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

by Karen MacInerney

  I eyed him coolly. “I don’t know,” I said. “Do you?”

  His eyes darted to mine. Then he shook his head and turned away.

  “I’ll call 9-1-1,” I said. One of the neighbors was already approaching the house. I glanced at Blake’s boxer shorts and t-shirts and realized I was wearing nothing but a short nightshirt decorated with lobsters. “I’m going in to get changed. You’d better get a bathrobe.”

  He nodded dumbly and followed me into the house.

  #

  “It’s too early to tell, but it looks like a Molotov cocktail.”

  The firefighters had drenched the inferno and finally put out the flames. Now Blake’s car was a smoking, black skeletal thing in the driveway. Fortunately, although it had blackened the left side of the minivan, the explosion hadn’t destroyed both cars.

  “What’s a Molotov cocktail?” I asked the young officer. Laurel Lane was lined with emergency vehicles, and Blake, who had positioned himself at the curb, was back in attorney mode, explaining to curious neighbors that the reason his car had exploded in the middle of the night was probably “a short in the engine.”

  The officer glanced back at the smoking wreck in the driveway. “It’s pretty primitive. They fill a bottle filled with gasoline, stuff a rag in it, then light it and toss it. But it can still do a lot of damage. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  I shook my head. “None.”

  He hitched up his belt. “We’ll be out of here in a little while, but the investigators will be back to examine things more thoroughly in the morning. But in the meantime…” He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “If you think of anything, or have any questions, call me.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Can I go in to check on my kids now?”

  “Your husband seems to have things under control, ma’am.” He gestured toward Blake, who held a gaggle of bathrobe-clad neighbors in thrall at the curb. “If we need any more information, we’ll ask him.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I turned toward the house, he called after me. “And ma’am?”

  “Yes?”

  “If I were you, I’d watch my step until we find out who did this to you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I will.”

  My stomach clenched as I closed the front door behind me and climbed the stairs to the kids’ bedrooms. The smell of burning plastic permeated the air, even inside of the house.

  Someone had blown up my husband’s car.

  Would they attack the house next?

  I shivered and tried to think positive thoughts. On the plus side, at least I wouldn’t have to worry about getting vomit stains out of the back seat.

  #

  The investigators hadn’t arrived yet when I pulled the minivan out of the driveway the next morning, my eyes glued to the blackened hulk that used to be an Audi coupe. Blake sat beside me, staring at his car with mournful eyes. I was driving him to the car rental agency, then taking the kids to school.

  “I hope that insurance money comes through soon. I don’t want to be stuck driving a Chevy Cavalier for the next month.” He shook his head. “So, which one of your clients’ friends did this?”

  “It wasn’t my car that got blown up.”

  “Yeah, but nothing like this ever happened until you started working for Plum.”

  “Peaches.”

  “Peaches. Right. I still can’t believe someone blew up the car. Jesus. What’s next? Carpet-bombing the neighborhood?”

  The thought chilled me, too. But something told me the explosion had more to do with Blake’s activities than mine. I glanced at my husband. “The police said they thought it was a Molotov cocktail. Did they come up with any new theories after I went up to bed?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. No idea. They’ll know more today. I just hope it doesn’t make the papers. I told all the neighbors it was just a fluke.”

  “Well, when the investigators come out today, the neighbors may start to wonder.”

  “I told everyone they were sending an investigator out as a routine precaution.” He glanced at me. “Why are you all dressed up?”

  “Oh, just trying to take better care of myself,” I said, smoothing down the skirt I had salvaged from the depths of my closet. Actually, I was planning a visit to Miss Veronica’s Boudoir later in the day, and after Cassandra’s comment about my appearance in the Rainbow Room yesterday, there was no way I was going into a Drag Queen School without at least a little feminine armor. So while the kids were waking up, I had dug through the closet until I found a blouse and a skirt that weren’t too tight and put on a bit of mascara and lipstick.

  “Why?” Blake asked. “Are you meeting with Bitsy McEwan today?”

