Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (18 page)

“Oh, I know Marty, all right,” she said. “He was a client for a while.”

“Really?” Peaches asked, leaning forward.

“He was big into domination. He was really into those leather collars, and the ball gags.”

Ball gags? Peaches and I exchanged glances. Mitzi would have loved to know that, but since we were no longer working for her, there was no reason to tell her. Even though I did feel a stab of pity for her. No woman wants to find out her husband is sleeping with another woman. Or man. Particularly when there are ball gags involved. “Was he a regular at the Sweet Shop?” I asked.

“I think he was a part owner of the place, or something. He was always with the manager. They’d have meetings in the back room, without any of the girls.”

I remembered the meeting I’d seen at the Sweet Shop a few days ago. “What was he involved in?”

“There were a bunch of shipments coming into the place,” she said. “There’s a storage room in the back; there’d be big deliveries a few times a week.”

“Did Cavendish say anything about his job?” I asked.

Her smooth brow furrowed. “I think so,” she said. “Something was bothering him. Some investment thing.”

“Did he mention what the trouble was?”

She gave the pen another nibble. “He wanted to get out of it, but he couldn’t. He was having some kind of moral crisis.”

Which was ironic, I thought, considering he was confessing to a prostitute. “Why?”

“There was something wrong with it. I’m not sure what.”

“Why couldn’t he get out of it?”

“Something about a board,” she told me, shrugging. “I wasn’t really paying attention.” She reached for her iced tea and tucked the straw into her mouth as Peaches retrieved our drinks from the bar—a small mug of coffee for me and a giant milkshake-like drink for herself.

Peaches sat down again and crossed her legs, which made her skirt ride up another few inches. I resisted the urge to tug it down for her. “So,” she said, looking at Desiree. “Did he mention anything else he was worried about? His wife, maybe?”

“He did mention a woman he’d been sleeping with.”

“Oh, yeah?” Peaches said. “What’d he say?”

“He was having second thoughts about her, too. He’d done her a favor, but wanted to back out.” She sipped her tea. “Said it was too late, though.”

“Too late for what?”

“I don’t know. I put the pacifier in, and that was, like, the end of the conversation.”

I blinked. “A pacifier?”

She shrugged. “Only on his bad-baby days.”

“Bad-baby days,” Peaches repeated.

“Oh, yes. I had to put him in time-out a lot. I always kept a box of Depends for him.”

Peaches let out a long, low whistle.

I chose not to find out more about bad-baby days. “So he didn’t mention a name?”

“He did, now that you mention it. Something flowery. Lily? Rose?” She shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“What was the favor?” I asked as Peaches sucked on her straw.

“He didn’t say.” She sipped her tea again and let out a long sigh. “I still can’t believe he died in my apartment—it’s been a really shitty week. First that, now this test tomorrow.” She sighed again. “Do they know who killed him yet?”

“No,” I said.

“I’m just hoping the cops don’t trace him back to me. They would have by now if they could, wouldn’t they?” she asked, toying nervously with her straw.

“I don’t know,” I said, thinking of my deal with Becky. If we didn’t find out what had happened soon, Peaches and I were going to have to talk with Detective Bunsen, and the cops were going to know exactly where George Cavendish had been when somebody put a bullet in his back.

“Why are you so interested in his personal life?” the young woman asked, then narrowed her blue eyes. “Did the cops figure out you were involved?”

“They found something of ours at the scene,” Peaches said. “We’re trying to figure out what happened so we don’t have to spill the beans on where it all went down.”

Desiree’s eyes got big. “You wouldn’t tell them where you found the body, would you?”

“We might have to,” I said. “Now, are you sure you don’t remember anything else?”

“But . . . you promised you’d keep it quiet!”

Peaches shrugged a pink-clad shoulder. “We’re working on it,” she said. “The more you can tell us, the better the odds we can keep it on the down-low.”

“Shit,” Desiree said, and bit down hard on her pen. “Let me think. I told you about the investment thing, and the chick named Lily or Rose or whatever.”

