“Why do you need a private investigator? Wouldn’t an accountant be the right person for the job? I mean, someone to do an audit?”
Attila shook her head sharply. “This must not be made public. I want no taint of scandal associated with the school. I started this institution forty years ago, and since then we have been a paragon of virtue and honesty. I will not have the good name of Green Meadows Day School tarnished by a common thief.”
“But it’s not the school’s fault. How were you to know that someone was going to embezzle money from you? I’m sure people would understand…”
Attila drew herself up as only a three-hundred-pound woman can. “Mrs. Peterson, I do all the hiring, and the parents who entrust me with their children trust my judgment. If it came to light that a dishonest person was employed here…”
I grimaced. My experience as a private investigator was virtually nonexistent. I knew zip about embezzlement. The thought of spending hours going through the school’s books and making sure pages full of numbers added up was about as appealing as cleaning bedpans. Besides, most of my free time was dedicated to investigating my husband and avoiding Detective Bunsen. On the list of priorities, finding out who was funding his or her Starbucks habit from Green Meadows Day School’s petty cash drawer was right up there with cleaning the fan blades in the living room.
On the other hand, helping Attila the Bunn might keep Elsie from getting expelled. Heck, she might even give me a discount on tuition if I played my cards right. I gritted my teeth. “I’ll give it a shot.”
Her body relaxed, and her doughy face split into a smile of satisfaction. “Good. You can start this Saturday.”
“Saturday?”
“Why, you can’t do your work with people in the office, can you? Not if we’re going to keep things quiet.”
She wobbled toward the door. “I’ll provide you with a key to the office tomorrow.”
I followed her, wondering who was going to watch the kids while I rifled through the school’s office.
As we exited her office and walked to the front door, she said, “One more question, Mrs. Peterson.”
“What?”
“Is there any particular reason you’re not wearing shoes?”
I muttered something about dogs stealing them and padded out the door.
As I trudged back to the minivan, I thought about the case Attila had plopped into my lap. Even if it was possible for me to figure out how much was missing, and from where, I had no idea how to find out who was responsible. I thought of Peaches. Had she had experience with embezzlement? Maybe she could tell me what to look for.
As I crossed the grassy lawn to the parking lot, something squelched under my sock. As I looked down, a familiar odor wafted up from my feet.
I had just stepped in a giant pile of dog doo.
ELEVEN
I hopped into the house a half hour later, barefoot. After rinsing my foot and tossing my socks onto the growing pile of dirty clothes outside the laundry room door, I poured myself another cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table to think.
A low rumble sounded from the laundry room. Snookums was evidently up and around. In response, Rufus, who had stationed himself right outside the door, arched his back and hissed. He had already left a deposit in front of the door that morning that I’d cleaned up before my first cup of coffee. My thumb throbbed as I lifted the cup to my lips. Blake had enough trouble with Nick’s toilet training lapses: I doubted he’d be delighted by the addition of Snookums to the household menagerie. I peeked under the Band-Aid. The area around the bite was pink and puffy. I added “call the doctor” to my mental list of things to do.
I had just set down my coffee cup when the phone rang.
“Marigold!”
I suppressed a groan. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
“Did you get that tea I sent you?”
“It came yesterday.”
“I can tell you haven’t used it yet, though. There’s a lot of gray in your phone aura.”
“My phone aura?”
“Oh, yes, darling. Usually yours is more yellow.”
Who knew? “How’s Karma?” I asked, anxious to change the subject. Karma was her latest boyfriend, an herbalist from San Diego.
“Oh, he’s wonderful. We went to the most fabulous retreat last weekend at an ashram up in Massachusetts… but anyway, I didn’t call to talk about me. How are you? And how are my two darlings? When can I come to visit them?”
I stifled a sigh. “Everyone’s fine, Mom. Aren’t you coming down for Thanksgiving?”
“Oh, but that’s such a long time! And I picked up a few new crystals the other day that I want to give the kids…”
“Mom, I hate to run, but I need to call a psychologist this afternoon…”
“A psychologist?”
Damn. I hadn’t meant to let that slip. “It’s for Elsie, just a little thing with school…”
My mother tsked. “Things aren’t going well with Blake, are they? It turns up in the kids every time. I knew he was the wrong aura for you. Too clouded, too blocked…”
“Mom.” Sometimes I wondered if my mother really was psychic. “Everything’s fine with Blake and me,” I lied. “It’s just a little developmental hiccup, that’s all.”
“Do you need me to come down and help you with the kids?”
“Mom, I appreciate the offer, but things are a bit hectic right now. Can I call you back later?”
“Honey, you know you can always talk to me. In the meantime, make sure you use that tea! And I’ll ask Karma what will work for Elsie.”
“I love you, Mom. Got to go.”
“Love you too, sweetheart. Bye! And don’t forget the tea!”
I hung up the phone and took another swig of coffee. How had I let that little tidbit slip? Now I was in for daily phone calls until I managed to reassure my mom that our auras were all okay.
