I paused, my eraser suspended over a particularly tricky problem involving triangles. “Colleges? Isn’t it a bit early to think about that?”
“It’s never too early to start planning,” Kathleen advised me, her graying, no-nonsense bob swinging emphatically with each word. “We’re looking at the Ivy Leagues, but that would mean we’d have to move to the Northeast, and I don’t care for winters. Still, I’ll do what I need to, to support her.” She pursed her lips. “She would consider the Plan II program at UT, of course, but UT doesn’t quite have the same cachet, does it?”
“Umm . . .” I erased an incorrect addition scribble—whoever had used this book last had clearly missed the “’Rithmetic” part of the three Rs—and realized Kathleen had just given me an opportunity.
“Will you sign her up for the Acorn Scholars program?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “It’s expensive, but so worth it.”
I flipped the page and erased another set of pencil marks. “What exactly does the program do?”
“Everything,” she said. “The headmaster just started it last year.”
“Did he?” I asked, wondering if perhaps the program had something to do with his untimely demise in a pink vinyl wading pool. I was fairly desperate.
“They offer specialized tutoring, help in advanced classes, SAT coaches . . . They even have a professional writer help them craft their essays.”
Help them craft their essays? I thought. Or “craft” essays for them?
“How much does it cost?” I asked, wondering if Prudence would insist we sign Elsie up. On the other hand, since she was generously covering Elsie’s tuition, I couldn’t complain. I sent yet another prayer up that my daughter had left her Fifi identity in the minivan and would at least meet one potential friend on the playground. When was recess, anyway? Maybe I’d take a peek—from a distance, of course. Just to check.
“I’m not sure how much the program costs,” Kathleen said, pulling me out of my worried thoughts, “but I know it’s in the thousands. Still, ten out of twelve got accepted to at least one Ivy this year, and their SAT scores went up hundreds of points.” A small, smug smile played across her ChapSticked lips. “Just think of how good Holy Oaks’ reputation will be by the time our daughters are applying!”
“I can only imagine.” I erased another check mark. “I wonder where the headmaster was this morning?” I said idly.
“I don’t know,” Kathleen said, “but I’m sure he was gone on important business.”
“I heard something happened to him,” I said as I erased a penciled-in GEOMETRY SUCKS from the top of a page.
“Oh, I’m sure they would have said something about that,” Kathleen said dismissively. A babble of voices in the hallway outside caught my attention; Perky Desk Girl was escorting what appeared to be a potential student and her family down the hall toward the elementary wing. I put down my pencil, grabbed my purse, and stood up. “I’ll be right back.”
Kathleen’s pale-blue eyes darted to me. “Where are you going?”
“Bathroom,” I said.
She pointed toward the librarian’s office, where Ms. Jones was still in hiding. “There’s one next to the office.”
“I don’t want to disturb the librarian,” I said. “Besides, I need to stretch my legs a bit.” Without waiting for her to reply, I headed toward the door to the main hallway, trying not to look as if I were fleeing.
With Perky Desk Girl gone, the office was deserted. I glanced back toward the library, half expecting to see Kathleen watching me—thankfully, she hadn’t followed me to the door—before darting into the main office.
The place was empty. There were three doors behind the reception desk. Two were open, and belonged to the heads of the lower school and upper school, but unfortunately, the third—which, according to the nameplate beside the door, belonged to the headmaster—was closed. I hurried over and tried the knob, but it was locked. How was I going to get in there—preferably before Deborah Golden’s associate managed to cover up whatever needed to be covered up?
Frustrated, I looked around the rest of the office, wondering what else I could discover. There was a big filing cabinet on the back wall. I opened it; there were files on each family, including Becky’s. I grabbed hers and leafed through it. Zoe’s application was there, along with the admissions notes. Financial aid requested was scrawled in red on the top of the file, along with a big red X. I tucked it into my purse and scanned the rest of the files, recognizing the Goldens and the hair-care magnate. I added them to the file in my purse—I’d make copies and return them tomorrow, I rationalized—and then grabbed the Krumbachers’ file, to boot. I slid the drawer shut and looked through the others, but there was nothing but office supplies. My eyes moved to the wall of mailboxes. The cubby labeled CAVENDISH was almost full; could there be something in there that would point me in the right direction? With a quick glance at the main door, I grabbed the stack of mail and flipped through it.
Lots of brochures for building supplies and school products, which was no surprise. A missive from the alumni association of Holy Cross. Two letters from the admissions offices of universities in Boston and New Hampshire. A fat envelope that looked like a financial statement from a firm called Golden Investments. And two hand-addressed letters, both postmarked in Austin.
I held the stack in my hand and glanced over my shoulder. Taking these letters would be a federal offense—I knew that from my investigative training. It would be illegal to do anything but put the letters back.
On the other hand, how else was I going to figure out who had killed George Cavendish? As I hesitated, my phone burbled in my purse. I pulled it out to silence it, and my stomach turned over: it was the Austin Police Department. At that moment, I heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway.
“Did someone leave a phone in the office?” I recognized Perky Desk Girl’s voice.
