“But . . . there’s evidence here!” I protested. “If we move him, they might not be able to find out who killed him!”
“We don’t even know who he is,” Peaches said.
“He called himself John,” Desiree said.
Peaches snorted.
“Does he have a wallet with him?” I asked. I looked at the tights; if he did, he hadn’t tucked it in there. The tight spandex left far too little to the imagination.
“His clothes are over there,” the young woman said, pointing to a chair in the corner. “I’ve got gloves if you want.” She produced a box of latex gloves from a cabinet under the whip display.
“What do you use those for?” I asked.
“Don’t ask,” Peaches said, fishing out a pair of gloves and pulling them on, then tossing a pair to me. I found my eyes drawn to the dead man in the pool. He had a large, pink bald spot on the back of his head, and his doughy shoulders were dusted with freckles. Did he have a family? I wondered. Was he leaving a wife and kids behind? How would his wife react when she discovered her husband had been found dead in a wading pool, wearing nothing but green tights and a pair of goggles?
“Got it,” Peaches said, holding up the man’s license. “George Cavendish,” she said.
“George Cavendish,” I repeated. “Sounds familiar.” I’d heard it sometime recently, but couldn’t place it.
“Lives on Plato Court,” she said, peering at the license. Then she fished a hundred out of the wallet and handed it to Desiree. “I’m guessing he didn’t pay you. This should help with the curtains.”
“Thanks,” she said, waving it away, “but I just want him out of here.”
“There’s something else here, too,” Peaches said, pulling a clipped newspaper article out of his back pocket and unfolding it. “A story about one of those kids who died of that synthetic marijuana stuff.”
“Afterburn,” Desiree said, and shuddered. “Horrible stuff. One of my friends ended up in the hospital after smoking some of that. She still isn’t right.”
Peaches shoved the article back into the man’s pocket along with the wallet, then folded her arms over her ample cleavage and looked at me. “Are you in?”
I sighed. I didn’t want to be involved in this at all. But I was here. And Desiree looked pretty miserable. I guessed it wouldn’t hurt if we just pulled him out into the courtyard. “Do we take the pool, too?” I asked.
“I think we kind of have to,” Peaches said, “unless we want to get blood and . . . well, you know . . . everywhere.”
“We should probably . . . adjust him a little bit,” I suggested. He really was in an awkward position. “Before rigor mortis sets in.”
“Grab a leg,” Peaches said. “I’ll take his arm.” I put on the latex gloves and wrapped a hand around his spandex-clad ankle. It was still warm. “On three,” Peaches said, and at her count, we both pulled up, flipping him over. The bullet hadn’t penetrated his chest. If it weren’t for his head lolling to the side—and the blood—it would have looked like he was taking a nap in the pool.
“Watch the goggles,” Peaches said. They were askew on his head, about to fall onto the carpet.
Desiree reached down to adjust them, and they slid off of his balding head.
I dropped the ankle and stepped back. “Oh my God.”
Peaches looked at me. “What?”
“I know him,” I said, looking with horror at the round face and fringe of silver hair.
“One of your neighbors?”
“No.” I swallowed hard. “He’s the headmaster of Holy Oaks Catholic School.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
You’re shitting me,” Peaches said, her mouth gaping as she looked at him.
“He didn’t like that, at least,” Desiree said, wrinkling her nose. “I have limits.”
“What was he doing here?” I asked, trying to reconcile the image of the headmaster in his Holy Oaks tie and blue suit with this goggled man in urine-soaked Aquaman tights.
“I think that’s fairly obvious,” Peaches said. “But the real question is, how are we going to get him out of here?”
“The patio door, I’m thinking,” Desiree said. “Why don’t I slip into something more comfortable?”
“Good call,” Peaches said. “Those stilettos will trip you up.”
As Desiree vanished into another room, I stared at Cavendish. “I can’t believe the headmaster got shot in a hooker’s apartment.”
“He doesn’t look like headmaster material,” Peaches mused, poking at his leg with her red pump.
