Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out

by Karen MacInerney

  “Here for the Tuesday night showdown?”

  I jerked my eyes back up to her face. Her skin was spackled with foundation the same shade as her dress, accented with two vivid spots of red rouge. “What showdown?” I asked.

  She fluttered her furry eyelashes again. “It’s a kind of beauty contest, darling.”

  I waved her away. “Oh, no. I’m just here for a drink.”

  “But you look so gorgeous!” She tugged at my arm. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  Maybe it was the gin and tonic. Maybe it was the prospect of getting Jack Emerson to notice me. Maybe it was just someone, even a woman with caterpillars for eyelashes, telling me I was gorgeous when I felt like a water buffalo in Italian shoes. Whatever it was, I soon found myself trailing the woman in the orange dress through the smoky room. She stopped at a clutch of tall, heavily made-up women in dresses that looked more like confections than clothing.

  “By the way,” she said, “I’m Cassandra Starr. The Mistress of Ceremonies.” She herded me in with the other women, most of who looked like they were on their way to the prom, and the onslaught of mixed perfumes made my nose itch. “What’s your name?”

  “Margie.”

  “Margie?” She squinted at me. “That’s a lovely name, dear, but I think for tonight you should be Emerald. Emerald Divine. And I’d recommend another pass with the lipstick, darling. Don’t be afraid of color.” I blinked as she pulled out a tube of iridescent purple and ran it over her lips.

  A moment later she whisked off, leaving me to study the dresses of the women towering over me. The outfits looked like escapees from Elsie’s dress-up box: ruffles, silks, satins, sequins. Even fur. Despite the three-inch heels, I felt like an underdressed dwarf.

  “First time?” A smoky-voiced woman in a long fuchsia gown bent down, peering at me from above a wrap festooned with bright pink feathers.

  “For a beauty contest? Definitely.”

  “Beauty contest?” She snorted, then focused on the low cut of my dress. “I love your cleavage, though. So natural. I was filling mine out with birdseed in pantyhose for a while, but then Samantha turned me on to mastectomy products. What is that, a Wonderbra?”

  Before I had a chance to answer, the low lights dimmed further. Cassandra stepped up to the runway, her orange dress glowing in the spotlight. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Rainbow Room. I think you’re going to love the lineup of ladies we have for you tonight. So sit back, order another drink, and enjoy.”

  My stomach did a little flip-flop as I stole a glance at Emerson. He had stopped chatting with the brunette and turned toward the runway. Good. At least I’d have his attention for a moment.

  Cassandra smiled at the crowd. “Our first contestant is a new girl on the block, but I’m sure you’ll agree she’s a class act.” She turned and winked a caterpillar at me. I swallowed hard. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the first contestant in the Rainbow Room’s Tuesday Night Drag Queen Showdown…. Miss Emerald Divine!”

  FOUR

  Drag Queen Showdown?

  The blazing light swung over to where I stood, blinking like the subject of an alien abduction. Cassandra swept down the runway and shoved me toward the stairway. I clawed at her satin-clad arm. “No, no. You don’t understand. I’m a real woman.”

  “So are we all, sweetheart,” she muttered into my ear. Her eyelashes brushed my cheek. “Now get up there and strut your stuff.” She gave me a sharp push. I stumbled onto the runway and stood there with my mouth hanging open.

  “Go!” Cassandra stage-whispered at me.

  At least a hundred pairs of gleaming, expectant eyes were fixed on me, waiting. Every nerve in my body was telling me to turn and run. Instead, my feet moved in wooden steps down the glossy runway, which looked to be about two miles long, as the room vibrated to the tune of “I’m Too Sexy”.

  Time slowed to a crawl as I teetered toward the crowd, feeling like one of the dancing hippos in Fantasia, my lips pulled back into a rictus of a smile. Dear Lord, I thought, please let nobody recognize me. I could explain many things to my husband and in-laws. This wasn’t one of them.

