“Amateur Day, Margie?” Peaches asked when we were safely on Lamar Boulevard. “Really?”
“It was an accident,” I said.
“We need to get you some dance lessons, girl. You looked like someone rammed a broomstick up your butt. And that’s some sexy underwear you’ve got there,” she said. “Victoria’s Secret?”
“Give me a break. I don’t exactly have an appreciative audience at home,” I reminded her.
“All right, you have a point. How did you end up on stage?”
“I was in the storeroom, and somebody found me. I tried to get out, but Thumbs was between me and the exit.”
“No wonder you got on stage.”
“Yup. And I found this in the storeroom,” I said, fishing two packets of Afterburn out of the pocket of the jeans on my lap.
Peaches glanced over at them. “You think that might be the investment Cavendish was having moral qualms about?”
“People are dying from it,” I said. “It would give me moral qualms.” I buttoned my jeans and wished I had grabbed my shirt.
“I’ve got a spare top in the back,” Peaches offered. She reached back and fished out something zebra-striped and slightly shimmery. I pulled it on, feeling a little like a sausage in a rayon casing.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said.
It was only when Peaches had dropped me off at the office and I’d gotten into the Leaf that I realized I hadn’t heard about Jess.
“Nice shirt,” Becky said when I ran into her in the Green Meadows Day School parking lot an hour later. I was still wearing Peaches’s top, unfortunately. “New stylist?”
“I . . . lost my other shirt,” I said.
“I can’t wait to hear how,” Becky said. “Any progress? I hope so, because Bunsen keeps calling me.”
“Sorry about that. I think so,” I said. “How about you? Did Rick ask you what happened?”
“He was already dead asleep,” she said. “I’m having a hard time explaining why the Austin Police Department is calling me hourly, though.”
“What did you do with your boots?”
“I trashed them,” she said. “Any luck figuring out that paper we found?”
“My mother cracked the code, actually,” I told her. “They were usernames and passwords to some e-mail accounts.”
“Were you able to get in?”
I told her about the e-mails, the box of Afterburn I’d found in the back of the Sweet Shop, and my encounter with Thumbs.
“He was at the Sweet Shop? Did he threaten you?”
“I didn’t give him a chance,” I said, and told her about my first and last foray onto a strip club runway.
“Oh my God, Margie. What was he doing there? Do you think he was just a customer?”
“No,” I said. “Krumbacher owns the place, and Thumbs is his henchman.”
She glanced at my car, then did a double take. “Margie. Is this the rental? What happened?”
“Bubba Sue,” I told her.
“Jesus. Did you get the fry phone back?”
“I did, but it’s in pretty bad shape. Got my iPhone, too.”
“I’m not sure it was worth it,” Becky said, peering at the chewed-up seat. “Is that dirt?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“Gross,” she said, wrinkling her nose and stepping away from the car. “Nick’s going to love driving home in that.”
“I’ll keep the windows open,” I said as we walked into the school together.
“You’d better hope Mrs. Bunn doesn’t ask you for a ride.”
I shuddered. The director of Green Meadows, affectionately known as Attila the Bunn, had left me alone since I helped her figure out an embezzlement issue some months back, but I wasn’t sure how long the honeymoon would last.
“We spilled half a bottle of scotch in it, too,” I told Becky.
“How?”
“Pig sedation. She tore the nipple off the baby bottle, and it got all over the upholstery.”
“Baby bottle?”
“It was my mother’s idea.”
“You got her, though?”
I nodded. “She’s safe and sound in my laundry room,” I told her.
“Maybe there is hope for me after all,” she said.
We got home just before four, and things were quiet in the house. Rufus had been scarce since the arrival of my mother—he hated when we moved the furniture—but he was still leaving regular deposits. I cleaned up a little pile from the front hall and then headed into the kitchen, wincing at the sight of the flashing answering machine light. I hit “Play,” fast-forwarding through Bunsen’s two messages. The third was from my father-in-law.
“I wanted to see if we could all get together at Fleming’s Steakhouse tomorrow night. I was thinking seven. Let me know if Blake will be back in time.” There was an awkward pause, followed by, “Say hi to my grandbabies!”
There was one more message. “She’s not answering,” someone said—it sounded like Blake. “I tried her cell. Are you sure this is the way to do it?” There was a muffled response followed by a click as Blake—I thought it was Blake—hung up. Weird.
As I puzzled over the cryptic nonmessage, I checked my e-mail and was surprised to see something from Holy Oaks titled PARENT MEETING. I clicked on it; evidently Deborah Golden was going to be introduced as the new interim head at six o’clock. I hated to ask, but I hoped my mother was up to babysitting again. I wanted to hear what Golden had to say—and maybe confront Krumbacher about what I’d found in his club. And, if I had a chance, warn Mitzi that she might be married to a murderer. After all, I might not care for her personally, but it wasn’t the kind of information I could withhold in good conscience.
“Where’s Grandma?” Nick asked as he opened the refrigerator and gazed at the sparse and rather unsatisfying contents.
“She’s probably at the library with Elsie,” I told him. “Want an apple?”
“I’m tired of apples,” he said.
“That’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid. Unless you want to try those seaweed snacks.”
He made a face. “Gross.”
“An apple it is, then.” I glanced at my watch, wondering if I would have a chance to swing by the grocery store before my mother got home. I had sliced up a Granny Smith and started a short mental grocery list when a grunt sounded from the laundry room.
“What’s that?” Nick asked, walking over and reaching for the doorknob.
“Don’t touch that!” I yelled, hurling myself across the kitchen toward him.
But it was too late.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The door had hardly cracked open an inch before Bubba Sue rocketed out of the laundry room, squealing at the top of her piggy lungs. I raced over and scooped Nick up from the floor as Bubba Sue gave her hide a mighty shake and turned to face us. The rope I’d used to tie her up with was long gone, and there was a glint in her eyes I didn’t like.