  “No,” I answered. Why was he suddenly so curious? “Just felt like dressing up. Polishing my image a bit.”

  “Good.” He nodded approvingly.

  I gritted my teeth as I turned into the Hertz parking lot.

  A half hour later I cruised through the drop-off lane of Green Meadows Day School. As we waited in line behind a dozen Lexus and Mercedes SUVs, I turned around to address Elsie. “I talked with Mrs. Bunn yesterday, and you shouldn’t have any more trouble with Cherie. But if you do, tell me about it.”

  She sucked on her lower lip. “Okay.” Then she asked, “Mommy, what happened to Daddy’s car?”

  We’d been over this last night, but I smiled at her reassuringly. “There was a fire. It was an accident. But you don’t need to worry about it. The car is replaceable, and the most important thing is that everyone’s okay.”

  “Is your car going to catch on fire and go boom?”

  “No, sweetheart.” I patted her chubby leg. At least I hoped not. “But don’t worry about the cars. Mommy and Daddy will take care of that.”

  “Okay.”

  “And today? If someone does say something mean? Just tell them they’re not being a very good friend and find someone else to play with. Got it?”

  She nodded solemnly. A few minutes later, the kids disappeared behind the wood picket fence enclosing Green Meadows Day School, and I was on my way to Miss Veronica’s Boudoir.

  #

  Since Miss Veronica’s didn’t open until ten, I grabbed my knitting bag and headed to Starbucks for one of my guilty indulgences—a tall nonfat vanilla latte. With everything that had happened since Monday, I felt I deserved it. Although knitting didn’t create the relaxed feeling it usually did, thanks to the images of Blake’s blackened car and the bank statements I had found in his office that kept popping into my mind, it still felt good to do something constructive, even if I kept adding extra stitches. I ran my hand over the rows I finished and told myself the lumps gave it extra character.

  At five minutes past ten, I parked behind the Hot Chicken, fully caffeinated and with another fifteen rows of my niece’s rainbow scarf complete. I refreshed my lipstick in the rearview mirror and practiced a smile. Then I marched across the parking lot and walked into Miss Veronica’s Boudoir.

  The inside was much like the outside, with an ancient pine floor, lace curtains, and hundred-year-old furniture. The room looked like an antique store, except for the merchandise displayed in the glass-fronted hutches. Wigs, thongs, bras, and false eyelashes were featured prominently, and when I peered through the warped glass of a huge breakfront I was confronted by a line of dildos in an astonishing variety of shapes and colors. As I bent forward for a closer look at one called the Venus Vibrato, a throat cleared behind me.

  I whirled around to face a young man in black slacks and a thin cashmere V-neck sweater. The one I’d seen yesterday. “May I help you?” he asked.

  Heat crept up my neck to my cheeks as I sidled away from the dildo display. “Yes, actually. I mean, I hope so.”

  “Do you need help with one of those?” He gestured toward the case.

  I jumped away from it. “Oh, no.”

  “If you’re here for the wives’ group, it’s moved to Tuesdays at noon.”<
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  “Wives’ group?”

  He blinked at me from behind wire-rimmed frames. “Yes. The support group for spouses.”

  “What spouses?”

  “Spouses who are letting their husbands explore their feminine sides.”

  And I’d always thought transvestites were gay. “Um, no. No, I’m not here for the group. Is Miss Veronica here?”

  “She’s in her office. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “May I tell her your name?”

  “Margie. Margie Peterson.”

  He backed into a cabinet, knocking over a display of breast forms.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” he said, fumbling to fit the artificial breasts back onto their stands. He replaced the last one, turning it so that the nipple faced straight ahead, like a soldier at attention, and closed the cabinet. “I’m just clumsy this morning. Not enough coffee. I’ll tell Miss Veronica you’re here.”

  “Thank you.”

  I settled myself on a pink velvet divan while he disappeared down a hallway. Miss Veronica’s Boudoir and Finishing School… For the Fabulous Woman Inside! read the hand-painted wooden sign above the front desk. I was pondering the breast forms, which looked like oversized truffles, when voices approached down the hall.