  A few weak whistles trickled from the crowd as I wobbled to the end of the runway. I risked dropping my eyes to the people below for a moment, shuffling backwards when I realized an octogenarian in leather pants was peering up my skirt. I glanced toward the bar. Emerson had turned back to the brunette, who looked like she shared a trainer with Jennifer Lopez. Was she a man, too?

  Finally, I swung around to face the gaggle of women awaiting their turn in the spotlight. Tall, heavy makeup, fancy dresses, husky voices… how had I missed it?

  Despite the too-big slingbacks, I jogged to the end of the runway, flailing as my right shoe tried to slide off the floor into somebody’s drink. Three or four steps from the end, the spotlight still hot on my back, I took a deep breath. As the air whooshed out of my lungs, something slithered down my spine.

  The zipper of my dress had given out.

  Wolf whistles erupted behind me as I dove into the sea of ruffles and sequins. I clutched at the back of my dress and stumbled toward the safety of a dark corner.

  As I leaned against the wall, panting and trying to keep my dress from puddling on the floor at my feet, the woman in fuchsia glided over in a cloud of Obsession. “Not bad for your first time out. Shame about the dress, though.” She unwound the pink-feathered wrap from her beefy shoulders and dangled it like a dead tropical bird. “I don’t have a safety pin, but this will keep you covered for now.”

  “Thanks,” I said, pulling the prickly wrap tight around my shoulders. It wasn’t exactly opaque, but it was a lot better than walking around with my dress gaping open.

  “I’m Carmen. What’s your name, sugar?”

  “Margie.”

  “Margie? Good name. Much better than Emerald.” Carmen rolled her heavily lined eyes. “Cassandra’s always coming up with stage names that sound like gay bars.”

  A smattering of applause came as the second contestant, a tall blonde in a midnight-blue satin dress, sashayed down the runway. Then Cassandra took the stage again, wiggling her orange-clad hips and beaming into the microphone. “Let’s have a hand for Selena Sass. And now let’s hear it for our next contestant… Carmen Bianca!”

  My companion’s extravagantly styled head shot up. “That’s me,” she said. “Gotta go. You can hang onto the wrap for now… hope to see you around.”

  “Sure. Thanks again.”

  She winked at me and undulated toward the runway. As the spotlight lit her in a blaze of fuchsia, the crowd let out a chorus of enthusiastic whistles. Carmen was obviously a favorite, and after a moment of watching her slinky walk I could see why. I peered past her swinging hips to Emerson, whose arm had snaked around the brunette’s naked shoulders. By the time Carmen blew a last kiss to the crowd and swayed off the runway, they had locked lips. George Clooney and Jennifer Lopez. Us! Magazine would have loved it.

  I watched them grope each other for a few minutes. Then I tugged up my dress and dug in my purse for the scrap of the paper with the photographer’s number on it. Emerson might not end up in a compromising position with me, but it looked like things with Jennifer were getting hot enough for a Kodak moment. I was about to dial when my phone lit up with an incoming call.

  I glanced around, looking for a quiet place to talk, and scurried down the corridor leading to the restrooms. I ran into a dark-haired woman—or man, it was hard to tell—in a long, silvery dress. “Sorry,” I said. The woman—or man—looked at me, startled, and for a moment, she looked familiar. Probably because her eyes were ringed with the same amount of eyeliner as the rest of the ‘women’ here, I decided. She drifted past me in a cloud of Anais Anais, and I plunged toward the bathrooms, where the throbbing music was slightly less bone-shaking.

  “Hello?”

  “Margie?”

  “Blake. What are you doing home?”

  “Nick’s throwing up a
ll over the place. Becky couldn’t reach you, so she called me. I had to cancel the client meeting to get the kids.”

  “Sorry about that. Is he okay?”

  “He threw up all over the back seat of the Audi. What is going on with you? Where have you been? Becky’s been calling you all night. ”

  “I must not have heard the phone. Is Nick okay?”

  “Yeah, but the car’s in bad shape. It reeks. I’ll need to take the minivan tomorrow.” I sucked in my breath. The minivan wasn’t in great shape, either. “And that stupid cat crapped on my pillow again.”