“Who would want him dead, though?” I thought about it. “You think Desiree got tired of drinking Big Gulps?”
“Nah. He was just a john. And she wouldn’t have offed him in her own apartment, anyway.”
“True,” I said.
“I’m betting it was one of those private-school moms,” Peaches suggested. “Maybe little Madison didn’t get into Holy Oaks, and her parents got mad. Remember that cheerleader mom who put out a contract on another cheerleader mom?”
“They don’t usually cruise the streets of East Austin carrying howitzers,” I pointed out.
“It wasn’t a howitzer,” Peaches said, running a critical eye over what was left of George Cavendish. “The whole apartment would be gone. Looks more like a small-caliber gun.”
I looked down at the headmaster, wondering how he had ended up in this situation. There was obviously more to him than originally met the eye. And I wasn’t talking about the limp bratwurst in his tights.
“I guess I could poke around at school,” I said.
“Why?” Peaches asked. “It’s not our case. The police will look into it.”
“I guess, but it bothers me. My daughter’s going to Holy Oaks,” I said. “I was hoping not to have to have the death discussion before the end of the first week of school.”
“I probably wouldn’t mention the tights or the urine,” Peaches suggested. “But kids are resilient; I’m sure she’ll be fine. Besides, it’s not like they have a long-term relationship. She hasn’t even started school yet.”
We stood silently for a few minutes, waiting for Desiree to come back. It was a bit awkward, really, standing by a dead man in a room lined with implements of torture. I tried to think of something to break the silence—something that didn’t involve whips and golden showers. “By the way,” I said, averting my eyes from what looked like a ball gag, “I got my new business cards.”
“Lemme see!”
I took off the gloves and shoved them into my pocket, then fished in my purse for my cards. Margie Peterson, Assistant Investigator was emblazoned in black under the words Peachtree Investigations and an image of a peach that looked, well, slightly obscene. I hadn’t found the right moment to suggest we hire a graphic designer to come up with something a little less . . . graphic.
“Looking good,” Peaches said with a smile, handing me back the card. “Now you’re a real professional.”
I put it on the top of the stack and was about to tuck the cards into my purse when something bit my ankle.
“Ouch!” I jumped, and the cards leaped out of my hands, flying around the room. A ball of black fur streaked toward the open patio door and out into the night.
“Jesus,” I said, looking down at my punctured ankle. “It bit me!”
“What is it with you and cats?” Peaches asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. Blood welled from four little pinprick tooth marks; it looked like I’d been attacked by an elf. I rifled through my purse for a McDonald’s napkin and pressed it to the wounds. “Think she keeps the cat around to use on some of her clients?” I thought of my own testy Siamese. “Maybe she’d be interested in taking Rufus, too, now that I think of it.”
“Probably not. Hard to get a cat to learn safe words.”
I looked up at her. “Safe words?”
“Didn’t you read Fifty Shades of Grey?”
“It’s on my TBR pile,” I lied. With two small kid
s in the house and a husband who wasn’t exactly champing at the bit to get me into bed, Mr. Putter and Tabby Walk the Dog was about as racy as my reading material got. “What do I do with the cards that fell in the pool?”
“Flush ’em,” she said.
With my luck, they’d clog the toilet—and Aquaman clearly wasn’t going to be coming to my rescue. I dabbed at the blood a few more times, then folded up the napkin and tucked it into my purse. No need to leave any DNA evidence. “Got any more gloves?”
Peaches handed me a pair, and I pulled them on before trying to round up my cards. One had fallen square in the middle of Cavendish’s spandex-clad pelvis, and several others were soaking in the pool. I picked the cards up gingerly, as if they were covered in acid, and tried not to drip on the carpet.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Across the hall,” Peaches told me.
