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

by Karen MacInerney

  “No, he took a few hours out.” Becky nudged me with a sharp elbow. I plowed ahead. “He tells me Herb has been helping out with one of his clients—International Shipping Company?”

  Maria took a step toward her employer, whose blue eyes shifted from my face to scan the room behind me. “Yes, yes,” Bitsy said. “Of course, Herb and I never talk business. Now, I hate to run, but will you excuse me? I have a couple of things to take care of before the show begins…”

  She slipped past us gracefully, Maria in her wake, and glided toward the stage.

  Becky eyed me critically. “Smooth.”

  “Well, what was I supposed to do?”

  Becky stared at Bitsy’s receding back. “She disappeared in a hurry, didn’t she? Well, I’m sure you’ll get another chance. In the meantime, I’m going to go and see if I can find another one of those shrimp toasts.”

  I was considering a fourth glass of champagne—after all, I wasn’t driving—when Bitsy took the podium and invited everyone to sit down to dinner. I parted ways reluctantly with Becky—“if she gives you a dildo, I want to see it”—and headed toward my mother-in-law’s table.

  Prudence’s eyes widened as I sat down. “Darling, you look marvelous. What did you do to yourself?”

  “Becky and I went out shopping,” I said, wishing I had gone for the fourth glass.

  “She’s a miracle worker,” Prudence breathed. Mercifully, Prudence’s best friend Miriam took her seat at that moment and related a juicy tidbit of gossip, and soon the table was oohing and aahing over somebody’s poor choice of shoes and digging into Caesar salads adorned with little shrimps. No crab cakes, unfortunately.

  The conversation ranged from personal hygiene to personal trainers as we plodded through the menu. Some kind of greenish sorbet followed the salad, and after a hiatus of about twenty minutes, during which I considered cutting my wrists with a butter knife, we moved on to overcooked lemon sole and wilted broccoli. The meal culminated in a discussion of mildly revolting pedicure stories and a slice of my least favorite dessert, Italian Cream Cake.

  Finally, the lights dimmed, and for the first time in my life, I found myself looking forward to seeing what next year’s fashion forecast would hold.

  TWENTY

  “Couture with a Conscience” is the only fashion show I’ve ever attended, so I wouldn’t know what to compare it to, but the concoctions that paraded down the stage during the next several minutes were unlike anything I’d ever seen a grown woman wear. I stared open-mouthed at the ragged bits of fabric that clung to the young models’ bony bodies, trying to figure out how the outfits on the stage had evolved from the country-club style of their creator. Some of the dresses were so small and so sheer you had to squint to see them, and the overall effect was something like Oliver Twist meets Gypsy Rose Lee.

  From the lackluster applause that followed the scrawny women back up the catwalk, it occurred to me that I wasn’t the only one struggling to make the connection. I leaned over to my mother-in-law as a skeletal model in a scrap of distressed fabric sashayed onto the stage. “Is this what all of her dresses look like?”

  “No,” she whispered back. “She’s doing a few avant-garde things to break into the New York market. I think Maria helped her with the new line. We’ll see some traditional things in a minute, I’m guessing.”

  She was right. A few minutes later, I found myself wondering if Bitsy McEwan was suffering from a split personality. The next “collection” featured a lineup of dresses that Scarlett O’Hara—and Cassandra Starr—would have died for. Sequins, glittery beads, feathers, and lots of plunging necklines were the order of the day for the Tara collection. The applause picked up measurably, and murmurs of approval echoed from the silk-clad walls. My eyes had begun to glaze over when a particularly sparkly creation hit the runway—“the Ariel”, purred the announcer. I could see why: the glittery blue-green dress looked just like a mermaid’s tail. By the time we got to business wear, I was about to slump into my Italian Cream Cake.

  Finally the last model exited the runway, and Bitsy McEwan herself took the stage to a roar of applause. The ladies might not have been crazy about the New Horizons collection, but the Tara line had won them over.

