Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (26 page)

He shrugged as well as he could, considering his arms were trussed up like turkey legs. “I take my job seriously,” he said.

“Evidently not,” Becky said. “Those toilets were disgusting.”

He gave her a confused look. I kicked her to try to get her to shut up.

Peaches stirred the wax. “Do you know Marty Krumbacher?” she asked him.

“Never heard of him,” he said.

“Is that why he’s a contact on your phone?” she asked. On the way back to the Pretty Kitten, she’d gone through his phone. Krumbacher was definitely a frequent caller.

He snapped his mouth shut, looking nervous.

Peaches pulled the paddle out of the little pot. It was covered with molten wax. “Does the name
Thumbs
mean anything to you?”

His eyes widened. “No,” he said quickly, but his face told a different story.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Never heard of it.” His eyes followed the wax-laden paddle as it drifted closer to his stomach. “What are you doing?” His voice seemed a bit high.

“Oh, just asking questions,” Peaches said. “Like, do you know anything about what happened to George Cavendish?”

“The dude died.” He stared at the paddle, transfixed. “Get that thing away from me.”

“I know he died,” she said. “I was hoping to find out a little more than what I can read in the
Statesman
.”

“I don’t know anything about Cavendish,” he said, looking just like Elsie when I’d asked her if she was the one who ate the rest of the marshmallows.

“Last chance,” she said, letting the paddle hover his navel for a moment. Becky and I watched, transfixed, as a glob of wax oozed off the end of the paddle. It looked a little like vanilla pudding.

“We’ll start with the stomach, I think,” Peaches said, and scooped up a big wad of wax and slapped it down just under his belly button, spreading it around like frosting on a cake. “See any cloth strips?” she asked, looking at Becky and me.

“Right here,” Becky said, grabbing one from the neat stack on the counter and handing it to her.

“Perfect,” Peaches said, smoothing one out over the wax. “I’ve never done this before, but I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

I didn’t think it was possible for the guy on the table to look more nervous, but I was wrong.

Peaches smoothed out the cloth and let the wax sit on his skin for a moment. Then she said, in her perkiest tone of voice, “I think it’s ready!”

The custodian’s voice was husky. “If you tear that off of me, I swear I’ll—”

“Here we go!” she sang out, grabbing one end of the cloth and giving it a tug.

He yowled, and then spat out what I presumed were a few curse words in a language I didn’t understand.

About halfway through, Peaches stopped. The cloth strip was covered with hair, and there was a bald, pinkish spot on the custodian’s flat stomach. “Anything pop into your head?” she asked.

He shook his head. Beads of sweat had sprung up on his temples.

“All righty, then,” she said, and ripped off the rest. He yelped. “It’s hard to believe people pay for this, isn’t it?” she said as she applied another glob of wax a little bit farther south. “Hand me a cloth, Becky?”

“Here ya go,” Becky said, handing Peaches another strip of cloth.

“Okay. So, you were working as Marty Krumbacher’s henchman. Right? Did he hire you to kill Cavendish?”

The custodian shook his head like a wild animal. “You crazy, lady. Wait until I tell—” He seemed to realize he was about to share classified information, and stopped talking.

“Tell who?”

He swore. Peaches sighed. And then she pulled the second strip.

By the time he started talking, Thumbs’s entire torso was as smooth as a baby’s bottom, I had a migraine from the screaming, and Becky was almost out of cloth strips.

“Look,” Peaches told him. “I don’t really want to give you a Brazilian. You don’t really want me to give you a Brazilian. Just tell us what we need to know, and I’ll give you an ice pack and a handful of Motrin and we can all go home.”

“Oh, God. No,” he begged.

“Just tell us who you’re working for and what you know,” Peaches said, stirring what was left of the wax. “It’ll be easier than the Brazilian. That flesh down there is a little looser; I’ll bet it hurts like the dickens.”

He was quiet for a moment—he looked like Nick when he was trying to hold it until he got to a bathroom—and then it all exploded out. “Krumbacher,” he said in a strained voice. “I work for him. I take care of problems.”

“Terrific, sweetheart,” Peaches crooned. “Margie, can you get an ice pack out of the freezer?”

As I hurried over to the dorm-size freezer in the corner of the room, she asked, “What do you know about Cavendish?”

“Mr. Krumbacher wasn’t happy with him,” Thumbs said. “He was causing problems. That’s why I was working at Holy Oaks—to keep an eye on the guy, let him know Mr. Krumbacher was watching him.”

“Were the problems big enough to kill him?”

“No,” he said. “I warned him we had pictures he didn’t want in the paper. Mr. Krumbacher wanted me around as a reminder. Said the guy was going to pull money out of the business and go to the cops.”

“About what?”

“Afterburn,” he said.

“The stuff you had in your closet,” I said, walking over to him with a blue gel ice pack I’d found on the bottom shelf of the freezer.

He looked at me. “You were in the custodial closet?”

“Yes. I hit you with your own gun,” I confessed, then asked, “What is Afterburn?”

“It’s like marijuana,” he said. “But legal.”

“And lethal,” I said. “I’ve seen a lot of articles about people dying from it.” Including the article in Cavendish’s pants, now that I thought of it.

“They were coming out with a new formula as soon as they ran out of what they had.”

“Where was the distribution point?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Thumbs said. “I just do what Mr. Krumbacher tells me. I swear,” he added, as Peaches gave the wax an exaggerated stir.

“So you didn’t kill Cavendish,” Peaches said. “Do you know who did?”

“Maybe it was the dude’s wife. He was into some weird shit. Women get crazy like that.”

“Or maybe you did it.”

