” he said. “Let me know when you’ve decided.”
I nodded, and deliberated for ten minutes between the Bunlovers’ Burger and the Fetish-ini Alfredo. I decided on the Alfredo, and was pleasantly surprised by the plate Domingo brought out fifteen minutes later. I was just scraping up the last bits of sauce when Cassandra swept into the bar. She no longer looked like an orange Popsicle. Today, she was dressed like Dale Evans in a short denim skirt, red cowboy boots, and a straw hat. Only the heavy makeup and furry eyelashes were the same.
“Cassandra!” Domingo called.
She turned and fluttered those eyelashes at him, which was quite a feat, given their tonnage. “Domingo! Did you miss me?”
“Sure, Cassandra.”
She pouted at him as he pointed at me. “Lady here wants to talk to you.”
Cassandra’s fringed eyes sought me out, but instead of sparking with recognition, clouded with confusion. “Do I know you?”
“We met the other night. The night Evan—Selena—died.”
“Did we?”
“I was a little more dressed up.” She still looked confused. “Remember Emerald?” I said. “Emerald Divine?”
She blinked. “You’re Emerald?”
I nodded. “Margie, actually.”
She sat back, exposing an awful lot of thigh. “Well. It’s amazing what a little makeup and hairspray will do. Miracles, really. I mean, you took third place the other night, and now, who would guess?”
“Gee, thanks.” I resisted the urge to reach up and fluff my hair. Did the makeup really make that much of a difference? “I wanted to ask you a few questions about Selena, if that’s okay with you.”
“Oh, yes. Poor dear.” Her chandelier earrings—miniature silver horses and spurs—jingled as she shook her head. “I can’t imagine who would do a thing like that to a beautiful girl like Selena.”
“That’s what I want to ask you. Do you know who would have wanted to… to hurt her like that?”
“Why are you interested?”
I shrugged. “It turns out she’s a friend of a friend of mine. Besides, I found her…”
“So? The police will handle it. And that gorgeous detective seems able to handle just about everything.” She sighed. “Too bad he’s straight. But why should I talk to you?”
“Because I’m a private investigator,” I said. The title sounded awkward to me.
It must have sounded awkward to Cassandra, too, because she eyed me skeptically. “You? A private investigator?”
“Actually, I was on a job the night I came here.”
She blinked. “No kidding.”
I forged ahead before she could
ask for details. “Do you know if Selena was seeing anyone?”
“That’s just what that handsome Detective Bunsen asked me. I told him, a girl like Selena always has suitors. She’s been in here with a lot of men.”
“Anyone in particular?”
Cassandra pursed her purple lips. “Well, the last couple of months, she’s been hanging around with one guy more than the others. Good-looking guy, wears a lot of black leather, and his muscles…” She moaned. “He must live at the gym. I tell you, you’ve never seen such a tight bottom. And in those leather pants…”
“Did he have a name?”
“I think Selena called him Marcus. I told Detective Bunsen about him, too.”
“Any idea where he lives?”
“I don’t know, but Veronica might.”
“Veronica?”
“She runs the only tranny school in town.” I must have had a blank look on my face. “You know what a tranny school is, don’t you?”
“Kind of…”
Cassandra fumbled in her purse for a cigarette, which she jammed into a silver holder and perched on a purple lip. After fluttering her eyes at Domingo for a moment, she gave up and lit it herself. “Miss Veronica’s Boudoir,” she said finally. “It’s a place that helps men get in touch with their feminine sides, if you know what I mean.” She winked at me, but I still wasn’t getting it.
Finally she rolled her eyes. “For transvestites. You know, to teach them girl stuff. Picking out bras, stockings, how to apply makeup.” She tittered. “Of course, I never needed the help. Fashion sense came naturally to me. But a lot of these men, well, they couldn’t tell you the difference between a mule and a slide for a million dollars.”
I didn’t know the difference, either, but I didn’t tell Cassandra. “Do you know where I can find her?”
“Sure. She’s down on South Congress. Even though I don’t need the instruction, I like to order a few things from time to time.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Her thongs are to die for. You should check them out while you’re down there. She’s got lace, rubber… even some with plastic fruit, would you believe?” Cassandra pulled a pen from her leather-fringed purse, jotted the address on a cocktail napkin, and pushed it toward me. “There you go. Can’t miss it. It’s right behind the Hot Chicken.”
“The Hot Chicken? What’s that, a gay bar?”
She blinked her eyelashes at me. “No, dear, it’s a takeout chicken place.”
#
It was only one-thirty when I stepped out of the Rainbow Room and slid into the oven that was the minivan. I had a few minutes before it was time to pick up the kids, so I decided to cruise by Miss Veronica’s Boudoir. Cassandra was right; it was tucked into the trees directly behind the Hot Chicken. I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe a strip mall, or something concrete and grungy like Peachtree Investigations, but Miss Veronica’s was a little gingerbread Victorian, complete with lace curtains at the window and a porch swing. It looked like a knitting store, not a training facility for wannabe transvestites.
I pulled into the driveway and peered at the hours sign posted next to the front door. Monday through Friday, ten to six. Walk-ins welcome, appointments preferred. Appointments? What kind of appointments? As I stared at the building, a curvaceous woman in a chiffon miniskirt opened the front door, accompanied by a conservative-looking young man in slacks and a dress shirt. Was the woman really a woman? The young man smiled at her, and I was reminded with a pang of Evan Maxted’s driver’s license picture. I wondered if he was a transvestite-in-training.