  “Thank you ladies, all of you, for attending this year’s ‘Couture with a Conscience’ show. We raised over a half million dollars for the Children’s Fund last year, and it’s all thanks to your support.” She smiled broadly as the ladies gave her a big round of applause.

  “And of course,” she continued, “a big thank you to everyone who made ‘Couture with a Conscience’ possible, particularly Maria Espinosa.” She gestured toward the lovely raven-haired woman who had accompanied her earlier. She sat at a front row table. A spotlight lit up her red dress, and she dipped her head in acknowledgement as Bitsy continued. “Not only does she keep the day-to-day operations going, but her cutting-edge style helped me create the New Horizons line, which will debut in New York this fall.” Feeble applause followed this declaration, but both Bitsy and Maria kept smiling. “I hope you enjoyed yourselves,” Bitsy continued. “Feel free to mingle for as long as you like, and I look forward to seeing everyone at the shop.”

  I glanced at my watch as everyone rose from their tables and stretched. I wasn’t too interested in mingling. What I really wanted to do was go home and go to sleep. But I still had to help with the cleanup.

  “No dildos?” Becky asked when we reconvened.

  “No, but she did offer to take the kids tomorrow.”

  “What time?”

  “Ten.”

  “What time’s the funeral?”

  “Noon.”

  “Then come over as soon as she gets there. We don’t have a lot of time to get you ready.”

  “Thanks,” I said, as we walked toward the kitchen. “Want to help me wash dishes?”

  She made a sour face and gestured at her dress. “In Donna Karan?”

  “Don’t worry,” I laughed. “Why don’t you hang out or go to the bar? I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “See if you can find anything else out.”

  “I will,” I promised, and followed the white-jacketed serving staff into the kitchen.

  Fortunately, the hotel staff was taking care of the dishwashing. An efficient-looking brunette set me to work returning the stacks of plates and glasses to their carrying cases.

  “I haven’t seen you around before,” said Doris, the short fiftyish woman who was partnered with me. “Are you new?”

  “Oh, my mother-in-law is a member, and Bitsy asked me the other day if I could help out.”

  Doris sighed. “She’s such a noble woman. She puts all of her time and effort into the design studio, and it’s all for the children…” She closed up a box and opened a new one. “I thought tonight’s designs were wonderful. Didn’t you just love that blue tulle? And the one with all the sequins, that looked like a mermaid—fabulous.” Doris was wearing a green satin gown she proudly told me was from the previous year’s McEwan collection. Either she had bought it a size too small or she had grown in the past year, because pink flesh oozed over the low-cut bodice, and the seams were stretched to capacity.

  I loaded another stack of Junior League-monogrammed plates into a box. “I’ve never bought a McEwan design before,” I said, “although I did like a few of the ones I saw this evening.”

  Doris squinted at me. “I think that blue tulle would look marvelous on you. You should go try it on! Used to be you had to have them ordered special, but now she’s got all the sizes in the shop.”

  I closed up another box. “How long has Bitsy been designing clothes?”

  “I think she’s been doing it for forever, really, but the shop just opened up two or three years ago. It didn’t work too well at first—like I said, they didn’t ever have much in stock—but about a year or so ago, she really got it going.” Doris bent to retrieve another box, and I winced, expecting a seam to pop. Regardless of how you felt
about the design, the McEwan dress sure took top marks for endurance. Doris stood up and huffed a couple of times before she continued. “Now she’s got loads of clothes, and she’s even taking some of the collection to New York. I heard she’s even thinking of doing a Couture with a Conscience show in Paris next year. Paris. Can you imagine?”

  I closed up another box, but it seemed like the stack of clean dishes was growing faster than our ability to box them up. “Why didn’t they just use the hotel dishes?” I asked.

  “Oh, Bitsy’s such a perfectionist. She ordered these for all functions just a few years ago. I love the little crest, don’t you? Makes it so special.”

  “Still,” I said, “if all the profits are going to charity, wouldn’t it be cheaper just to use standard issue dishes?”

  Doris blinked at me. “The shop raised more than half a million dollars for charity last year. Mrs. McEwan knows exactly what she’s doing.”