  “Just throw the pillow in the laundry room, and I’ll see if I can clean up the car when I get home.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll take the van. You had it cleaned this week, didn’t you?”

  I cleared my throat. “I, uh, had a little fender bender with the minivan.”

  “A fender bender?”

  I swallowed. Blake considered a door ding a felony offense. “Nothing major,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “How bad? Did you get the guy’s insurance?”

  “I’ll take care of it, sweetheart. Just relax.” The phone beeped. I pulled it from my ear; the battery icon was flashing. “Honey, my battery’s dying. I’ve got to go. There are hot dogs in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

  “Hungry? I’m covered in vomit. What’s that music?”

  “I’m on a job. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  “Are you in a bar?” The phone beeped again.

  “Yes. Look, I have to make another call.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “Gotta go. Be home soon. Talk later.” I hit End and closed my eyes for a moment, trying not to picture my husband’s face when I returned home from a bar with a smashed minivan, a zipperless dress and a hot-pink feathered wrap. I sighed and dialed the photographer’s number.

  He answered on the fourth ring.

  “Is this Gary Mathers?”

  “Yeah. What do you want?”

  “I’m Margie Peterson. Peaches Barlowe gave me your number. I’ve got a job for you. Can you meet me at the Rainbow Room on Fourth Street?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  “Can it wait a couple hours? I’m in the middle of a football game here.”

  I glanced toward the bar. Emerson and his friend were still there, but I didn’t know for how long. “No, it can’t.” The phone beeped frantically. “Look, my phone’s dying. Will you be here, or not?”

  He swore under his breath. “How will I know you?”

  “Green dress, pink wrap.” Silence. “Hello? Hello?”

  Nothing. I jammed the dead phone into my purse, hoping he had at least gotten my description, and slipped into the restroom marked “Princesses.”

  It was lined with urinals.

  I wrinkled my nose at line of pink pee cakes and edged toward the mirror. The shimmery eyeshadow had started to ooze down my cheeks, giving me a kind of glow-in-the-dark raccoon look, and the red lipstick was reduced to a crimson line on the outskirts of my lips. When I pulled off the feathered wrap, the green dress sagged from my shoulders and flapped open in the back, exposing rippled flesh and my bra clasp. Great. Now I looked like the Happy Hooker after a rough night. I spent a few futile minutes trying to fix the zipper, and then gave up.

  After swiping at the green streaks beneath my eyes, I wobbled over to the bathroom’s single stall and peered under the door. The stall was occupied by a pair of stocking-clad ankles and sequined pumps. The pressure in my bladder increased as I walked back to the mirror to wait, fluffing my stiff hair with inexpert fingers and rubbing my lips together in a vain attempt to redistribute what was left of the lipstick. I hoped whoever was in there would hurry up. I wasn’t desperate enough to try the urinals yet, but that could change soon.

  After a few minutes, when no sound came from the stall, I walked back over. “Hello? Are you okay?”

  Silence.

  I pushed the door, and it swung open.

  Positioned on the toilet like a department store mannequin was the contestant in the long blue dress. My stomach heaved. When she had sailed down the runway, her face had been as white as porcelain.

  Now it was covered in blood.

  I staggered backwards, almost tumbling into the line of urinals.

  Was the shooter still here? Was I next?

  No, I realized. I was alone; there was only one stall here, and nowhere else to hide. Whoever had done this was gone.

  Police.

  Call the police.

  I ripped my cell phone out, stabbing at the display with shaking fingers. Nothing. Dead battery.

  My eyes slid back to the woman—man, I corrected myself—on the toilet. His head lolled sideways, the blonde hair dangling as if ripped from his scalp. Beside him on the floor a blue sequined purse gaped open. An iPhone poked out of the top. I crept into the stall and hooked the strap with my finger, pulling the purse across the tiles.

  I yanked the phone out of the purse, sending a tube of lipstick skittering across the floor. My fingers fumbled with the touch screen as I attempted to dial 911. Finally, the display said Connecting, and I jammed the phone against my ear.

  After two rings somebody picked up.

  “Hello?”

