Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (10 page)

“Fine,” she said, taking another drag off her e-cig and exhaling slowly before answering. “We argued over ice cream.”

I blinked. “Come again?”

“Ice cream,” she repeated.

“Ice cream.”

She moved to stub out her e-cig, then remembered it was an e-cig and reached into her stretchy top for its plastic case instead. “He said Amy’s Mexican Vanilla was better than Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla. I’d had a bad day at work; that was the day the Fischer case fell apart.” I remembered it. She’d rear-ended the guy she was tailing, causing about three thousand dollars of damage and blowing her cover. It hadn’t been a good couple of months for the office. “He wouldn’t let it go,” Peaches continued, “so I hung up on him.”

“You called him back, though, right?”

“Nope.” She opened the plastic case, inserted the e-cig, and snapped it shut. “We haven’t talked in three weeks.”

“Peaches,” I said. “While I completely agree with you on the merits of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla, that is not a reason to end a relationship with a good man.”

“Are you sure?” she said. “I thought we had a lot in common, but then he starts talking smack about Homemade Vanilla. Next thing you know, I’ll find out he drinks Chardonnay and eats foie gras.” She grimaced. “What else is he hiding?” She jammed the case into her purse. “And if he cared so damned much, why didn’t he call me back?”

I was beginning to understand the heavier-than-usual margarita consumption these last few weeks. “Uh . . . you hung up on
him
, not the other way around.”

“What? Is chivalry dead?” She stood up. “Anyway, I’ve got bigger fish to fry now. Like getting your friend out of trouble.” She reached for a fresh file folder, scrawled
HOLY OAKS
on the top of it, and opened it up. “Tell me everything you know about our friend Aquaman,” she said. “I’ll run a background check, and you can see if you can get into his office while you’re volunteering at school, dig up some dirt.” She sucked on the tip of her pen. “It might not be a bad idea to check out his house, too. Is he married?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Maybe you can get chummy with his wife,” she suggested. “It’s got to be a shock, finding out your husband died wearing goggles and Aquaman tights. Secret life and all.” She paused. “Come to think of it, you guys have a lot in common; you should hit it off just fine.”

“Gosh. Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it,” she replied, and pulled up the background-check site on her computer.

Peaches might occasionally run into trouble doing surveillance, but she was an expert on finding out about people. Within thirty minutes, I knew more about George Cavendish than I’d imagined possible. His home (a tony address in Rob Roy), his car (red BMW), his marital status (thirty years), his past job history (headmaster of expensive private schools in Massachusetts and Connecticut), and his children (none).

“Nothing about his Aquaman fixation,” I remarked.

“Must have been something that happened when he was growing up,” she said. “Cape Cod. Lots of water there.”

“It doesn’t explain the peeing, though,” I said.

“Maybe some of his summer-camp buddies peed on him as a hazing ritual,” she speculated, “and he decided he kind of liked it. You never know. Human sexuality is a mysterious thing.”

“No kidding,” I said, thinking of my husband and his penchant for men in tights.

Peaches looked up from her computer and squinted at me. “How much is your husband paying for this Journey to Manhood thing, anyway?” Evidently her mind had run along the same track as mine.

“I never asked,” I said.

“And you’re all alone for the next few days. Good thing your mother’s in town to help out with the kids,” she said.

“That’s true,” I said, “until she tries to feed them on a diet of seaweed shakes.”

“Whoever said suburban life was easy never met you,” Peaches said, rolling her eyes. “You’ve got the weirdest family I’ve ever heard of—and that’s saying something.”

It was hard to disagree with her.

She pursed her lips and looked at me. “I keep thinking about this Cavendish situation,” she said. “We might want to talk to Desiree again. See if she remembers anything.”

“Do you know how to get in touch with her?”

“We’ll pay her a visit tomorrow,” she said. “In the meantime, I’ll see what I can find out. No police records that I can see, but I might call a buddy of mine down at the station and see if she’s heard anything.”

“Do you think the cops will really blame Cavendish’s death on Becky?”

