Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out

by Karen MacInerney

  “Good.” I walked back to the desk and she handed me a set of keys. I couldn’t believe it. Mrs. Bunn had just agreed to run interference for Elsie and Nick.

  “All the financial files are in here.” She gestured toward an imposing file cabinet that could easily have worked as an anchor for the Titanic. I gritted my teeth. Victory didn’t come without a price.

  “I’ll get started this weekend, then.”

  “Marvelous. But there’s one more thing, Mrs. Peterson.”

  “What?”

  “I spoke with my friend Dr. Lemmon yesterday. Apparently you haven’t called to schedule an appointment for your daughter yet.”

  I bit my lip. “I’ll call this afternoon.”

  I retrieved Elsie and Nick from beneath Mrs. Lawson’s wing and held their hands tightly as we trotted to the parking lot. “I’m sorry that happened to you today, Elsie. I’ve just spoken with Mrs. Bunn, and your teachers are going to make sure nobody calls you any more names.”

  She sniffled. “What’s a perber, Mommy?”

  Christ. “Whatever it is, it’s not very nice. The important thing is that you know that it doesn’t matter what other people say. You’re a wonderful, kind, smart little girl.” I gave her small hand a squeeze. “And when people say mean things to you, all it does is tell you something about them.”

  “What do you mean, Mommy?”

  “It tells you that they’re not good people to have as friends.”

  “Oh.”

  I buckled Elsie and Nick into their car seats and exited the driveway right behind Lydia Belmont’s silver Mercedes SUV. It was all I could do not to slam the gas pedal and smash into her sparkling bumper. I limited myself to sticking my tongue out at her as she turned right.

  As I maneuvered the minivan out of the parking lot, Elsie piped up from the back seat. “Why did you stick your tongue out at that lady’s car, Mommy?”

  “Did I? Oh, I must have been thinking about something else.”

  THIRTEEN

  The phone started ringing the moment the front door closed behind me. I raced into the kitchen and picked it up halfway through the fourth ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Margie?”

  “Becky. What’s up?”

  “Lydia Belmont just called me and asked me to sign a petition to have Elsie and Nick expelled from Green Meadows. What’s going on?”

  I sank into one of the kitchen chairs, thinking of the discovery I’d made in Blake’s office. Oh, not much. Just my marriage is falling apart, that’s all. Instead, I said, “Remember that photo of Pence I told you about?”

  “You mean Mr. Saran Wrap?”

  “Yeah. I accidentally left a copy in with the pictures from the school picnic.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did. And guess who found it.”

  Becky groaned. “I can’t believe it.”

  “On the plus side, Attila promised she’d try to talk her out of it.”

  “Attila? As in Attila the Bunn?”

  “The very same.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “Don’t ask.” And don’t ask about Blake, either. I forced a light tone to my voice. “By the way, are you going to the Junior League Fashion Show?”

  “What does that have to do with Lydia Belmont?”

  “Nothing. I got roped into going, and I was hoping you’d be there, too. They put me next to Prue.”

  “Did you tell her about your new job yet?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I didn’t think you had.” She sighed. “I guess I have to go, then. Otherwise you might end up in jail for matricide. Or do they call it something different when it’s your mother-in-law?”

  “Self-defense?” Becky laughed. “You wouldn’t believe what she gave me the other night,” I said.

  “What? A lecture on the importance of Kegels?”

  “It’s much worse. When we were in the bathroom, she handed me two books. One’s a cookbook—that Nigella Lawson one, How to be a Domestic Goddess.”

  “So?”

  “The other’s a sex manual.”

  A snort sounded from the other end of the phone line. “Oh, my God. She didn’t.”

  “She did.” My voice wobbled through the forced gaiety. “And if things don’t work out for Blake and me, I’ll donate them to you.” Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes.

  Becky was silent for a moment. “What do you mean, ‘if things don’t work out?’”