“Did you see anything unusual that night?” I asked.

“Not really,” she said.

“Any cars on the street that were different from what was usually parked outside?” Peaches prompted. “Anyone new walking around the neighborhood?”

“I don’t remember anyone,” she said, then straightened. “Wait. When I closed the curtains just after John . . . I mean, Cavendish got to my apartment, I noticed there was a car outside I don’t usually see.”

Peaches leaned forward, almost spilling out of her dress. “What was it?”

“It was a Lexus,” she said. “It was bright red; that’s what caught my eye.”

“What kind?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Not an SUV or anything. Four doors, I think.”

“I don’t think I saw a Lexus when I got there,” Peaches said, and turned to me. “You?”

“Where was it parked?” I asked.

“Behind Cavendish’s car.”

“I don’t remember it. And it wasn’t there when we took the . . . pool out of the apartment,” I said, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. Best not to mention dead bodies in public places.

“It’s worth checking into,” Peaches said. “Margie, can you poll the parking lot at the school?”

“I’ll look today,” I said. “You didn’t catch a license-plate number, did you?”

She twirled a lock of blonde hair. “Nope.”

“Well, it’s something,” Peaches said, taking another slug of her coffee-milkshake concoction. “So. We know he was sleeping with someone with a flowery name and having second thoughts about it, and we know he wanted to get out of an investment, but the board didn’t want him to jump ship.”

“And that a red Lexus was parked outside her apartment before . . . the incident,” I added.

“Got anything else?” Peaches asked.

Desiree shrugged. “If I think of anything, I’ll call you,” she said. “But please . . .” She reached out and grabbed Peaches’s hand in an iron grip. “Don’t tell the cops what happened. I’m begging you, Peaches.”

“We’ll do the best we can,” Peaches said, trying to wrench her hand out of Desiree’s manicured clinch. “Seriously, though, anything you think of—anything at all—you call us. Got it?”

Desiree nodded vigorously as we stood up to leave. Peaches was inspecting her hand for fingernail grooves as we headed toward the door. I glanced back at Desiree. The young woman was still staring at her psychology textbook when we left, but she didn’t look like she was taking much in.

“Poor thing,” I said as I pulled the door of the Buick Regal closed behind me. My car smelled like French fries, old chicken nuggets, and now my mother’s patchouli oil, so we took Peaches’s car whenever we could.

“What? Desiree? Sheesh.” Peaches massaged her hand. “That girl’s got a hell of a grip.”

“I hope she doesn’t have to tell her parents about what she’s been doing for money,” I said. “Maybe this will make her rethink her part-time job.”

“It’d be hard to make that kind of money slinging burgers,” Peaches said.

“Yeah, but she could get an internship with a designer, and that would be so much better for her career. And she wouldn’t have to . . . well, you know.”

“Pee on people?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“At least we got some good info out of her,” Peaches said as we pulled away from the Coffee Bean. “We should probably find out more about that Golden Investments.”

“You think that was what Cavendish was talking about—the one the board didn’t want to let him out of?”

“That’s the one that was making fifty percent annually, right?” she asked.

“And Golden’s on the board. That’s suspect right there. If Aquaman was getting his panties in a wad about it . . . not that he was wearing panties, but you know what I mean.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Peaches said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

B
y the time I made it to the front door of Holy Oaks, I’d identified three red Lexuses in the parking lot, but only two sedans. I jotted down the license-plate numbers and left a message for Becky to see if she could pick up Nick for me; I was hoping to hang around Holy Oaks for pickup so I could see how many other red Lexuses belonged to school parents. On the other hand, if the owner of the Lexus outside Desiree’s apartment was a parent whose kid had been turned down, they weren’t likely to show up in the Holy Oaks parking lot. Honestly, though, would a parent really kill someone for not admitting a child to a school? I was about to dismiss the idea until I remembered Becky’s face as she pawed through the admissions files. It was not outside the realm of possibility.