“I hope not,” Peaches said. “If it comes down to keeping her out of jail, I’ll fess up and tell them Desiree asked us to help, and I roped you into it. It will at least help explain how you knew—and why your friend’s card was in that pink pool.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“I would if I had to,” she said. “But I’d rather see if we can figure things out ourselves first. I haven’t waitressed in a long time, and if I lose my license I’m going to be slinging drinks down at Coyote Ugly. Just between you and me, I’m getting a little old for that.” She took a sip of her Diet Coke. “Also, jail is off the table. I don’t look good in orange.”

“You wore orange yesterday,” I pointed out.

“Yeah. But that was tangerine orange, not jumpsuit orange. Plus, those overall things make my butt look big.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know,” she said. A long, low moan sounded from next door, accompanied by a ripping sound that made both of us wince. “Desiree hasn’t called me, and I’m of the opinion that no news is good news.” Peaches reached into a drawer and pulled out a slim file folder. “I’ve got something to take your mind off things, anyway.”

“The missing pet?”

“Little bitty pig, according to the owner. She’s pregnant with piglets.” While I digested that bit of information, Peaches slid the folder across the desk to me. “Lady thinks her ex-husband stole her and is planning to sell the piglets for big money. She’d go retrieve the pig herself, but she’s got a restraining order.”

“A restraining order?”

“Yeah. She’s not supposed to get within fifty feet of him or his residence.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

I flipped open the file. It included the ex-husband’s address, along with the pig’s identifying features. Evidently the missing porker was classified as “teacup-size” (whatever that meant), had a cocoa-colored coat with a white spot on its snout, and sported a tattoo in the left ear. Something to check in case I thought I might have picked up the wrong cocoa-colored teacup pig. How many pigs could there possibly be in Austin? Then again, the address
was
near South Lamar. I looked up at Peaches. “It answers to
Bubba Sue
?”

“I didn’t name her. I just took the case.”

I sighed. “I’ve got to go to a Holy Oaks first-grade-parent coffee,” I told her, closing up the file and tucking it into the old diaper bag that I used as my briefcase, “but I’ll check it out this afternoon.”

“The coffee would be a good place to ask questions about Cavendish,” Peaches reminded me. “You might pick up something useful.”

As I left, another shriek sounded from behind me. We really did need to find new office space.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
he parent coffee was in Tarrytown, a posh neighborhood just west of central Austin, in a sprawling villa that looked like it had been plucked out of Tuscany and plunked
Wizard-of-Oz
-style on top of the three modest homes that must once have occupied the space. I’d left Becky two messages on the way to the coffee, hoping the police hadn’t already hauled her off to jail. Would she ever speak to me again? And if so, would we have to chat with a Plexiglas partition between us? I thought of Becky’s children, Zoe and Josh. I couldn’t bear it if my stupidity resulted in them growing up while their mom made license plates in a state penitentiary.

I left Becky another message and parked on the side of the narrow, tree-lined street, wedging the van in between a Mercedes station wagon and a Porsche Cayenne. I was late—it was almost eleven—but it looked like people were still there. The last thing I wanted to do was make polite conversation with strangers over coffee, but I reminded myself that at least one of those strangers might know something about Cavendish’s Aquaman fixation—or, better yet, why someone had shot him. I squared my shoulders and marched up the long stone walkway to the massive arched front door, half expecting to see striped-stockinged legs sticking out from beneath the shrubbery.

The door chime rang like church bells, and a few moments later, the real-estate agent I’d seen that morning answered the door. She wore her long brown hair pulled back, and her cheekbones were so sharp I could have used them to slice apples. I smiled, and she grimaced as if she were expecting me to pitch her a line of cleaning products.

“Can I help you?” Her greeting was frosty.

“I’m here for the parent coffee.”

She flicked her brown eyes up and down me as if she wasn’t sure she believed me, but stepped back and opened the door anyway. “Of course. Please come in.”

“Thanks!” I said, following her through the massive door into the cool, tiled entry. An arrangement of moss balls was artfully displayed on an antique table to my left; above it was a still-life oil painting that included two dead rabbits and a bowl of fruit. “I’m Deborah Golden,” the woman said, jolting me from staring at the two lifeless, furry little bodies.

I turned back to the hostess. “I’m Margie Peterson. You have a very nice house.”

