Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (32 page)

The kids were in the laundry room and covered in piglets when I got home. I hadn’t seen Elsie so happy in days; there was no sign of her dog collar, and she was talking to the little pink pig in her lap as if it were her best friend.

“They look pretty good,” I told my mother as I unloaded the groceries.

“Hungry, though,” she said. “They keep trying to suck Elsie’s fingers.”

“We’ll get them fed soon enough,” I said, cracking an egg into a pot and measuring milk. “Any sign of Momma Pig?”

“None yet,” she told me. “I hope she didn’t get hit by a car,” she said in a low voice, so that the kids wouldn’t hear. I glanced down at my cell phone; four more calls from Bubba Sue’s mom. Should I call her and tell her we had the piglets, at least?

I’d give it until after the Holy Oaks meeting, I decided as I added cod-liver oil and winced at the foul smell. It would make a nice dip for the seaweed snacks.

When the concoction had heated to lukewarm, I poured it into the two bottles on the counter and headed into the laundry room, where my mother and the kids nestled with the newborn piglets. One of them had a spot on its snout, just like its mother’s.

I handed one bottle to my mother and kept the other. “Can I have a piggie?”

Elsie handed me a small pink one, and as I nestled the small, warm body into my lap, I was reminded of when my own children were infants. It hadn’t been that long ago, I reflected as I watched Elsie plant a kiss on the black piglet’s head.

I looked back down at the piglet in my lap and offered it the nipple. It latched on hungrily, gulping down the disgusting concoction. I thought of their refrigerator-sized mother, who was doubtless marauding the streets of Austin Heights even now. It was amazing that something so small and sweet could turn into something so massive and ill-tempered.

“It’s working,” my mother said as the little black piglet in her lap gulped down the milk.

Twenty minutes later, we had a half dozen contented piglets, but there was still no sign of Bubba Sue.

“Can I stay with them until their mommy comes home?” Elsie asked.

“Sure,” I said, watching her nestled in with the piglets. As long as she didn’t want to keep one, we’d be fine. “Let me put down some paper in case they have accidents.”

Once I had everyone settled, I ran into my bedroom, applied some lipstick, and headed for the car. I was just about to back out of the driveway when I put the car in park and ran into the garage. I fumbled on the top shelf until I found the bag with the gun in it.

It was the first time I’d ever gone to a parent meeting armed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I
walked into Holy Oaks just as the program was beginning. I stepped through the door into a lobby that was filled with packed chairs. At the rear of the lobby, near the library, was a table full of Sweetish Hill pastries. I edged toward the loaded table and grabbed a lemon bar and a pecan-pie tartlet to fortify myself, thankful to see food that wasn’t green and vegan. At Green Meadows, if you weren’t first at the trough, you were likely to go away hungry; at Holy Oaks, I seemed to be the only parent who ate carbs, so there was no worry about missing out on the treats.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” Claire Simpson sang into the microphone as I stuffed the pecan tartlet into my mouth and felt around in my purse for the gun. It was still lurking in the bottom of my purse, the metal grip both scary and reassuring. I scanned the room; the Goldens and the Krumbachers were near the front, by the podium. There was no sign of Mrs. Cavendish—not that I was surprised.

The head of the elementary school droned on about all that Cavendish had contributed to the school, and how he couldn’t possibly be replaced, and what an upstanding member of the community he’d been. Mention of Aquaman tights or hookers was markedly absent. I did have to give him props for wanting to out the fact that the school had invested in a lethal street drug and trying to back out of it; oddly enough, though, that didn’t figure into her speech, either.

I wiped my fingers on my napkin and edged up the side of the room, hoping I could get to Mitzi. I didn’t like her, but I couldn’t in good conscience not tell her I suspected she was married to a murderer. I would pass what I’d found on to Detective Bunsen, but I wasn’t sure any of that evidence would hold up in court. Maybe Mitzi could provide the missing pieces.

“And now,” Simpson burbled, “let me introduce our new interim headmaster, who has kindly agreed to take over while we search for a new permanent head. She’s a former kindergarten teacher with years of experience in the business community, and I’m sure she’ll do a great job keeping Holy Oaks on course. Please join me in welcoming Deborah Golden to the podium.”