  A wave of anger and despair swelled up in me. I was aching to talk to someone, to have someone tell me everything was going to be okay, even though I knew it wasn’t. I checked to make sure the kids were out of earshot. “I think Blake is hiding something from me,” I whispered into the phone.

  “Hiding something? You mean he’s having an affair?”

  “I don’t know.” A lump expanded in my throat, squeezing my words. “He said he didn’t know Evan Maxted, but he was one of his clients. And now there’s missing money.”

  “Oh my God. You poor thing. How much? How did you find out?”

  “I snuck into his office and went through the files. He got a raise in January, but he never told me about it. When he deposits the checks, he takes a thousand dollars off the top.”

  Becky sucked in her breath.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” I said, my voice thick. “Blake always seemed so solid, so dependable. And now this…”

  “Have you said anything to him?”

  “How could I? I’ve hardly seen him. He’s at work all the time. At least that’s what he says.”

  “Well,” she said slowly, “on the plus side, you’re now a private investigator.”

  “I know.” I took a shuddery breath. I couldn’t control my husband’s actions. But what I could do was find out everything I could about what was going on. Then I’d confront him with everything I’d discovered, and if he couldn’t come up with a good answer… “I’ve already been to Maxted’s apartment,” I said. My voice was surprisingly firm.

  “You what?”

  “And I was thinking about going into Blake’s office at Jones McEwan one night, to see what I can find out.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “I also want to go to Maxted’s office.”

  “That’s definitely illegal.”

  “Not if I go asking them to handle a shipment for me.” The pain receded a bit as I tackled the problem, allowing my mind to sift through the possibilities. Still there, still waiting, but no longer engulfing me. “Isn’t your brother in the shipping industry?”

  “Michael?”

  “Yeah. Think he could give me a few tips, so that I can sound convincing?”

  “You know, maybe you’re taking this private investigator stuff too seriously.”

  “Becky, my husband lied about knowing a murder victim and is hiding money from me,” I hissed. “Unless I tell the police about everything—and I don’t want to do that when I don’t know what’s going on myself—it’s up to me to figure out what’s going on.” I gripped the phone so hard it hurt. “And I need to know.”

  She sighed. “I guess you’re right. I’ll call Michael this afternoon.”

  “Thanks.” A growl sounded from behind the laundry room door. “By the way, do you want a cat?”

  “A cat?”

  I eyed Rufus, who hadn’t left his post by the door. “Never mind.”

  Becky promised to call me back as soon as she’d talked to her brother, and told me to call her if I needed anything at all. “I’m sure it will all work out,” she said.

  I wasn’t, but I thanked her anyway. Then I hung up the phone and pulled out the yellow pages to look up Dr. Lemmon’s number. I needed to stay busy, keep my mind from diving back into the nightmare that was my marriage. Besides, I might as well get it over with.

  I was about to pick up the phone and dial when it rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Peterson?”


  “Speaking.”

  “This is Detective Bunsen. I left a message for you yesterday.”

  My body went cold. “Oh, yes. Sorry. I hadn’t had a chance to call you back yet. How’s the investigation going?”

  “We need to schedule a time to talk, Mrs. Peterson.”

  I swallowed. “You mentioned that in your message. I’m afraid things are really busy right now.” What with my husband being a lying snake, and all. “Can we try for sometime next week?”

  “Mrs. Peterson, this is a homicide case. I understand you have a busy schedule, what with all of the investigations I’m sure you’re handling, but this isn’t fun and games we’re talking.”

  I switched hands, wiping my sweaty palm on my shorts. “Okay. Fine. I just need to set up child care for my kids. I don’t want them around when we’re talking about… you know.”

  “Murder?”

  “Exactly. Can I call you back this afternoon? After I’ve set up a babysitter?”

  “You have my number?”

  “It’s on your card, right?”

  “Uh huh. And I’d better hear from you by five.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  “Talk to you this afternoon, Mrs. Peterson.”

  “Yes. Great. Bye.”