“I don’t know, but there really shouldn’t be anyone in there,” said another female voice—the head of the lower school, I realized. I muted the call and jammed my phone into the diaper bag. Then, almost without thinking, I stuffed the mail in after it and hurried out of the office, almost slamming into Perky Desk Girl as I rounded the corner.
Her brow furrowed at the sight of me. “Can I help you?”
“I was just looking for the bathroom,” I said, holding the bulging diaper bag closed and hoping she didn’t have X-ray vision.
“Down the hall to the left,” she said. She and the head of the lower school stared at me suspiciously.
“Thanks,” I said, my heart pounding as I hurried down the antiseptic-scented hallway, past a photomontage of blond, smiling children surrounding a lone Asian girl. Once in the bathroom, I locked myself in the stall and pulled the letters out of my purse. I couldn’t believe I had just stolen a dead man’s mail.
Borrowed, I told myself. Not stolen. I would return it, after all. And it might keep Becky—and me—out of jail. I pulled out one of the handwritten letters first, holding it up to the light. The creamy linen envelope was too thick to see through, unfortunately.
I ran a fingernail under the flap, but it was sealed tight. Could I steam it open and reseal it? I wondered, stifling a flush of guilt at the thought.
If I was going to do that, I needed to go home. And maybe schedule a karma-adjustment appointment for my mother so she wouldn’t be around to ask me why I was steaming mail open with a teakettle.
I tucked the mail back into my purse and exited the stall, heading back for the library. As I walked down the hall, a string of first graders filed by. It didn’t take long for me to identify Elsie’s dark head among the line of jumpered girls. Most of them were smiling, already whispering confidences to one another. My heart squeezed when I saw my daughter, though. Instead of chatting gaily with new friends, she stared at the floor, drifting behind her classmates.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but I couldn’t resist. “Elsie,” I murmured as my daughter
passed.
She looked up, her big eyes wide and startled.
“Did you come to take me home?” she asked, her face lighting with hope.
“Not yet,” I said, and her shoulders sagged as the rest of the class skipped by. “Did you have lunch?” I asked brightly.
She shook her head.
“Where are you headed now?”
“Playground,” she mumbled.
I looked behind me; the rest of the children had already turned the corner. “You’d better catch up,” I said, then stooped and gave her a hug, folding her small, sweet body into my arms. I had an impulse to gather her up and run out of the building with her, but I stifled the urge. School was part of life; she’d learn to adjust.
Wouldn’t she?
“I’ll see you in a few hours, pumpkin,” I said, and watched as she slumped down the hall after her classmates, glancing back at me forlornly before turning the corner.
At least she hadn’t barked, I told myself, my heart feeling like somebody had trampled it with soccer cleats.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I spent another twenty minutes erasing SAT books and worrying about Elsie before excusing myself to go pick up my son. Becky’s van was already in the Green Meadows parking lot when I pulled in next to her. She was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring into space.
I got out of the car and tapped on her window. She jumped and rolled it down.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m not great,” Becky told me. The sight of her pale, makeup-less face made me feel sick to my stomach.
“Did the police say anything else?”
“They found my business card on his . . . his body,” she told me, twisting the bottom of her Green Meadows Day School T-shirt. Which was another worrying sign: Becky didn’t usually wear T-shirts.
“Lots of people have business cards,” I said, leaning against her van and trying to keep my face from looking too terribly guilty. “Did they really think you’d leave a business card if you had something to do with his death?”
She gave a hollow laugh. “I know, right? But they told me they want me to stay in town,” she said. “They know about the letter I wrote in the Picayune.” She took a deep breath. “I’m pretty sure I’m the top suspect right now.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her it was my fault, but I remembered what Peaches and I had agreed to. One week. “Did they say anything about what happened to him?”
She shook her head. “Obviously he didn’t die of natural causes, though. They wouldn’t tell me anything, but they wanted to know where I was last night.” She swallowed. “And they asked if I had any firearms.”
I sucked in my breath. “You’re right. That doesn’t sound good.”
Becky pulled at her T-shirt again. “Do you think that means he was shot?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. Which felt absolutely awful. I took another deep breath and said, “Actually, Becky, I do know.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
I glanced behind me to make sure nobody was in earshot. “I think I’m the one who dropped your business card on George Cavendish,” I confessed.
“You mean . . . you killed him?” Her hand leapt to her chest. “You did that for me? I never wanted him dead . . .” She paused for a moment, thinking about what I said, and her forehead wrinkled. “And why did you leave my business card?”
“No . . . I didn’t kill anyone! I just . . . helped move the body.”
“Why?”
I glanced over my shoulder again. “Peaches called me.”
Becky looked confused. “Peaches killed him? But she doesn’t even have kids!”
I took a deep breath. “We don’t know who killed him. He was in a young woman’s apartment, wearing . . . well, not very much.”
“He had a mistress?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Anyway, somebody broke in and shot him while she was in the other room buying curtains.”
My friend blinked at me. “Buying curtains?”
“She’s into interior design—she’s pretty good, actually. Anyway, Peaches called me to help her move the body, so that the young woman wouldn’t be connected with his death and her parents wouldn’t find out how she pays her college tuition.”