“Thank you,” Deborah said, beaming at the crowd, her veneers flashing in the lights. I glanced at the rest of the front row. Marty Krumbacher leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied, while Mitzi sat beside him, a tight smile on her surgically enhanced lips. Leonard Graves sprawled like a bald lion, his jerky-colored wife adjusting the neckline of her low-cut black dress.

Deborah Golden went on for a while about how a well-run school was like a well-orchestrated real-estate deal, and about how the children, like her clients, would be her top priority, and then went into some extended mixed metaphor about tight ships and armies, which seemed to go on for hours. All the time, my eyes were fixed on Mitzi, who had noticed me and shot me one nasty glare before ignoring me. I drifted back to the snack table and grabbed a few more lemon squares as I waited for her to finish.

“Unusual choice for an interim head, don’t you think?”

It was Kevin, who was stacking pecan tartlets on his plate.

“After what you told me at the parent coffee, it’s not a huge surprise,” I told him. My eyes fell on the door to the boys’ room, and I thought of Thumbs; thankfully, I hadn’t seen him tonight. “How long has the custodian been working here?” I asked Kevin.

“He started a few months ago,” Kevin said. “Vicki tells me he gives her the heebie-jeebies.”

“He gives me the heebie-jeebies, too,” I said.

“Lupe,” he said. “But the kids call him Mr. Thumbs.” He leaned in. “Have you seen his hands?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling my stomach contract. I hadn’t heard from Thumbs since last night, but I suspected I hadn’t seen the last of him. “Pretty big.” I took another bite of lemon bar and asked, “Did anybody do a background check on him? That scar is a little bit terrifying.”

“I imagine so,” he said. “They must do background checks on everyone. Too much risk of scandal otherwise.”

He had no idea how high the risk of scandal was, I thought as I polished off the lemon bar.

“How’s Elsie doing?” he asked.

“It’s been a tough transition,” I said.

“I’m sorry to hear that; I kind of thought so.”

I turned to him, wondering what he knew that I didn’t. “Why?”

He hesitated. “Vicki mentioned something to me, and I’m not sure I should pass it on.”

“Please do,” I said. “She won’t tell me anything except that she hates school.”

“Well . . . she barks a lot.”

Even though I wasn’t surprised, my heart seemed to shrink in my chest. “She barks?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning in. “And Violet Krumbacher has started calling her Fido.”

I glanced up to where Mitzi was sitting. “Fido,” I said. “How does she respond to that?”

“She growls,” Kevin told me. “At least that’s what Vicki tells me.” He gave me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry to tell you, and like I said, it’s just what I’m hearing from Vicki. There’s more.”

“What?” I asked, feeling sick.

“Well . . . Violet tied her to a tree during recess yesterday and told her to stay.”

“Tied her to a tree?”

“She used a jump rope,” Kevin said. “Apparently the teacher eventually found out about it and released her, but nobody had the guts to tell the teacher it was Violet who’d done it. She thinks Elsie tied herself up.”

“Around her neck?”

“Her waist, I think.” He paused. “At least I hope.”

“That’s horrible!”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I thought you should know.”

“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. “I know the transition hasn’t been smooth, but . . . wow. I’m glad I kept her home today.”

“Holy Oaks can be a tough crowd,” Kevin said, glancing at the well-dressed, well-heeled crowd. “And not just the kids.”

At that moment, Deborah Golden finished her soliloquy, and there was a burst of polite applause.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I need to go talk to someone.”

“Mitzi?” he asked, looking worried.

“Yes . . . But about something else. I promise I won’t tell her you told me about Violet.”

“Thanks,” he said. His relief was palpable. “Maybe Deborah Golden will be more open to dealing with bullying, but I doubt it.”

“Cavendish wasn’t?”

“Not when the big donors were involved,” he told me with a wry smile. “Big donors’ kids got carte blanche. The Sky High campaign has taken precedence over just about everything.”

“Sky High.” I snorted, thinking of the packets of Afterburn I’d found in the custodian’s closet—and the back room of the Sweet Shop.

“What’s funny?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “Thanks again for letting me know about Elsie.”

“Good luck,” Kevin called after me as I cut through the perfumed crowd.