I left the dungeon and headed for the small bathroom, holding the cards in a gloved hand. Like the living room, it was tastefully decorated, with a blue printed shower curtain and a coordinating throw rug. If Desiree decided dominating men in tights wasn’t her thing, I thought, she should consider interior design. I flushed the cards, jammed the second pair of gloves into my pocket to get rid of later, took a good look at myself in the mirror, and resolved to buy a new tube of under-eye concealer from my friend Becky Hale the next day. I wouldn’t be averse to seeing what other tricks she and Mary Kay had up their pink, flouncy sleeves, either, I decided. I fluffed my reddish hair and opened my green eyes wider, but I still looked like a slightly chunky thirtysomething woman with a serious Cheetos habit who hadn’t slept in a month.
I gave up on the personal grooming—after all, I was here to move a body, not win a beauty contest—and headed back to the dungeon. Peaches was sitting on the arm of a vinyl chair-like contraption I hadn’t noticed before, eyeing the wading pool.
“What is that thing you’re sitting on?”
“You don’t want to know,” she said, and nodded toward the pool. “Think that’ll fit through the sliding glass door?”
“I hope so,” I said. “If we bend it, it should; it looks pretty flexible. But where are we going to put him?”
“You’re sure you don’t want him in the van?” Peaches asked.
“No!” I took a few deep cleansing breaths, then wished I hadn’t. “I’m worried about this, Peaches. What if we get caught lugging a dead body?”
“It’s three in the morning,” Peaches said. “Not a lot of people out.”
I thought of the gang of young men eyeing my bumper, and decided they weren’t likely to call the cops on us. “Let’s hope you’re right,” I said.
Desiree walked back in, wearing khaki shorts and an oversized UT sorority T-shirt. Except for the heavy mascara, she had transformed from Desiree the peeing dominatrix to Desiree the demure coed next door.
“Margie doesn’t want to use the van,” Peaches said. “Where do you want him?”
Desiree grimaced. “The courtyard would be easiest, but it’s probably too close,” she said.
“Did anyone see him come in?” Peaches asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“How about the curb?” Peaches asked.
“What, like you’re putting him out for bulk pickup?” I asked.
She arched a tweezed eyebrow at me. “You have any other suggestions?”
“What about his car?” Desiree asked. “Can we fit him in there?”
“It’s an idea,” Peaches said. “But what do we do with the wading pool?”
“I’m not keeping that thing here,” Desiree said, crossing her skinny arms over her Tri-Delt Spring Dance T-shirt.
“Maybe we should just put the pool next to the car,” Peaches said. “It’s not perfect, but at least it’s not at your apartment. How did he get in touch with you, by the way?”
“I have a Gmail account,” she said.
“No phone?”
She shook her head.
“They still might track you down,” Peaches said. “It’s too bad we can’t drive him somewhere.”
“His keys are in his pants pocket,” Desiree said. “We can always stick him in the trunk.”
I held up my hands. “Peaches, I want to help,” I said, “and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But all I can do is help you carry the body out of the apartment. And I shouldn’t even be doing that.” I took a deep breath. “I can’t be connected to something like this.”
“Fair enough,” Peaches said. “Just help us get it through the door, and you’re on your way.” She pulled another pair of gloves out of the box and tossed them to me. “Put these on,” she said, “and we’ll get it over with.”
“Fine,” I said, pulling on the gloves and grabbing one side of the pool, trying to breathe through my mouth. Desiree picked a spot next to me, and Peaches took the other side.
“Ready?” Peaches asked, and on three, we folded Cavendish up in his pool like a pink vinyl Aquaman taco and dragged him out into the night.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was almost five by the time I got home, still convinced I had smudges of bodily fluids all over me. I stripped in the laundry room and tossed my clothes in the washer—hot water, heavy soil setting, sani-rinse—then fumbled my way through the house until I got to the master bathroom, where I spent at least forty minutes scrubbing my skin until it was raw. Then I dressed the cat bite with Neosporin, climbed into bed, and had just managed to fall asleep when the alarm went off and it was time to get up.