“Thank you,” Deborah said, leading me toward the distant sound of voices. She wore denim capri pants and a filmy white blouse that looked hand-embroidered. She was definitely petite; even in her cork wedges, she was still two inches shorter than me in my sandals. “My husband and I love traveling in Italy, so we decided to create our own piece of Tuscany here in Austin.”

“How nice,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“We’re in the kitchen, having coffee and pastries. Who do you have starting at Holy Oaks?”

“My daughter, Elsie,” I told her as we walked through the cavernous living room, which was well-stocked with couches that must have been built with giants in mind and a coffee table I was guessing might be a cross section of a redwood trunk. Deborah looked like she risked being swallowed by her own furniture if she sat down. On the other hand, I mused, looking at her bony frame, she probably never sat down. “Is this your first year at Holy Oaks?”

She laughed. “Oh, no. We’ve been at Holy Oaks since the school started, practically.” As she spoke, we passed the dining room—the table seated twenty, with high-backed chairs that looked like they were designed for a conclave of cardinals—and into a kitchen the size of my backyard.

The room was filled with slender, tanned women with bright white teeth, along with one man who stood in the corner looking as if he’d rather be somewhere else. The only person who appeared naturally bronze was a young Hispanic-looking woman in an apron, who was scurrying around, retrieving used plates and disappearing with them into another room. I found myself thinking that Holy Oaks might want to work on their diversity mission a bit.

A rack of copper pots that, from their gleaming exteriors, had likely never seen the top of the stove hung over a gigantic granite-topped island. Beneath the pots, there were several trays of muffins and croissants and a crystal bowl filled with fruit salad. A silver coffee urn squatted on one of the other counters, each of which was the length of a runway. I was guessing there was no Easy Mac behind the custom-made mahogany cabinet doors. “Hi, everybody,” Deborah announced. “This is Margie Peterson; she’s new to Holy Oaks this year.”

“Hi!” everybody responded, almost in chorus. I noticed a few eyebrows rising, and was sure the episode with Peaches and her cell phone would shortly be a topic of conversation. In fact, it probably had been already.

“Help yourself,” Deborah said, gesturing toward the seemingly untouched array of food. “Plates are over here.”

“Thank you,” I said, reaching for a dainty plate rimmed with poppies. I selected a chocolate-chip muffin and a croissant, added a few chunks of watermelon, and turned to make my way across the vast expanse of hardwood floor to the coffee urn, where I filled a hand-painted cup and loitered by the counter.

I’d barely sipped my coffee before an industrious-looking woman with a strawberry-blonde bob and a pair of faded mom jeans accosted me. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Kathleen Gardner. My daughter’s Catriona, and she’s in Ms. Rumpole’s class. Who is your child?”

“Elsie,” I said. “She’s in the same class.”

“My daughter’s name is Catriona,” Kathleen said a second time, taking a sip of her black coffee and nibbling on a piece of sliced pineapple. “She’s really excited about starting Holy Oaks; we’ve been reading a book a day all summer so that she’s fully prepared academically. Of course, it’s been hard to fit it in around her dancing schedule, particularly now that we’re starting with math tutoring.”

“I can imagine,” I said, glancing over her shoulder for somebody else to talk to. Preferably somebody who didn’t make me feel like I was standing on the target end of a firing range. I might have imagined it, but I thought the lone man in the corner gave me a pitying look.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I’m the room mother for Ms. Rumpole’s class, and I’ll be organizing the volunteering. It’s so important to be involved in our children’s lives, don’t you think? It really shows them that they’re a priority.” She adjusted the Peter Pan collar of her pink blouse. “What activities is your child involved in?”

“Umm . . . she’s thinking about taking a musical instrument.” Elsie had, after all, had a brief obsession with the kazoo she’d gotten at a Blazer Tag birthday party.

Kathleen beamed at me, exposing a line of slightly yellowed teeth. “Studying a musical instrument is so important for academic development. Particularly in math, although of course we’ve been working through the second-grade workbook, just to stay fresh. Catriona has been playing violin—Suzuki Method—since she was two. She is so talented—her teacher suggested we take her to New York to study with one of the concertmasters there. Of course, we had to decide where to put her energy, so we’re having to cut back on violin to four times a week now that she’s in the advanced tap classes.”