He shook his head. “No. Mr. Krumbacher never asked me to kill nobody. I’ve roughed up a few people,” he admitted, “but I never offed anyone.”

“But Holy Oaks was invested in the drug operation.”

“Yeah.” He looked wildly at Peaches. “But that’s all he told me. I don’t know nothing about how the dude died. All I know is I was supposed to scare him.”

“Scare him, or kill him?”

“
Scare
him. Let him know Krumbacher was watching him. Jesus, lady. I told you everything I know. Will you let me go now? Please?”

Peaches looked at the wax and at Thumbs’s flat, now-hairless stomach. “We probably should. I’ve never waxed anybody’s balls before. I’d hate to rip the skin.”

We gave a collective shudder.

“All right,” she told him. “Are you ready to do what we ask you to do?”

“Yes.” His voice was hoarse. “Anything you say. Just get me out of here.”

“My friend here is going to blindfold you,” Peaches said. “And then my other friend is going to point a loaded gun at your wiener while I untie you from the table. She’s at close range and a pretty good shot,” Peaches lied, “so if you like having a sex life, I’d be real careful. Are we clear?”

He turned even paler and nodded.

I pointed the gun in a southerly direction while Becky tied a waxing cloth over his eyes. I couldn’t possibly shoot a man in the crotch, but Thumbs didn’t need to know that. I tensed as Peaches untied his hands and legs; fortunately, his limbs seemed to be asleep. Everything was going fine until Peaches tried to help him to his feet. That’s when he pretended to trip, making Peaches lurch forward. He sprang into action, ripping off his blindfold and lunging for her.

“Margie!” Peaches called. I was still holding the gun, but I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger. Odds were good I’d hit Peaches if I tried to shoot Thumbs; they were right on top of each other. He was moving to get her into a headlock, but she kneed him in the groin, and he doubled over. As she started to stand up, his arm shot up and his fist sank deep in her stomach.

“That’s for the wax, you bitch.”

He reared back for another punch. Peaches took a step back, clearing some distance. I aimed at the floor near his right foot and pulled the trigger just as Peaches grabbed the wax warmer and brought it down on his head.

The gun went off a split second after the wax warmer crashed down on his skull. For the second time that night, Thumbs collapsed, unconscious.

“Thanks for not shooting me,” Peaches said, surveying both the unconscious custodian and the new divot in the hardwood floor. The walls and ceiling were covered with globs of goo; it looked like someone had tried to make a wax smoothie and forgotten to put the lid on the blender. “That makes things a little bit easier, although I don’t know how we’re going to explain the bullet hole to Wanda.” She looked up at me. “You might keep your kid home from school until they find a new janitor, though.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

T
he house was dark by the time I pulled into the driveway. I checked the clock on the dashboard: it was past midnight. We’d left Thumbs on the doorstep of Holy Oaks, still unconscious, with his phone shoved into his back pocket. After dropping off Becky, who had scuttled in the back door of her house wearing Peaches’s peacock-feather yoga pants and hoping her husband was asleep, I had turned for home.

My adrenaline was still running high, and I considered the bag on the front seat of the car. It still had the gun and the Afterburn packets in it. I grabbed it and stowed the bag on top of one of the garage shelves, tucking it in behind the inflatable Frosty the Snowman. It was still August, so I figured it would be safe for at least a couple of months—not that I planned on keeping it that long. If the custodian said anything to the police—an unlikely prospect, my instincts told me, but still worth thinking about—someone might search my house tomorrow. I’d have to figure out what to do with it—and fast.

I had the urge to tell the police all about what I’d found, but that would be problematic—particularly if they got in touch with Thumbs, and he shared tonight’s activities with them. Besides, I’d have to explain why I’d been digging around in the janitor’s closet—and Bunsen might make a connection between this afternoon’s gunshots at the Pretty Kitten and the security alarm at Holy Oaks. If only I had some sort of evidence to take to the police.

What did I have? I had copies of the bank statements from Golden Investments, although it would be hard to explain how I got that information. Plus I had the piece of paper with the code-like thing on it, which I’d found taped to the bottom of Cavendish’s desk drawer. Could I send the info to Bunsen as an anonymous tip? The problem was, although I suspected the Afterburn was being distributed by Golden Investments—or at least by someone in the business—I had no way of proving it. And I was pretty sure Cavendish had been killed by either Thumbs or Marty Krumbacher himself. Even if Marty hadn’t actually pulled the trigger, I was sure he had ordered it. If only I had some proof.

I couldn’t tell Bunsen that Desiree had seen a red Lexus at the scene of the crime. But there had to be some way to share what we knew with the police—and point the suspicion at Marty.

And the sooner the better. My minivan had been shot at the office this afternoon, and I’d just pissed off a dangerous, gun-toting man named Thumbs. What if he decided to come after me at home? I leaned up against the garage wall, thinking of Elsie and Nick, sleeping in their beds. If anything happened to either of them . . . I couldn’t bear to think about it. Should I ask Prudence to take them for a few days, just in case?

I grabbed my purse and pulled out the folded yellow legal paper, studying the strings of letters and numbers. If only I could figure out what they meant, maybe I could break the case open. Would Peaches have any ideas? I reached for my phone before I remembered it was gone. Still with Bubba Sue—just like Elsie’s fry phone, which Bubba Sue had been frolicking with for days now. I had to get back there and get that phone.

Tomorrow,
I vowed as I let myself into the quiet house, wrinkling my nose at the faint scent of incense. Mom must have been smudging again, getting rid of negative influences.

I hoped it extended to gun-toting, hairless janitors.