I forced my mind to focus on the problem at hand. If I solved my issues with Blake, maybe my phone aura would turn yellow again, and my mother would leave me alone. I wasn’t ready to confront Blake until I had some information to go on, so that meant finding out more about Evan Maxted. I’d gone to his apartment building, but what should I do next? After my experience at Maxted’s apartment, I wasn’t ready to take on a visit to International Shipping Company yet. My thoughts turned to Cassandra Starr. She had known Evan. But it was nine in the morning, and I doubted the Rainbow Room was open for breakfast.
I was about to dial Peaches when the phone rang again. I picked it up on the second ring.
“Hello, Margie? This is Bitsy McEwan.”
“Oh. Hi.” I gripped the phone. Great. My husband’s boss’s wife. Had Lydia already told her about the Pence photo?
“I was just talking to your mother-in-law this morning, and she mentioned that you were interested in volunteering for the Junior League Fashion Show.”
“She did?”
“Yes, and I’m so delighted you’ll help us? The proceeds go to the Children’s Fund, you know. Such a wonderful cause, don’t you think? Helping the little children?”
“She did say something about addressing invitations.”
“Yes, well, the invitations are already in the mail—you should be receiving yours any day now—but we do have an opportunity available to help out during the event.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. It’ll be a wonderful chance to meet some of the other ladies. Prue said you were thinking of joining the League.”
“She did?”
“Yes, and I think it’s a wonderful idea. We have so many opportunities to do good things in the community, and it’s important to take advantage of them. Anyway, I’ll just put you down then.”
I bit my lip. I had enough on my plate without volunteering to help out at the Junior League Fashion Show. But if it would help defray some of the damage Lydia’s discovery of the Pence photo was sure to do, how could I say no?
“Okay. What will I be doing?”
“I’ve got you down as a volunteer, darling. Now, will you also be attending the event?”
If I was volunteering for it, I might as well attend it. “Sure.”
“Wonderful, wonderful. I’ll just put you down next to Prue.” I stifled a groan as she continued. Attending a Junior League Fashion Show with my mother-in-law was up there with having a root canal done. “Tickets are two hundred dollars each, you know.”
I gulped. “Two hundred dollars?”
“Yes, but I assure you, it will be worth every penny. Wait till you see the new collection…”
“And what is it I’ll be doing?” I asked.
“Oh, I put you down for cleanup, dear. After the event. You know, washing dishes, sweeping up…Just girl stuff, though. We’ve got some of the men to move the tables.”
I was paying two hundred dollars to sit next to my mother-in-law and then wash dishes?
Bitsy continued undaunted. “Well, anyway, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got to run. You know how it is, busy, busy! I look forward to seeing you at the show, and if you have any questions, just call me at home. I’m sure we can figure out a way to sponsor you.”
Sponsor me? “Um…”
“We’ll talk at the show. Toodle-oo!”
The phone clicked, then went dead. Bitsy McEwan was something. I almost felt sorry for her husband.
I sighed and dialed Peachtree Investigations. Once again, the line was busy. What had happened to the answering machine?
I replaced the phone on the cradle and grabbed my coffee cup. Evan Maxted was a dead end this morning. Blake was at work, my mind whispered. His desk is right here, in the next room. I pushed the thought from my head and topped off my coffee cup.
Two cardinals flitted around the bird feeder outside the kitchen window as I considered my next step. Peaches was right about expanding my investigation. In order to figure out Blake’s connection to the dead transvestite, I needed to find out more about my husband. And as much as I hated the idea of prying into my husband’s things, it might be the only way to find out how he was connected to Maxted.
But wasn’t that dishonest? I had never held anything back from my husband. Then again, that was when I thought he never held anything back from me. Which apparently wasn’t the case.
I had asked him point-blank about Evan Maxted, and he had denied knowing him. Obviously the straightforward approach wasn’t working. Which meant if I had any hope of finding out about Blake’s connection to the dead transvestite, I had to be sneaky.
I finished my coffee and walked to our bedroom, feeling like every step was a chink in the mortar of our marriage. Here I was, preparing to go through my husband’s drawers, looking for incriminating evidence. The coffee soured in my stomach. What had our marriage come to?
I started with his dresser. I didn’t know what I expected to find. Part of me was dreading the discovery of a hidden cache of lace thongs and garters. But the drawers yielded nothing but socks, boxer shorts, and semi-folded T-shirts. Which wasn’t surprising, since I was the one who put away the laundry. His closet was equally boring—the only thing out of place was a sock that had missed the laundry hamper. I allowed myself a sigh of relief. At least Blake wasn’t a closet cross-dresser. Or if he was, he didn’t use this closet.
I headed back to the kitchen with increased optimism. Maybe Blake had denied knowing Maxted because of a confidentiality agreement. Then again, I had no idea what a confidentiality agreement covered. Did it extend to denying knowledge of your client?
I climbed the steps to the little room above the garage that Blake used as an office. The desk was a squat mahogany thing we had picked up at an antique fair and that had barely made it up the stairs. Once there, it took up at least half of the seven-by-ten room. A green banker’s lamp sat atop the scarred surface, which in contrast to the rest of the house was uncluttered by anything but two fountain pens in a wooden case.