  I hung up the phone and glanced at the clock. It was 2:45. I had two hours and fifteen minutes before I had to call Detective Bunsen and set up a time. My hands felt icy at the thought of being stuck in an interrogation room with Detective Bunsen. Had I left any fingerprints on Maxted’s wallet? Did they know about his connection with my husband? And what if Officer Carmes was there?

  Maybe I should call an attorney. Unfortunately, the only ones I knew worked with my husband.

  I closed my eyes. Calm down, Margie. Worrying about the police was only going to stress me out more. I hadn’t done anything wrong—well, I hadn’t murdered anyone, anyway—so what did I have to worry about? I took a few deep cleansing breaths and opened my eyes. The open phone book lay on the counter in front of me. What had I been doing when Bunsen called? Oh, yes. Calling the psychiatrist so I could have my daughter’s doglike tendencies examined. As my finger moved down the line of numbers, the doorbell rang.

  The cops?

  It couldn’t be. I had just spoken with Bunsen two seconds ago. Probably another solicitor. I jogged to the front door, ready to tell whoever was selling miracle cleaning products or overpriced magazine subscriptions that they’d picked the wrong housewife.

  But when I opened the door, my mother’s housekeeper stood on the doorstep.

  “Graciela?”

  “Miss Margie,” she said. “I am so sorry to disturb you, but…”

  “Come in, come in,” I said, overly aware of the mélange of shoes, dirty socks, and Matchbox cars decorating my front hallway, not to mention two overflowing laundry baskets on the couch in the living room. Usually my house was pretty presentable, but with everything that had been going on the last couple of days, it was looking a little like the inside of a dumpster. I pushed my hair out of my eyes and forced a smile. Other than my husband, and possibly my husband’s mother, the last person I wanted to talk to right now was my mother-in-law’s housekeeper.

  “Are you sure?” she asked tentatively as she stepped through the front door.

  “I’m sure,” I said. “As long as you don’t mind a bit of a mess. With two kids…” I laughed hollowly, resisting the urge to scoop up the cars and shove them into my pockets. “You know how it is.”

  She followed me into the kitchen and perched gingerly on one of the chairs, which was wise, as they still bore a patina of Elmer’s glue from a recent art project. “Can I get you a drink?” I asked. “Water? Iced tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  I filled a glass with water and sat down across from her, my thighs adhering instantly to the wood chair. My eyes fell on the picture on the fridge—the picture of Blake, smiling—and my stomach clenched.

  “If you want,” Graciela said, “I can come help you.”

  “What?” My head whipped around to Graciela, who was inspecting the sticky floor. I rubbed my eyes and forced myself to focus on what she was saying.

  “I said I can come help you.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said. “I know you’re great. Prue’s house always looks fabulous. But with both kids in private school, we just can’t afford to have you come.” Of course, if the money from Blake’s raise actually made it into our bank account, that might be a different story.

  She eyed a sippy cup, which lay sideways in a puddle of congealed strawberry milk. At least I’m pretty sure it was strawberry milk. “With the kids, you need help. I could make a special offer.”

  “No, really. Thank you, but we’re doing okay.” I took a sip of my water and forced a smile. “How are things with the girls? Is everything okay?”

  Her brown eyes looked desperate. “I talk with Miss Becky, and she tell me you work as an investigator.”

  Uh oh. “I just started a week ago,” I said. I remembered my conversation with Prudence about Graciela’s missing husband, and a warning bell went off in my head. I wasn’t the only one with problems. “Does this have something to do with Eduardo?”

  Her eyes filled as she nodded. “My Eduardo, his mother was sick, very sick, so he went back to Guadalajara last month. We set everything up with the coyote. Eduardo was supposed to come back three weeks ago. The coyote said he would call when they got to Austin. I wait by the phone, check the answering machine. Nothing.” She wrung the straps of her black vinyl purse. “I don’t know what to do. Can you help me?”