  I shook my head in wonder. With dresses going for two thousand dollars a pop, I guess it made sense.

  “And she could be making that kind of money for herself,” Doris continued, her pink-painted lips a tight line. “But instead it’s all going to charity. She’s a great lady.”

  We closed up another box and lapsed into silence for the next few minutes. The slingbacks Becky had picked out for me were digging into my heels, and my bladder was sending up distress signals. “I’ll be back in a minute, Doris.”

  I stepped out of the noisy, steamy kitchen into the ballroom. The staff was pushing the tables to the edges of the room, and Prudence was directing a few women who were loading the tablecloths into plastic bags. “Light starch,” she said, “and make sure you fold them immediately, so they don’t get wrinkled.” Thank God I hadn’t gotten laundry duty. With Snookums hanging out next to the washer and dryer, chances were the tablecloths would come back looking like lace designed by a pack of angry squirrels.

  As I headed for the bathroom, I noticed Bitsy and Maria Espinosa, deep in conversation, walking. I hustled across the room as they disappeared into a corridor. As I sidled up to the hallway, Bitsy said, “Let’s go in here.” I glanced around the corner just in time to see a door on the righthand side swing shut.

  I padded down the hallway and put my ear to the door, but I couldn’t hear anything. Damn. I stared at the plate over the door. Magnolia Ballroom: Room E. I took a few steps down the hall; the next door down was labeled D. It was one of those big ballrooms hotels partition off to make smaller spaces.

  I crossed my fingers and slipped through the doorway to Room D. I was in luck. One one side of the room was stacked a huge pile of metal chairs. On the other was a sliding room divider with a two-foot gap.

  I hurried across the room to the gap.

  “Why has production been off?” It was Bitsy McEwan. Her normally chipper voice was low and urgent.

  “Morale’s been down,” Maria answered. “Also, the demand is increasing. We’ve got twice as many orders as we did last year.

  “Well, start turning it around.”

  “I’ll talk with them tonight. There are two deliveries scheduled for tomorrow. One’s a brand new batch. Hopefully that will help.”

  “Maybe we need to expand operations.”

  “I’ve thought about that. I’ll get in touch with Xenia, see what she can find. We’ve got the capital now. Maybe it is time to expand.”

  “We need to be careful, though. Remember what happened with Ernesto…”

  “I know, I know. But that’s taken care of now, and I think the new procedures will ensure that won’t happen again.”

  Maria’s voice sounded closer. I took a step back and banged into a table.

  “What was that?”

  “Is someone in here?” Bitsy asked. I scrambled across the room and dived behind a stack of chairs. “Is anyone in there?” I held my breath and peered through the metal chair legs, thankful I was wearing carpet-matching beige instead of something sparkly and bright pink. I ducked my head and shrank as low as I could as Bitsy approached my hiding spot. Just when I was sure she would see me, she said, “I think we’re okay.” My body went limp as they retreated into the next room. “Anyway, Maria, see what you can do. I want a better report by the end of next week.”

  A moment later, a door clicked. I waited a few minutes and crept to the door, peering out carefully. The hallway was empty. I smoothed a few dust bunnies from my jacket and closed the door to Room D behind me.

  Bitsy and Maria were nowhere to be seen when I reentered the main ballroom. Before returning to the kitchen, I slipped into the bathroom and made a quick examination of my fading makeup. Becky knew what she was doing; although the lipstick had worn off, everything else was pretty much intact. I refreshed the lipstick, took advantage of the facilities, and headed back to plate-stacking.

  “What took you so long?” asked Doris when I returned to my station in the kitchen.

  “Oh, I ran into an old friend.” Forty-five minutes later, we loaded the last box, and I went up to the bar in search of Becky.

  She had tucked herself into a big leather chair, and sucked down the rest of a gin and tonic when I approached. “Finally done?”

  I sank into the chair opposite her. “No thanks to you.”

  “Hey. Who got you into International Shipping? And who gave you this glamorous makeover?”

