Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (15 page)

Elsie looked up at me. “Can I have my fry phone?”

“It’s, uh, at the office, honey,” I said. “I’ll get it tomorrow.”

She narrowed her eyes and growled.

Prue straightened, smoothing her cashmere sweater just as Blake walked up, looking lawyerly in a button-down shirt and pressed khakis. “Blake!” She enfolded him in a hug and pecked his cheek. “You look terrific.”

“Thanks,” he said. Phil gave him an awkward hug, slapping him on the back a few times and then stepping back as if embarrassed by the contact.

Prudence looked around. “Where’s the restaurant?”

“Back this way,” my mother said. “I’ll show you!”

“What kind of food is it, again?” Phil asked as we followed in her wake, passing classrooms advertising chakra-balancing and shamanic-journeying workshops. “Do they have good steak?”

“Oh, no steak,” my mother answered. “Everything’s macrobiotic.”

“Macrowhat?”

My mother waved a bangled hand. “Healthy and delicious. You’ll see!”

My in-laws exchanged worried glances as we walked into Casa de Luz, which looked more like a commune cafeteria than a restaurant. There was a decidedly earthy aroma in the air, and the room was lit in part by icicle lights dangling from an overhead beam. The kitchen was in one corner of the low-slung building, divided from the dining room by a Formica countertop. The benches at the maple-wood tables were dotted with a mix of refugees from the 1960s and young, colorfully clad twentysomethings with lush patches of armpit hair. I thought Prudence seemed a bit pale, but it could have been the reflected glow of the icicle lights.

“What do we do?” she asked, looking as if she had been deposited on Neptune.

“Oh, we pay ahead of time, here at the front desk. The salad and soups are self-service”—my mother pointed to the low counter, which featured a soup warmer and a metal bowl with tongs sticking out of it—“and they bring your food to you.”

“Where are the menus?” my father-in-law asked.

“There aren’t any,” my mother said. “They make a delicious daily plate, and they bring it to your table.” She whipped out a beaded wallet. “Go get some salad and find a table. My treat!”

Normally my in-laws would have fought her for the bill, but they were so bewildered that my mother managed to finish the transaction before Phil and Prudence realized what was happening. My mother shepherded my in-laws to a large table in the corner, next to the dreadlocked couple, and said, “Would you like some tea?”

“Earl Grey?” Prudence said in a hopeful tone.

“It looks like twig tea today,” my mother said, craning to look at the label on the urn on the counter. “They have hibiscus iced tea, too.”

“Chocolate milk?” Nick asked.

“Just tea,” his sari-clad grandmother said, smiling down at him like a benevolent angel. “It’s delicious tea, though. So good for your digestion!”

“Mmm,” my mother-in-law said, her lips pressed together so hard they’d almost disappeared. “Maybe I’ll just have water.”

Dinner was not a triumph. Elsie did not put her plate on the ground to eat, but that was only because there was nothing on it she deemed edible. Nick seemed to view the food as multicolored modeling clay. We stopped him from forming a line of vegan train engines with his fingers, but he spent the remainder of the meal flicking kidney beans at his sister and giggling when she growled. Prudence picked at her plate, eating the greens dressed with sunflower oil and a bite of mashed squash, but avoiding the mushroom-tamari sauce and the stewed kidney beans. My father-in-law simply insisted he wasn’t hungry, which would have been easier to believe if his stomach hadn’t rumbled through the entire meal.

“So,” my mother said, smiling brightly at Blake, “how did you and Margie celebrate your anniversary?”

“He cooked me dinner the other night,” I said. “Pork tenderloin,” I added in a low voice, so as not to offend the neighboring vegans. “It was great.”

“What? No oysters?” My father-in-law nudged my husband, who forced a smile. “Maybe we should take the kids while you two have a romantic weekend!”

Romantic weekend? I felt my face flame. The last thing I wanted to do was spend a whole two days with just Blake. Though if we never spent any time together, how was our marriage going to survive until the kids grew up? My heart ached as I looked over at Elsie and Nick. I wondered, was it the right thing to keep our marriage going, for their sake? Even if it meant I was married to a man who couldn’t love me back?

“Or I can watch them while I’m in town!” my mother suggested, taking a swig of twig tea.

“No,” Blake and I barked in unison. The kids looked up, startled.

“I mean, I’ve got a business function this week,” Blake said. “But I’m sure Margie would appreciate your help while I’m away.”

“What kind of meeting?” Phil asked, leaning forward.

“It’s a . . . networking event,” he said.

“It would be great if you could help out while he’s gone, Mom,” I said quickly. “I’ve got lots of cases I’m working on.”

“Speaking of cases,” my mother said, her earrings jingling as she turned to me, “did you ever get that pig?”

“Not yet,” I said. Although I welcomed the change of subject, I couldn’t help regretting that I’d told her about my most recent assignment. “It was . . . a little bigger than I was led to believe.”

“What pig?” Prudence asked.

“It’s confidential,” I said, and turned to my husband, who was looking at something behind Elsie. He jerked his eyes away when I said his name. My eyes followed his to the young man who was bending down at the waist to pick up one of the kidney beans Nick had launched.

“Well, then,” Prudence said. “I think we’re about done here, don’t you?”

I looked around at my family. All the plates but my mother’s were still full, but no one was holding a fork. “Looks like it,” I said, gathering my purse.

“But what about dessert?” my mother said.

I glanced at the bakery case. Sugar-free date-walnut pie and coconut-avocado custard. “I think we’re good, Mom.”