As I peered at the couple, the woman in chiffon turned to look at me. Even from a distance I could see that her eyes were a startling blue. She reminded me a little of Elizabeth Taylor. I turned my head away and blushed, embarrassed to have been caught staring. Then I threw the minivan into reverse and pulled back onto South Congress, resolving to come back tomorrow after dropping the kids off at school. Hopefully, the woman in the chiffon skirt wouldn’t remember me gawking at her.
I rolled into the Green Meadows parking lot five minutes early—on time twice in one day!—and spent two of them practicing facial expressions in the rearview mirror. What I was going for was the “Everything is just fine and your Daddy didn’t lie about knowing a murdered transvestite and isn’t hiding money from your mommy” look. I settled on a smile that I hoped wasn’t too strained and stepped out of the car, right into Lydia Belmont.
“Oh. Hello.” Every inch of her professionally tanned, expensively manicured and stylishly slender figure tensed. The nostrils of her aquiline nose flared slightly, as if she’d gotten a whiff of something, or someone, nasty.
“Hi,” I said. My carefully rehearsed facial expression melted off of my face. “I heard you found one of my work photos in the school pictures. Did Mrs. Bunn get a chance to explain it to you?”
“Explain why you’re walking around with disgusting photographs? Need I remind you that this is a school?”
“I know it’s a school, and I’m mortified that that photo got in there.” I swallowed. “But it’s not what you think. I’m a private investigator, Lydia. It was proof for an infidelity case.”
Her penciled eyebrows rose. “Oh?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” she huffed. “You can call your… your perversion whatever you want to, but I will not have my daughter exposed to such influences!”
“It was an accident. I promise it won’t happen again.”
“No, I should think not. In fact, I’m determined to see that it doesn’t.” She took a breath, and her nostrils quivered. “That’s why I’ve started a petition.”
I stepped backward. “A petition?”
“Yes. A petition. This is a private school, and the parental body should be able to choose who we allow to attend.”
“Who we allow…”
“And that is why I have started a petition that would allow the removal of influences we deem unsafe for our children.”
I clenched my fists. “You mean you’ve started a petition to have my children expelled?”
“That is correct, Mrs. Peterson. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to retrieve my daughter.”
Heat rose to my cheeks as she strode toward the school gate, her Dooney and Bourke handbag bouncing against her bony hip. Lydia Belmont was trying to have my children expelled from Green Meadows Day School. And her husband was one of Blake’s coworkers.
On the plus side, I thought as I trailed her to the gate, at least Attila was on my side.
For now.
Elsie and Nick raced toward me as I entered the playground area. “Mommy!” Nick hollered, his Stride Rites churning up the pea gravel, Elsie tripping along behind him in pink strappy sandals. For a moment, as my kids wrapped themselves around my legs and hugged me as if I were the only thing that mattered, everything that was going wrong in my life—Lydia, Evan Maxted, Green Meadows Day School, even my troubles with Blake—faded away.
Then Elsie burst into tears.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Her little face was mottled from crying. “Cherie… Cherie says our family is a bunch of perbers!”
“Perbers?” I looked up and focused on Cherie. Her mother, Lydia, glared at me and threw a protective arm around her before hustling her away. Perbers. Perverts.
My eyes scanned the playground, searching for one of the kids’ teachers, focusing finally on Nick’s teacher, who was stationed by the porch steps. “Mrs. Lawson? Could you keep an eye on Nick and Elsie for a moment? There’s something I need to discuss with Mrs. Bunn.”
Mrs. Lawson, a kindly looking woman in flowing, gauzy fabrics, smiled at me. “Sure.” I bent down and kissed Elsie’s wet cheek. “I’ll be back in a moment, sweetheart.” Then I gave Nick’s arm a quick squeeze. “Mommy has to go into the office for a few minutes. Will you stay with Mrs. Lawson?” He nodded, his blue eyes wide.
I shepherded them over to the porch steps and marched to the office. Mrs. Bunn
was alone behind the front desk. I slammed the door behind me.
“I’ve got a big problem, Mrs. Bunn.”
Attila’s bushy black eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh? What is it?”
“My daughter is in tears because Cherie Belmont is calling our family a bunch of perverts. And Cherie’s mother just informed me in the parking lot that she’s putting together a petition to have Elsie and Nick expelled.”
Attila shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Yes, well, she was quite upset over the photograph.”
“Upset? So what? I explained the photograph to you. It was a mistake. Are you going to let them tar and feather my children because of a small error?”
Mrs. Bunn shrugged. “Unfortunately, I have no control over Mrs. Belmont’s actions.”
“Okay. Maybe not. But you can sure as heck make sure her daughter isn’t spreading nasty rumors about my family on the playground.”
She sighed. “I’ll talk to the teachers this afternoon.”
“What about the petition?”
“I’m afraid the petition is out of my hands. While you’re here, though, I wanted to give you a copy of the key to the office.”
“What?”
“So you can commence your investigation.”
“Oh, yes. The investigation.” I crossed my arms. “I’d be happy to look into things for you—and to keep it quiet—but I need something in return.”
Mrs. Bunn’s jowly face stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“I need you to talk to Mrs. Belmont and put a stop to this.”
“To the petition?”
I nodded.
The whiskers on her chin bristled as she shook her head. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
“That’s too bad.” I turned and put my hand on the doorknob. “With everything that’s been going on in my life, I’m afraid I may not be able to start the investigation for another couple of weeks. Maybe even a few months.”
“A few months?”
My hand turned the knob. Mrs. Bunn let out an exasperated sigh. “All right. I’ll talk to her. But I can’t make any promises.”
“What about the teasing?”
“As I mentioned earlier, I’ll be discussing the matter with the children’s teachers this afternoon.”
Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out Page 12