Squeezed in next to the desk were the glass-fronted barristers’ shelves. It looked impressive, but I always had to smother a grin when I dusted it. Except for one shelf dedicated to the Law Review, the dark wood shelves were filled not with legal tomes, but with paperback thrillers.
I eased myself into his leather chair and pulled open the top drawer. Paper clips, staples, and a package of rollerball pens. The fountain pens were just for show.
The top drawer on the right was locked, but that wasn’t a big surprise. Blake had a phobia about burglars getting our credit card information. I poked around in the office, and within five minutes, had located the key. He had tucked it into the corner of one of the barristers’ cases.
The drawer was dedicated to bills, and I flipped through it quickly: electric, gas, phone, cell phone.
Cell phone.
I pulled the file out and spread it across the desk.
A quick scan of the most recent bills yielded a list of familiar numbers: Blake’s office, Becky, our home phone number. A few other numbers popped up from time to time, none of them regularly. I grabbed a rollerball and a post-it note and jotted them down anyway.
Then, in April, one number started showing up regularly. I didn’t recognize it, but Blake had called it at least three times a week; while some of the calls were only for a few minutes, one was for as long as forty. I leafed through the March and February bills. Same number, same pattern. Then, in mid-January, they stopped abruptly.
I scanned the bills again. Except for a few one-minute calls, all of the calls had occurred during business hours. Had he been calling a client?
I restacked the bills and slid them back into the folder. As I pulled out the file marked VISA, a thump sounded from somewhere in the house.
I froze. Was Blake home? I slammed the drawer shut and pocketed the key, then crept down the stairs. “Hello?” I called.
Nothing.
When I got to the kitchen, Rufus thumped the laundry room door with his tail. I sagged against the wall as Snookums growled on the other side. That was the thump I had heard. Just to be sure, I checked the driveway. Blake’s parking spot was empty.
As I hurried back upstairs, I chided myself for spooking so easily. After all, I was just going through the family files. What was wrong with that? If Blake did come home, I could tell him I was just making sure I hadn’t been overcharged on the credit card.
I opened the drawer and pulled out the VISA file again, laying it open on the desk. No unusual charges. A few local restaurants, Target, Randall’s, Macy’s. I went all the way back to January, and the only thing I discovered was that I was spending way too much money at Dr. Chocolate.
I was about to close the drawer when I spotted a slim file labeled JONES McEWAN. As I opened it, a stack of pay stubs slid out, fanning across the desk. I shoveled them back into the folder, disappointed. As I replaced the last slip of paper, my breath caught in my throat.
According to Blake, he hadn’t gotten a raise in a year and a half. But the amount recorded on the pay stubs was a thousand dollars higher than it had been last year. I flipped through the stack; the amount had shot up in January. The same time the calls started happening. But while the calls had stopped, the extra money hadn’t.
I grabbed the file marked BANK STATEMENTS, wondering if he’d just forgotten to tell me about it.
I scanned the August statement and blinked in disbelief. My husband had lied about knowing Evan Maxted, but that wasn’t the only thing he had been keeping from me.
Despite the increase on the paychecks, the deposits were exactly the same as they had been for the last eighteen months.
Where was the extra money going?
And what was my husband involved in?
My mind ricocheted through a series of terrible scenarios as I returned the file to the drawer. Drugs? A mistress? My thoughts flashed on Evan Maxted’s body, askew on the toilet. Could it be something even worse?
I closed my eyes. This can’t be happening. Not my husband.
But it was.
I pushed my
self away from the desk and stared out the window. A woman with a baby carriage strolled down the sidewalk outside, looking tired, but happy. A stab of envy shot through me. Her little world was intact: playgroups, late nights with the baby, a kiss from her husband when he got home from work. That used to be my world, too. Not anymore.
Why was Blake hiding money from me?
And what else was he hiding?
I watched until the woman disappeared around the corner. Then I returned the files to the drawer, locked it, and tore through the rest of the desk. The question burned like fire. Where was the extra money going? Finally, I sat back, drained and disappointed. The money was missing, but nothing in Blake’s desk told me where it was going. The only other surprise had been an illicit bag of Snickers bars tucked in with the reams of extra paper. I had just closed the last drawer and returned the key to its place in the barrister’s cabinet when the phone rang.
My eyes scanned the little room to make sure everything was in place. Then I scurried down the stairs and picked up the phone just before the answering machine kicked in. “Hello?”
“Margie? It’s Peaches. Did I interrupt something? You sound like you’ve been running.”
My whole body felt as if I had just spent a few hours on a rack—when in fact, my whole life was ripping apart at the seams—but I focused on making my voice sound normal. “Just doing some housework.”
“I was calling to let you know I did the background check on Maxted.”
I swallowed hard. “And?”
“He’s pretty clean. Graduated with honors from UCLA, got an MBA from Texas. Worked for a couple of Internet companies, then started at International Shipping two years ago. Never married, no kids.”
“That’s not surprising. Anything else?
“His dad’s a big preacher type out in California. Plus he’s got a sister out in San Diego. His folks live in L.A. No police record.”
I slumped into a kitchen chair. “Another dead end.”
Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out Page 11