I started a pot of coffee in a haze, then went to pry Elsie and Nick out of bed. There was a smell that suggested Rufus had left another nighttime deposit somewhere in the house, but I didn’t have time to track it down right then; it would have to wait until after I’d taken the kids to school. I could hear Blake snoring from his cot as I walked by the office and into Elsie’s room.
“Wake up, sleepyhead!” I called in my happy-mommy voice, trying to sound like Mary Poppins instead of a body snatcher, and rumpled my daughter’s dark, silky hair. She growled.
“It’s your first day at your new school,” I cooed. “Aren’t you excited?”
She pulled up the covers. “Go away.”
Well, I told myself, at least she’s using words.
“Are you okay?” I asked, sitting down beside her and stroking her back.
After a moment, I felt her relax, and she peeked over the edge of the covers. “I don’t want to go to a new school,” she said. “I don’t know anyone. What if they don’t like me?”
“It’s scary,” I admitted. “But just be yourself.”
“Does that mean I can wear my dog collar?”
“Umm . . . I might save that for home, sweetheart.”
She pulled the covers back over her head again, and I sighed.
“Why don’t you take a few moments to wake up? I’ll go make tea and pour you some cereal. I mean, kibble.” I kissed her head, feeling butterflies in my stomach; it felt like my own first day of school. Elsie seemed fine now, but I had no way of helping her when she was at school. What if she ate her lunch from the floor? What if she refused to do anything but bark or growl? And what if she bit someone again?
I struggled to quell my anxiety as I stepped into Nick’s room next. He was curled up like a pill bug under the covers. “Time to get up, sleepyhead,” I said, bending down to kiss his cheek. “Did you sleep okay?”
No answer. I sighed and picked him up, carrying him to the living-room couch, inhaling the scent of his hair—that heart-melting smell of sleepy child. I would bottle it and keep it forever if I could. Elsie was getting too big to carry, but I could still manage Nick, at least for now.
“Cereal or waffles?” I asked as I situated him on the couch and draped the throw blanket over him.
“Waffles,” he murmured.
“I’ll bet you can’t wait to see your friends at Green Meadows,” I suggested.
“Too tired,” he complained, and cur
led up like a pill bug again.
I sighed and headed back to the kitchen, narrowly avoiding stepping in a pile of cat poop on the corner of the living-room rug. We had acres of tile and hardwood floor, but somehow, Rufus always managed to hit carpet or upholstery. At least I’d found it before I stepped in it.
I had grabbed a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Nature’s Miracle when the doorbell rang. My heart pounded in my chest, and I suddenly felt wide-awake; had the police somehow connected me with the dead body? Had we accidentally left fingerprints or some other evidence on the pool? Were detectives here to question me—or worse, cart me off to jail?
Adrenaline coursed through my body as I reached for the doorknob, clutching the Nature’s Miracle to my chest and searching for plausible explanations for my connection to George Cavendish and his Aquaman tights.
I said a quick prayer and opened the door, only to be blasted by a wave of patchouli.
“Marigold!” My mother held out her arms, and I almost fainted into them.
“You know this cereal is full of GMOs. And food coloring, too, not to mention refined flour and sugar,” my mother said as she watched me fill Elsie’s bowl with Lucky Charms.
“It’s one of the few things she eats, Mom,” I told her.
“You just haven’t exposed her to enough,” she said, opening my cabinets. “Kraft Easy Mac? Did you know I just read an article on this the other day? They can’t sell it without a warning label in Europe. It’s pure poison.”
“I’m sure it’s not ideal,” I said. “But it’s better than nothing.”
“I don’t know about that,” my mother said. “It’s a good thing I came. I’ll be able to help out with the kids; I know how busy you are.” She picked up a box of Fruit Roll-Ups and tsked. I braced myself for another lecture, but instead she said, “How’s the job going? Still enjoying being a private investigator?”
“It’s interesting,” I said, remembering Peaches’s foray into the wading pool at the Sweet Shop. I still wasn’t up to thinking about Aquaman. “Gives you a different view of human nature.”
Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) Page 5