Becky’s eyes got even rounder. “So she’s a . . . a prostitute!”
“I think so,” I told her. “She’s got a whole dungeon and everything, and some kind of weird sex chair . . . Anyway, I messed up, and I’m sorry.”
“Jesus, Margie. Why did you do it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “When Peaches called, I didn’t really understand what I was getting into. And the girl was nice—I felt bad for her. I can understand why she didn’t want her parents to know about . . . well, how she paid the bills.”
“So you helped move the body. But how did you manage to drop my business card? I’m always looking for new business, but hookers and dead men aren’t my usual target market.”
“It was an accident.” I told her about showing Peaches my new cards, and the attack of the renegade cat. “I guess one of them must have gotten wedged in the pool.”
She blinked again. “The what?”
“He was in a pink vinyl pool when he died.”
“What was he doing in a pink pool?”
“Um . . . marinating in pee, evidently. Wearing Aquaman tights and goggles.”
Becky looked horrified. Then she giggled. “Aquaman tights? Seriously?”
“It smelled even worse than it sounds,” I said, and started giggling with her. Soon, we were doubled over laughing and wiping our eyes. When we were gasping for breath, I said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away. I talked to Peaches this morning, as soon as Bunsen showed me a copy of your business card. She wanted me to stay mum for a week before talking to you, so that we could solve the case, but I’ll call Detective Bunsen right now if you want.”
“Wait,” Becky said, putting a hand on my arm. “Wouldn’t that mean you and Peaches might go to jail?”
“We did move a murder victim, so there’s a good chance of it.”
“But the kids . . . with everything going on between you and Blake, and Elsie’s issues . . .” She looked at me. “I don’t know, Margie. Do you really think we can figure this out on our own?”
I glanced back at the minivan, where I’d stashed the diaper bag and its contraband contents. “I grabbed his mail and a couple of files from the Holy Oaks office today. It’s a start.”
She bit her lip. “I think Peaches is right,” she said slowly. “We should at least try to figure this out on our own.”
“Are you sure? I can call the police and clear this up right now.”
She nodded. “If I get arrested, we’ll talk. We can at least see what we can find out. What did happen, anyway?” She was already looking better, I noticed. Still pale, but that was to be expected when she wasn’t wearing her signature Cherry Blossom blush.
“Somebody broke open the sliding glass door and shot him, then took off. We’re going to talk to Desiree to see if she saw anything else.”
“Desiree?” She snorted. “Was that really her name?”
“I doubt it’s on her birth certificate, but that’s what she goes by.” I sighed. “It’s been a pretty shitty twenty-four hours, all in all. And to top things off, I dropped Elsie’s fry phone next to an angry pig.”
“A pig?”
“It’s the only case in the office right now,” I said, wondering how I was going to get Elsie’s fry phone back. I’d swung by the house again on my way to Green Meadows, but evidently Bubba Sue remembered me; I hadn’t even gotten to the gate before she was battering the cat carrier against the fence. I was going to need to resort to a pig tranquilizer—or hiring a bull rider from a rodeo.
“A case involving an angry pig?”
“A pignapping. Ex-husband took the momma and is planning to sell the piglets,” I explained. “The pig’s name is Bubba Sue. She’s supposed to be teacup
-size, but she’s about the size of a Fiat.”
“I thought it was bad enough with your mother coming to town.”
“Oh, my mother got in first thing this morning—when she rang the bell, I thought it was the cops. She’s emptied the cabinets of edible food and replaced it with organic sawdust,” I told her, “and she’s invited Blake’s parents to join us for dinner at Casa de Luz tonight.”
Becky grinned. “The vegan macrobiotic restaurant down by the lake?”
I nodded. “And you haven’t even heard about Blake’s new Christian anti-gay program. Journey to Manhood. He wants me to go to the wives’ support group: Warrior Wives.”
“Have you considered divorce?” she asked. “Maybe from your entire family? Except for the kids, of course.”
“When would I have the time to file?” I sighed. To be honest, the prospect made me feel sick to my stomach. The familiar thoughts churned through my head. I hated the idea of destroying my children’s home . . . And how would I be able to make it as a single mother? I pushed the thoughts away; I couldn’t afford to think about my marriage right now. “Is Rick still out of town?”
“Till Friday.”
“Can I come over and steam open some envelopes tonight?”
“Call me when the kids are down,” she said, getting out of her van. Together, we walked through the Green Meadows gate to retrieve our children, giving Mrs. Bunn—whose distinctly authoritarian leadership style had earned her the nickname Attila the Bunn—a quick wave as we hurried past the office.
Things might not be going great, I told myself.
But least I hadn’t accidentally dropped off pictures of dead Aquaman for the school newsletter.
The kitchen table was no longer piled with packaged food when I stepped through the door at 4:30 that afternoon, both kids in tow. The windows were now closed, and the air conditioning was huffing as it attempted to return the interior temperature to a habitable range. We’d stopped at Subway so the kids could eat something substantial before facing my mother’s version of an after-school snack. Not to mention “dinner” at Casa de Luz.
Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) Page 10