  I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair. Less than fourteen days after starting a job as an investigator, I had taken on two adultery cases, an embezzlement case, and was investigating my own husband’s lies. Now Graciela wanted me to track down her husband.

  “Graciela,” I said, “I wish I could help you. But the truth is, I just started. I know squat about looking for a missing person, much less one that’s been smuggled over the border.”

  Her shoulders slumped in her Mickey Mouse t-shirt. “I don’t know where to go,” she whispered. “Without Eduardo, I can’t pay for the apartment. My kids and me, we have nowhere to go. My whole family is in Mexico, and they have nothing. I have nowhere to turn.”

  “But Graciela…”

  “I do anything. I clean your house, I do your laundry… just please, please, help me.” The rawness in her voice pierced my heart.

  I stared at her pinched face, eyes swollen from crying. “Graciela,” I said, “I don’t know what I can do for you. I’ve got a lot going on right now, and I’m just figuring things out on my own. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Her brown eyes opened wide, which made me feel even worse. She thought she was hiring a real private investigator. She probably thought I would actually be able to locate Eduardo. The problem was, not only did I not have an ‘in’ with any local smuggling rings, but I didn’t even speak Spanish.

  “Really?” she said, eyes bright.

  I sighed. “Really.”

  She stood up and trotted to the sink, turning on the faucet and grabbing a sponge. “I clean house, I cook for you…”

  “No, no,” I said, hurrying to turn the water off. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “But how do I pay you?”

  “Consider it pro bono.”

  “Pro bono?”

  “Free,” I said.

  “Thank you so much, Miss Margie. I don’t know how to thank you.” As I sipped my water, she opened her handbag and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Here is all of Eduardo’s information. And this is the number they gave me to call. The name of the coyote was La Serpiente.”

  “La Serpiente? What’s that?”

  “It means snake.”

  I winced.

  “How long do you think it will take?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I’ll do my best, but I have no idea. Like I said, I have a lot going on right now.”
Like a dead transvestite, an embezzler, and a lying husband. “And I can’t guarantee I’ll find him.”

  “Oh, thank you, Miss Margie, thank you.” She trotted out the front door fifteen minutes later, a new spring in her step.

  I watched her Ford Pinto recede down Laurel Lane with a sick feeling in my stomach. Whatever I found out, chances were it wouldn’t be good. For either of us.

  FOURTEEN

  “I’ve got good news,” Becky said when she called a half hour later. After Graciela had left, I’d left a message with Dr. Lemmon’s answering service, arbitrated a squabble over a fire truck, cleaned up Rufus’s most recent offering outside the laundry room door, and plowed through half a bag of Dove Chocolates. I still hadn’t gotten around to setting an appointment with Bunsen.

  “I’m glad someone does,” I said. “My mother-in-law’s housekeeper just swung by.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, it was just a casual call. All she wants is for me to find her missing husband.”

  “When are you going to find the time to do that?”

  “It gets worse. He disappeared while being smuggled over the border.”

  Becky sucked in her breath. “Gosh. I hope he’s okay. Doesn’t she have two kids?”

  “Yeah. Don’t remind me. Hey, you don’t speak Spanish, do you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Me neither. Apparently the coyote’s name is the Snake.”

  “Oof.”

  “Exactly.” I sighed. “Anyway, what’s your news?”

  “I just got off the phone with Michael. He knows the guy who runs International Shipping, and he’s agreed to set up an appointment with him.”

  “And?”

  “Duh. For a private investigator, sometimes you’re not very smart. You and I are going to go along, of course.”

  “Whoa. I don’t want to get your brother involved in this. Or you. Besides, I don’t know anything about shipping.”

  “So what? It’ll be fun. Even if we don’t find anything out, it’s good for you to stay busy. I told Michael you’re working on a case, and he’s all excited about it—he loves all those spy novels. And we won’t have to know a thing about the shipping industry. He’ll say we’re employees in training, and that he wants us to meet some of his contacts.”