The office was buzzing with people, including Perky Desk Girl. I clutched the diaper bag to my chest; there was no way I was going to be able to slip those files back into their cabinet, much less shove Cavendish’s mail back into its cubby. I was still a little worried about the condition of the envelopes—they looked like they’d spent a few weeks in a tropical rainforest—but it couldn’t be helped.

After loitering for a moment in the lobby, I headed into the library, slipped an SAT book out of the box behind the desk, and positioned myself with a view of the front-office door. Fortunately, only five minutes passed before a clump of people left the office, their wedges clip-clopping down the hallway. I waited a moment, then stood up and headed for the office door, one hand clutching the mail in the diaper bag, trying to look casual.

I was in luck; even Perky Desk Girl was gone.

All of the doors to the inner offices were closed, including Cavendish’s. Although I could hear murmurs from behind one of them, no one was in the main area. I grabbed the mail from the diaper bag and stuffed it into Cavendish’s empty mailbox, then opened the file drawer and jammed the files in, not taking the time to put them back in order. I was about to close the drawer when there was a
thunk
behind me. I turned to see the custodian standing at the door, a broom in his hand, watching me. I shoved the drawer shut behind my back. “Hello,” I said.

He stared at me with dark, appraising eyes. There was a little scar to the left of his eye, and a corner of a tattoo peeked out from under his T-shirt sleeve. His hands on the broom were enormous, with fingers that reminded me of bratwursts.

“Just doing some filing,” I said, giving the filing cabinet an affectionate pat.

The custodian nodded and gave me a long, hard look before drifting away down the hallway. The man gave me the heebie-jeebies. Was it the scar on his face, or just the fact that he’d caught me doing something I shouldn’t be doing?

Heart pounding, I hurried toward the office door. I was just about to round the desk when I noticed a set of keys on the corner closest to Perky Desk Girl’s chair. I hesitated a moment. Would Cavendish’s office key be among them? I grabbed them and shoved them deep into the diaper bag, then headed out the office door, where I almost knocked over Deborah Golden.

“Oh. Sorry about that,” I said, clutching the diaper bag to my chest.

Once she regained her balance and registered who I was, Deborah’s eyes narrowed; she looked behind me to the empty office. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m, uh, here to volunteer,” I said. “Thanks again for hosting the coffee; your house is gorgeous. At any rate,” I said with a bright smile, “I’d better get back to the library!” I hurried past her without giving her a chance to ask another question and hoped Perky Desk Girl wouldn’t notice her missing keys for a while. I glanced over my shoulder as I slipped through the door to the library; Deborah was glaring at me as if I were a scullery maid who had cracked her favorite hand-painted Moroccan teacup.

I raced back to my spot in the library, where I was idly erasing answer bubbles when the gaggle of office staff reappeared.

Moving dead bodies, stealing mail, and grabbing other people’s keys . . . I was turning into a real paragon of virtue, I thought glumly as I stared down at a geometry problem involving six angles and a dotted line. Over the past seventy-two hours, I had broken a number of laws.

What kind of example was I setting for my children?

Before I’d had Elsie, I’d envisioned a Pottery Barn Kids childhood for my children, with tidy, attractively decorated bedrooms, regular snack times, and myself hovering somewhere in the background, wearing stylish clothes in single-digit sizes and holding a tray of organic milk, homegrown carrot sticks, and whole-grain, date-sweetened oatmeal cookies. My (straight) husband would be watching admiringly as our spotless, white-clad children finger-painted a family portrait, with our beautifully decorated and remodeled house in the background.

Dead bodies and husbands sleeping with transvestites hadn’t entered into the picture at all.

I looked down and stared at an algebra problem. I was doing the best I could, considering the situation, I told myself. It would be a disaster for my kids if I ended up in jail. And I hadn’t murdered anyone; I had just been trying to help a college student stay out of trouble. So what if she was a college student with a fully equipped dungeon in her apartment? She was still following her dream.