Mitzi was standing a few feet away from her husband, who was deep in conversation with the bald hair magnate. I walked up to her and put on a smile. “Hi, Mitzi. I’ve got something to ask you; mind if I talk to you for a few moments?”

“I’m kind of busy,” she said, crossing her arms and inching toward her husband.

“It’s about—”

“I said, I’m busy.” Her blue eyes were like daggers.

I grabbed her arm. “I know something about your husband you’ll want to hear,” I hissed into her ear.

She shook me off, but her eyes widened slightly. I watched her consider it for a moment. “Fine,” she said curtly. “Just make it quick.”

She followed me across the crowded lobby area to the hall leading to the first-grade classrooms. When we were halfway down, she turned to me.

“All right. What is it?” she barked.

I took a deep breath. “I think your husband’s a murderer.”

Mitzi blinked at me. “What?”

“Cavendish died in unusual circumstances,” I told her. “I think your husband might be involved.”

“You think Marty killed him?” she asked, glancing down the hall and looking uneasy. “Why?”

“His car was outside the apartment where Cavendish was killed.”

“How do you know that?” she asked.

“I just do.”

“Even if that were true—and I have no way of knowing if you’re telling the truth—why would Marty kill the headmaster?”

“Because Cavendish invested Holy Oaks’ funds into your husband’s company. Then he found out your husband’s company is dealing in an illicit drug that’s killed a bunch of people.” I glanced over my shoulder. “I have evidence showing Cavendish was having a crisis of conscience and wanted to divest Holy Oaks—and he might have been going to tell the police about it. I think your husband decided to silence him.”

“Are you sure his wife didn’t off him because she saw him wearing tights in a wading pool?”

“I thought about that, too,” I told her, “but it doesn’t add up.” Then I paused. “Wait a moment. How do you know that?”

The color leached from Mitzi’s tanned face. “I . . . Someone must have told me.”

Was she in on it? Or had Marty told her what he was doing? All of a sudden it dawned on me. “It was you, wasn’t it?” I said slowly.

She had a look on her face I recognized. I’d seen it on Nick’s face when I caught him licking the frosting off all the cupcakes for his sister’s birthday party.

“You knew about the Afterburn. And you knew Cavendish was going to turn in your husband, and that Marty would lose everything if he was convicted.”

“You can’t prove anything,” she hissed.

“No, but I’ll bet Detective Bunsen can,” I told her. “Thanks for clearing things up.”

I turned to walk back to the lobby, but she grabbed my arm. Her grip was remarkably firm; you could tell she spent some time at the gym. “Wait,” she said.

“No,” I told her, reaching for my purse.

But Mitzi was way ahead of me. Before I could get Thumbs’s gun out of the bottom of my purse, I felt something hard press against my back. “I knew it was a mistake to hire you,” Mitzi said, steering me into one of the classrooms.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

M
y mouth felt like cotton, but my palms were sweating. “What are you planning to do?” I asked.

“I’m thinking,” she said.

“They’ll hear it if you fire the gun,” I said, casting about for a way to get out of this situation. Things were hard enough for my kids as it was; the last thing they needed was for me to show up behind Holy Oaks with more holes in me than a colander.

“You’re really concerned for my welfare, aren’t you?” Mitzi asked. “I’d be more worried about your kid. The one who thinks she’s a dog?”

“And your daughter is a real joy, isn’t she?” I asked. The thought of Elsie tied to a tree pissed me off enough to eclipse my fear, at least for a moment. “Where’d she learn to tie people up? Or is that considered a basic skill in your household?”

Mitzi poked the gun into my back harder. “She was talking the talk; maybe Violet decided she needed to walk the walk. Besides,” she said, “your kid is weird. You don’t see Violet wearing a cheap rhinestone dog collar and pretending she’s a Pekingese.”

“Oh, I’m sure your kid would prefer the diamond-studded spiked version from Tiffany’s,” I said. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“That Violet tied Fido to a tree?” she asked. “I suggested it. I’m just surprised your daughter didn’t pee on the trunk.”

The casual cruelty of it stunned me. Mitzi Krumbacher had instructed her daughter to bully Elsie, I realized. I couldn’t let this woman kill me. No way was Mitzi going to orphan my children.

“You really don’t want to kill me yet,” I said.

“Why not?” she asked.

I had to admit I was stumped.