“Wasn’t dinner delicious?” my mother asked. “It’s amazing what they can do with a pot of beans.”

Nick began making retching noises, but I shushed him. “Thanks so much for coming to join us,” I said, giving each of my in-laws a polite hug. “We’ll see you soon, I hope!”

“Next time we’re going to Austin Land and Cattle,” Phil said, and glanced at his watch. “In fact, how late are they open?”

“Phil,” Prudence said in a stern voice. Although my father-in-law was usually mild-mannered, something about my mother’s caftans and patchouli scent seemed to bring out his inner troglodyte.

“See you at home, Blake,” I said, heading toward the van with my mother and two hungry children in my wake.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I
never thought I’d be anxious to head out for a second encounter with Bubba Sue, but compared to an awkward evening at home with Blake, my mother, and two underfed children, wallowing in the mud with an angry sow sounded like a spa getaway. By the time 8:45 rolled around, I’d cut up apples for both kids, snuck them each a package of contraband Goldfish, read
Thomas the Tank Engine’s Big Lift
three times, supervised toothbrushing, and played two games of fetch with Elsie in an attempt to get her to forget the fry phone, which she’d started asking for when we were halfway home from dinner. When I emerged from the back of the house, leaving a bouncing four-year-old and an inconsolable six-year-old behind me, Blake was on his back under the TV trying to get it re-hooked-up, and my mother was moving the battered recliner back and forth across the living room in six-inch increments, trying to maximize the room’s “chi.”

“I have to go out,” I announced, grabbing the car keys and half running toward the door, clutching the diaper bag. My plan was to retrieve the fry phone, then take my Holy Oaks contraband over to Becky’s house. I hadn’t had a moment to look at the files since I’d left the school that afternoon.

“So soon?” my mom said. “I was hoping we could have a nice chat over a cup of tea.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” I said. “I feel terrible that I’ve hardly been around since you got here, but things have been really crazy.” I did feel horrible abandoning my mother when she’d been so sweet to come and visit, but I knew I needed to help Becky out of the mess I’d gotten her into. “I have a really big job.”

“Is it that pig?” my mother asked.

“Sort of,” I said, realizing I was so focused on the fry phone, I’d forgotten I was supposed to get the pig, too. I made a mental note to grab some rope and Google
hog-tying
. “Don’t wait up,” I said. “I may be late.”

“I understand. I’ve got it under control, but I still worry about you.”

“I know,” I said, giving her a kiss on the top of the head. “Thank you.”

“Stay safe, honey,” my mother called, squeezing my hand before I headed for the door.

It was just after nine when I cruised past Bubba Sue’s house. The streetlight showed a beaten-up Range Rover parked in the driveway, and there was a light on in the house. Not ideal, but I still hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s late night, so I wasn’t going to wait for the client’s ex-husband to go to bed. I wasn’t interested in Bubba Sue tonight, anyway; I’d have to figure out hog-tying before I made another go at her. All I wanted was Elsie’s fry phone.

Assuming Bubba Sue hadn’t eaten it.

I parked the minivan, slipped my keys and phone into a secure, buttoned back pocket, and headed toward the little house. I glanced around, thankful that the street was deserted, and darted across the darkened yard to the gate.

There was no grunting this time. There was also no sound of plastic being battered against hard surfaces, so I assumed Bubba Sue had gotten out of the cat carrier. And, thankfully, there was no snuffling sound. I hoped Bubba Sue might be inside with her owner—or at least asleep in a pig house somewhere.

I lifted the latch as quietly as I could and pulled up on the gate, holding my breath and praying no one heard the slight squeak of the hinges. When it was open enough for me to squeeze through, I scanned the dark side yard, listening for pig noises. It was quiet, which was good, but it was also so dark I couldn’t see anything.

I squeezed in through the gate toward the location I’d last seen the fry phone, then started feeling around with a sneakered foot. I found the bottom half of the cat carrier and the metal door, but there was no sign of anything resembling a French-fry phone. After about a minute and a half of feeling around with my feet, I unbuttoned my back pocket and pulled out my real phone, switching it to the flashlight app.

Although I’d hoped the red plastic fry phone would be lying right where it had fallen, it was nowhere to be seen, although the cat carrier—or what was left of it—was strewn all over the side yard. Could I write off a cat carrier as an expense? I wondered as I grabbed a stick and probed at the ground, hoping the fry phone had just been buried by Bubba Sue’s efforts to shred the carrier. After five minutes of searching, I started losing hope. Had she carried it to another part of the yard? Or—God forbid—eaten it?

I inched down the side yard, scanning the ground as I walked, until I reached the edge of the house.

Finally, just as I was about to give up, I saw a bit of something red reflecting the flickering blue TV light from the back windows. I squinted my eyes; it looked the right size, and I could even make out a bit of yellow that might be the French-fry antenna.

Unfortunately, I could also make out Bubba Sue. Her substantial body was lying a few feet from the fry phone, stretched out in a pile of muck she seemed to have fashioned into a sort of earth mattress. Her dirt-streaked side rose and fell slowly; she appeared to be asleep.

I slipped my cell phone into my pocket and took a deep breath, then tiptoed toward the fry phone, glancing back and forth between the house and Bubba Sue. I could see the TV flickering from somewhere inside the house, but the windows were so dirty I couldn’t see much else.

Hope flared in me as I closed on my target. I could identify it now; the familiar, if dirty, golden arches on the front, the blue buttons . . . it was almost in reach, even if it was covered in pig manure. I was within two steps of it when my right pocket lit up, blaring “It’s a Small World After All,” and Bubba Sue woke up.