  “Can you do Brandy Friday afternoon? It’s her first night out, and she’s really nervous about it. You might want to do her wife, too. Give her a little boost.”

  “Sure thing, Miss V.”

  “Trevor, why don’t you call her and set it up?”

  “Of course, Miss Veronica.” The young man who had greeted me emerged from the doorway and slipped behind the desk.

  Then the Elizabeth Taylor lookalike I had seen from the parking lot appeared in the doorway. Yesterday’s chiffon dress had been replaced by tight white pants and a silky blue blouse that set off her vivid eyes and plunged down to reveal a sizable amount of cleavage. Above the cleavage, her full lips were painted into a sultry pout. My eyes drifted back down to what her clingy blouse barely concealed. Her clients must be rabid with jealousy.

  Then her companion stepped through the doorway, and I forgot all about Elizabeth Taylor.

  It was the transvestite from the Como Motel.

  Mr. Legs was still looking good. He had replaced the raspberry miniskirt with a clinging vinyl dress, but his legs were still a mile long and hairless. His blue-gray eyes widened with recognition when he spotted me.

  “Aren’t you the lady from the Como?” He turned to the woman in blue. “This lady’s old man got a thing for cling wrap. And he needs a lot of it, if you know what I mean.” Mr. Legs turned to me. “How’d that go, anyway? He into thongs now, too?”

  The woman placed a manicured hand on Mr. Legs’ arm. “Please, Topaz, let’s not embarrass the poor thing.” She walked over to me, extending a slender hand with pearl-painted nails. “I’m Miss Veronica.” She nodded at the sign above Trevor’s desk. “The proprietor of this establishment, as you may have guessed. And this is Miss Topaz, our Dean of Cosmetology. I see you’ve met before.”

  “Well, we haven’t been formally introduced, but yes.” I turned to face Miss Topaz. “What were you doing at the Como?”

  “Oh, I used to hang down there all the time. You know, before I came here? Now I just go visit sometimes.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Veronica. “Before she became a dean here, Miss Topaz used to live a very different life. But then we discovered her talents, and she’s been a fixture here ever since. She’s a wonder with a mascara wand, don’t you think?”

  I ran my eyes over Miss Topaz’s long lashes and satin skin and had to agree.

  “If you’d like a makeover,” said Miss Veronica, “I’d be happy to arrange it.”

  “Actually, no. That’s not what I’m here for.”

  Miss Veronica settled herself on the divan next to me. “Then what can I help you with?” She took my hands in hers and gazed into my eyes. I found myself mesmerized. “Is your husband interested in exploring his feminine side?” she said gently.

  I jerked my hands back. “No, no. This isn’t about my husband.”

  Miss Topaz hmmphed from the doorway. “If I saw my husband doing that…”

  “You’re married?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Been married to the man of my dreams for almost ten years now, and he still brings me flowers on our anniversary. Have a nice place off South Congress. Picket fence and everything.” Miss Topaz grinned. “We’re thinkin’ of adopting in the next year or two.”

  “That’s terrific,” I said, feeling a twinge of jealousy at her obvious happiness. Roses and picket fences? That was how it was supposed to be for me, too. Where had I gone wrong?

  Maybe I needed to get lessons on more than cosmetics from Miss Topaz, I reflected.

  “Well then, what can I do for you?” Miss Veronica asked, bringing me back to the issue at hand. Which did involve my husband, but not in a roses-and-picket-fences kind of way.

  I swallowed hard. “I came by because Cassandra Starr told me you knew Evan Maxted.”

  “Oh. You mean Selena,” said Miss Topaz from the doorway. Trevor continued to shuffle papers.

  Miss Veronica’s violet eyes clouded. “I heard about what happened to her in the Rainbow Room. Just terrible.”

  “I was wondering if you had any idea who might have killed her.”

  “Maybe that nasty ol’ Marcus,” said Miss Topaz.

  My head swiveled toward the doorway. “Cassandra mentioned Marcus. Did they have a falling out?”