  I froze.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  I lowered the phone and stared at the number on the display.

  The phone hadn’t connected me to 911.

  It had speed-dialed my home phone number.

  FIVE

  I stared at the phone in my hand. Why had the phone of a dead transvestite called my house?

  My eyes jerked to the man in the dark blue dress again, and a shudder ran through me. To date, my face-to-face experience with death had been limited to plucking limp tropical fish out of the tank in the living room. The most violence we saw in Austin Heights was during homeowners’ association meetings to determine whether spruce green or sage green paint should make the list of acceptable paint colors. And even that was usually limited to refusing to invite your neighbor to the Christmas Open House.

  I dialed 911 again with shaking fingers. I didn’t think there was much the paramedics could do for her, or him. But I still had to try.

  This time a dispatcher answered. My body felt numb as I reeled out the details.

  “Just stay there, and don’t let anyone in,” the dispatcher said in a warm cocoa voice that chased away some of the chill that had seeped into me. “Do you need me to stay on the line?”

  “No, no,” I said, turning my eyes from the woman in the stall. The air conditioner clicked on, creating a breeze that smelled of stale urine. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Hang in there. They’ll be there as fast as they can.”

  “Thanks.”

  She hung up.

  Except for the low thump of music from the bar and the steady drip-drip of a water faucet, the room was eerily still. The man on the toilet was dead, but his presence filled the small room in a most unpleasant way. A single earring twinkled on the floor a few feet from the body—an unusual chandelier, with blue and green crystals that sparkled under the fluorescent lights. It seemed utterly out of place.

  I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered, wishing I’d listened to Becky and gone into Tupperware sales. If I’d just turned around and walked back to the minivan instead of going into Peachtree Investigations, I could be home eating Kit Kats right now, instead of sharing a bathroom with the remains of a mutilated drag queen. I moved away from the stall and positioned myself by the door to the corridor, turning to face the urinals.

  As I shifted from foot to foot, the patter of dripping water was like a Morse code message to my overfilled bladder. Emergency! it tapped out. Evacuate now!

  I squeezed my knees together, wishing the dead man had ended up anywhere other than straddling the only available toilet. My eyes roved over the row of yellowed porcelain receptacles. If I got desperate enough, I could alwa
ys try squatting. With my luck, though, Austin’s finest would burst through the door the moment the control-top hose dropped to my ankles.

  I ignored my bladder and shifted my eyes the phone in my hand. The phone that had dialed my home number. If I’d been at home when he called, could I have saved his life somehow?

  And why had he called my home?

  I glanced at the man on the toilet again. Could he be one of Blake’s clients? It didn’t seem likely. Blake dealt mainly with corporations, and the attire tended more toward pinstripes than pinafores.

  Everything I’d ever seen on CSI told me that I should keep my fingers to myself and wait for the police to investigate. But I’d already touched the phone. Would it hurt to look through the call history? After all, I was supposed to be a private investigator now.

  I squeezed my thighs together and pulled up the call history. My phone number popped up on the screen twice. One was the phone call I’d made, at seven-fifteen. The other call had been made at six that evening, while I was waiting for Jack Emerson outside the Bank One building.

  Next I checked the speed dial list. Four numbers were listed. None of them were mine.

  I was about to scroll through call history again when footsteps approached down the hall. I tossed the phone into the purse and adjusted the neckline of my dress, preparing to greet the police or turn away a person in need (chances were they’d be just as comfortable in the Princes’ room anyway). But whoever it was kept going, and the door to the Princesses’ room stayed closed.

  I looked at the phone again. I must have accidentally hit redial while I was fumbling to dial 911. But why had the woman/man in the stall called my house?

  Next to the phone, a brown wallet peeked out from under a tube of lipstick and a Gillette razor. It would be easy to find out the dead man’s identity. The answer was right in front of me.

  I stooped down, then hesitated. Picking up a phone to call the police was one thing, but my limited knowledge of crime scenes told me that the police wouldn’t look too kindly on my rifling through a murder victim’s wallet. I listened for footsteps.