  “I know, I know,” I said, waving away the waitress. I leaned forward. “Guess what I overheard?”

  Becky’s eyes widened as I related the conversation between Bitsy McEwan and her assistant. “Have you ever heard of someone named Xenia?” I asked.

  “I think she’s one of Bitsy’s cronies,” Becky said. “A real-estate agent. Works for Callum and Higgins.”

  “They said something about expanding operations. Do you think maybe they’re looking to open a new store?”

  Becky wrinkled her nose. “Maybe,” she mused, “but I don’t see how that’s going to help with their production problems.”

  I sighed and closed my eyes. “It doesn’t make sense, but I’m too tired to think.”

  “Then let’s get you home. You’ve got another big day tomorrow.” She paid her tab, and I followed her down to her Suburban.

  As I fumbled in my purse to pay the parking attendant, Evan Maxted’s appointment book caught my eye. I pulled it out flipped to the page with the scrawled address. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Sure,” Becky said as we pulled out of the garage. “Why?”

  “I want to swing by this place on East Seventh Street.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re kid-free and we’re only a few blocks away.”

  “Okay. That still doesn’t tell me what’s so interesting about East Seventh.”

  “Because this address showed up in Maxted’s appointment book a few days before he died, and it was also in those ISC files that McEwan took.”

  “Don’t you think the police are going to check it out?”

  “They don’t have his address book. And McEwan has the ISC files.”

  She sighed. “It’s worth a shot. Now, where am I going again?”

  Ten minutes later we were coasting down East Seventh Street. The skyscrapers and fancy restaurants of downtown had given way to taquerias whose bright pink paint glowed in the streetlamps, and billboards blaring Envios dinero a Mexico! The Suburban passed a brightly lit bakery named La Victoriana. “I wonder if they have good churros?” Becky murmured. She had an avowed weakness for the doughy, cinnamon-sugar dusted pastries.

  “Turn here!” I barked.

  She wheeled the car around. “They’re open twenty-four hours,” she said.

  “We can get it on the way back. Didn’t you get enough Italian Cream Cake?”

  “That was two hours ago.” She peered through the windshield at the dimly lit street. “What are we looking for?”

  “Number 725.” I pointed to a dilapidated warehouse hunkering next to the railroad tracks. Ancient washers and refrigerators
dotted the weedy strip of ground between the building and the street, like debris washed up on a beach. The windows were covered with sheets of plywood, and even by the dim light of the streetlamp it was obvious that the building suffered from years of neglect. “That’s it.”

  Becky looked at me. “Great. An old warehouse. Now let’s get churros.”

  “Not yet. It hasn’t been boarded up that long. Look, the plywood is new.”

  “So?”

  “There’s a light on inside.”

  She squinted. “How can you tell?”

  “That door.” I pointed to a metal door in the corner. “There’s a slit of light at the bottom. See?”

  “So it’s not abandoned. Great. Now can we go to the bakery? Do you think they have those little chicken things Josh likes?”

  “I’m going to get a closer look.”

  She sighed. “Whatever. I’ll park over there.”

  My feet complained as I crossed the street and navigated through the appliance graveyard to the rusted door. Although the door itself looked as old as the concrete surrounding it, both the knob and the deadbolt lock gleamed like new. As I reached out to try the knob, headlights came around the corner. On instinct, I sprinted toward the nearest dead washing machine and squatted down behind it.

  The car crunched to a stop in front of the building, and a moment later I heard the clip-clop of high heels on pavement. Then the jangle of keys. I peeked around the washer just in time to see a flash of red satin disappear into the building.

  It was Maria Espinosa.

  A moment later I scurried back to Becky’s Suburban. “Did you see that?”

  Becky nodded. “What is Bitsy’s assistant doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I intend to find out. Let’s see how long she’s in there.”

  We didn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes later she slid out the door and hurried back to her car. We huddled in our seats as her car, a silver Mercedes, zipped by us and turned onto Chicon Street.

  “Nice car for an assistant,” Becky said. “How did you find out about this building again?”