  “She broke up with him a month or so ago,” said Miss Topaz, picking a piece of lint off of her vinyl dress. “The man’s got the nicest ass you ever seen, but he’s mean as a snake. Marcus was always smackin’ her around.”

  “How did you know Selena?” asked Miss Veronica.

  “I was the one who found her,” I said.

  Miss Veronica raised a hand to her glossy red lips. “Oh, how awful for you. But aren’t the police handling it?”

  “Do you know someone named Blake Peterson?” I blurted.

  Trevor dropped something behind the desk, and reached for it with a curse. A furrow appeared in Miss Veronica’s ivory brow as she considered the question. “Peterson? Isn’t that your name?”

  I blushed. “Just a coincidence.”

  Miss Veronica nodded in a way that made me think she wasn’t buying it. Then she turned to her employees. “Ring any bells for you, Trevor? Miss Topaz?”

  “No ma’am,” said Trevor, who had recovered the wayward file.

  “Never heard of the guy,” said Miss Topaz.

  Miss Veronica turned back to me. “What does Blake Peterson have to do with Selena?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe nothing. At any rate, the reason I’m involved with the case is that I’m a private investigator.”

  “Private investigator?” Miss Topaz pushed herself away from the doorway. “So Mr. Cling Wrap wasn’t your husband…”

  I blushed again. “No, he wasn’t.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. For you, anyway. Who you workin’ for?”

  “I can’t tell you that.” No need to share the fact that the client was me. “Client confidentiality… I’m sure you understand.” Particularly since Miss Veronica worked for a company that specialized in helping men realize their cross-dressing fantasies. “Anyway, other than Marcus, is there anyone else who might have wanted to hurt Ev… I mean, Selena?”

  “Wasn’t Selena the one havin’ trouble tellin’ her family?” said Miss Topaz. “Did she ever get around to it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Miss Veronica. “But that’s a problem for several of our clients. Wives, in particular, seem to have difficulty with the idea that their men like to be ladies from time to time.”

  Gee, I couldn’t think why. “Trevor said something about a wives’ group,” I said. “Is it common for… er… transvestites… to be married?”

 
There was pity in her eyes. “Honey, sixty percent of the men who come visit us have families. The spousal support group is one of our more popular programs. That and the transformation class.”

  “Transformation class?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s a weekend workshop. That’s when our deans turn the ugly ducklings into swans. We’ve got a Dean of Cosmetology, whom you’ve met… a Dean of Seduction, a Dean of High Heels, a Ballet Mistress… even a Dean of Femmenergy.”

  I blinked. How come I didn’t have these resources available when I was an adolescent girl? Miss Veronica continued. “The new ladies join the sorority. Most of the ladies who have come through here stick together, and the community in Austin’s a pretty close-knit group. And the deans get to play fairy godmother and wave their magic wands.” I glanced around at the array of feminine accoutrements and wondered what the final products looked like.

  “Yeah, I been tryin’ to get Cassandra in my chair, but she won’t budge. That girl got an eyelash problem. Looks like she’s growin’ mustaches on her eyelids.”

  I shifted the conversation from the topic of Cassandra’s eyelashes. “So, Selena was having trouble with her family?”

  “She was thinkin’ of talkin’ to ’em, but I don’t think she had a chance.”

  Since she died in a ball gown, I was guessing the cat was out of the bag now. “So other than Marcus, you can’t think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Selena.”

  “Nope,” said Miss Topaz. Miss Veronica shook her head sadly.

  “Do you know where I can find Marcus?”

  “He lives down off of South Congress. Trevor, can you get the lady Marcus’s address?”

  Miss Topaz narrowed her blue-gray eyes at me. “You got a gun?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, if you’re goin’ to see Marcus, it might be a good idea to get one.”

  SIXTEEN

  As I climbed into the minivan, my cell phone bleeped.

  “Hello?”

  “Margie?” It was Becky. “I’m sorry for the short notice… can you be at International Shipping in thirty minutes? Michael’s contact is going out of town for a month tomorrow, so he moved up the meeting.”