“She looks mad,” Nick observed.
He had just finished speaking when Bubba Sue pawed at the tile floor and then launched herself in our direction. I leaped onto the kitchen island with Nick in my arms, dislodging the apple along with a packet of seaweed snacks, just as the enormous pig rammed into the cabinet behind the spot where we’d been standing. She lifted her nose and sampled the air, then turned and investigated the apple slices and seaweed snacks that had fallen. As I watched, horrified, she engulfed the apple, then turned her snout to the seaweed snacks. A moment later, the green plastic package disappeared with a crinkle.
“What are those?” Nick asked, pointing toward the laundry room.
I swiveled my head and swallowed hard. Six small black and pink creatures were snuffling around the base of the washing machine.
“I think Bubba Sue is a mommy,” I said slowly, wondering how the day could possibly get worse.
“Can we keep them?” Nick asked, looking up at me with bright eyes.
Before I cou
ld answer, I glanced up to see Rufus slinking around the corner, rubbing against the side of the kitchen doorway. Bubba Sue raised her head and sniffed, and I held my breath.
“Rufus likes her!” Nick said. He hadn’t finished his sentence before Bubba Sue reared back, emitting a loud, threatening grunt.
Rufus froze, his blue eyes glued on the pig. There was a split second of silence, and then Bubba Sue launched herself across the floor, hooves clattering against the tile. Rufus let out a yowl and streaked into the living room with the pig hot on his heels.
I shifted on the island, watching as the piglets emerged from the laundry room and trying to come up with an exit strategy.
“That one just pooped,” Nick announced, pointing to a little black one.
“Lovely.” As I watched, another one followed suit. “Good thing Grandma and Elsie aren’t here,” I said.
No sooner had I spoken than the front door creaked open, and I heard my mother trill, “Let’s go say hi to your mom!”
Before I could answer, there was a scream, followed by the thundering of hooves. And then silence.
“Mom!” I called, sliding off the countertop. “Stay here,” I warned Nick. “Elsie! Are you okay?”
I raced into the living room, worried Bubba Sue had attacked my daughter. My mother and Elsie stood in the doorway, looking out the front door.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Your cat just ran out of the house, followed by a gigantic pig,” my mother said. I hurried over and peered out the front door just in time to see Bubba Sue’s curly tail disappear around the corner.
I’d just managed to herd the piglets back into the laundry room when my phone rang. I grabbed it and hit “Talk” without thinking.
“Hello?”
“Hi. This is Janette Hernandez. Bubba Sue’s mommy?”
“Oh. Hi,” I said, regretting the message I’d left about Bubba Sue.
“I got your message. Thank you so much for rescuing her from that awful man. She’s got a delicate disposition, and that . . . that boor just doesn’t know how to pamper her.” She took a breath before continuing. “Is she okay?”
“She’s, uh . . . fine,” I said. “Look, can I call you back?”
“Oh, no need,” she said. “Just give me your address and I’ll swing by and pick her up.”
“Um . . . I’ll call you back,” I said, and hung up.
The phone rang again ten seconds later, but I ignored it.
“Who was that?” my mother asked, still clutching Elsie to her.
“Bubba Sue’s owner,” I said. “She wants to come and pick her pig up.”
My mother bit her lip. “How do we get her back? What do we do about the piglets?”
The phone rang again. I set the ringer to silent.
“They’re in the laundry room, at least,” I said.
“I know that,” my mother said. “But what do we feed them?”
I groaned. “I have no idea.”
My mother sighed. “Almond milk will have to do for now, I suppose. I’ll go get another baby bottle out of the garage.”
As my mother opened the garage door, I walked out into the front yard, looking up and down the street. I wasn’t too worried about Rufus—he had gotten out before and always made it home, and I was guessing he’d climbed the first tree he came across—but Bubba Sue was a problem.
Again.
How was I going to find her? And what was I going to tell the client if her pig got hit by a car?
At least I had the piglets, I told myself. Plus, I had bigger problems to contend with. Like angry, freshly waxed henchmen and murder cases.
My mother had located another Avent bottle and was warming up almond milk on the stove when I walked back inside.
“The microwave might be quicker,” I said.
“It’s not good for the milk,” she told me. “Do you think we should drive around and look for her?”
“The problem is, I wouldn’t know what to do if I found her,” I said. “There’s no way I’d get her back in the car. Besides,” I added, looking at my phone, “I don’t have much time; there’s a parent meeting at Holy Oaks I want to go to this evening. I hate to ask, but . . .”
“I’ll keep the kids,” my mother said. “Things sure have changed since you were little,” she added. “We always had the evenings at home.”
“We didn’t have piglets in our laundry room, either,” I pointed out as she poured the almond milk into a bottle.
“Maybe Bubba Sue will come back for her babies,” my mother suggested. “The maternal instinct is a powerful thing. In the meantime, we should probably look up piglet care.” She nodded toward my computer.
I Googled piglet care. What I found was not encouraging. “We need to get them a heating pad,” I said, looking at the laundry-room door. “And they don’t do too well without their mother. I hope they had a chance to get a first meal in before she headed out of the laundry room.”
“What do they say to feed them?”
“Milk, egg yolk, citric acid, and cod-liver oil,” I said. “No almond milk.”
“Animal products,” my mother sighed.
“I’ll run to the store and pick some up,” I said. “Can you set up the heating pad? It’s in the kids’ bathroom.”
“I’ll set it up,” she said. “Think you’ll be back in time to make it to Holy Oaks?”
“I’ll be back in a flash,” I told her as I grabbed my purse and headed out to the driveway.
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 t
op 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.
Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) Page 23