Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out (15 page)

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 myself 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.”

“Just because nothing shows up in the background check doesn’t mean it’s a dead end.  Did you talk to the neighbors?”

My husband is lying to me!
I wanted to scream. 
My marriage is a sham!
Instead, I said, “Yeah.  A nice old lady down the hall.”  The coolness of my voice startled me.  “Apparently two people visited him,” I said, “but I have no idea who they are.”

“What you need is to get into that apartment.”

My eyes shot to the laundry room door.  Rufus still hovered outside, but the rumbling had stopped.  “I already did.”

“You got in? How?”

“I told the neighbor he was watching my cat for me.”

She snorted.  “And that worked?”

“Yeah.  The only problem is, there was a cop there.”

“I should have told you to wait a few days for them to clear out,” she said.  “What did you do when there wasn’t a cat in the apartment?”

“There was one.  It’s now in my laundry room.”

She wheezed with laughter, which turned into a hacking cough.  “You’re shitting me.  What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” I said.  The cat was the least of my problems.  First I had to figure out what to do about my husband.  “By the way,” I said, straining to keep my voice casual, “I did a little research on my friend.”

“Yeah?”

I swallowed hard. 
Steady, Margie.  Steady
.  “One number kept popping up on the cell phone records.  Any idea how to track it down?”

“Have you tried calling it?”

“Um, no.  I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Give that a try first.  Say you’re a pizza delivery service, and you’re calling to tell them they won a free pizza, so you need their address.”

“Really?  People fall for that?”

“Sometimes.  If they hang up on you, it’s no big deal.  If you call from home, make sure you block the number.  Everybody’s got Caller ID these days.”

“What if no one answers?”

 If nobody answers, I have a friend who can track it down, but that costs money.  Find anything else?

If I said it, somehow, it would make it more real.  I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the prickle of hot tears.  “Missing money,” I croaked.

“Missing money? What do you mean?”

My voice wobbled slightly.  “There should be more money in a bank account than there is.”

“How did you find that out?” There was something in Peaches’ tone that made me wonder if she’d figured out exactly how close my ‘friend’ was.

Shame burned through me as I tried to think of what to tell her.  My husband had stolen money from our family, and I’d had to go through the family files to find out.  No, no.  I couldn’t tell Peaches that.  I couldn’t even admit it to my best friend.

 “Okay, okay,” Peaches said finally.  “You don’t have to tell me.  How much is missing?”

I gripped the phone.  “About two thousand a month,” I whispered.

She let out a long, low whistle.  “You can do a lot with two thousand a month.  Drugs, a second apartment for a mistress… Can you get the credit card records?”

Nightmare scenarios reeled through my head.  “I already did,” I said.   “Everything’s in cash.”

“Well, unless you know where he stashes his receipts, you’re out of luck.  We could always put a tail on him.”

“No,” I said hurriedly.  Putting a tail on him would mean I would have to admit to Peaches that I was checking out my husband.  “Let me see what else I can find out first.”

My eyes fell on the latest newsletter from Green Meadows, and I remembered my conversation with Attila that morning.  “By the way, do you know anything about tracking down an embezzler?”

“Your friend’s embezzling, too?”

“No, this is for someone else.  Another friend.”

“Christ.  And here I thought you were a meek little housewife.  What kind of people are you hanging out with? You gonna call to ask about busting up a drug deal next?”

I blinked back tears.  “I hope not.”

TWELVE

The Rainbow Room wasn’t quite as busy at noon as it was for the Tuesday Night Showdowns, but it did a pretty brisk lunch trade.  After Bitsy had hung up, I’d called and found out it opened at eleven-thirty.  I drove downtown and arrived just after twelve.  If Cassandra were there, I’d have plenty of time to ask her a few questions about Evan Maxted before picking up my kids at two.

The cold air raised goose bumps on my arms and legs as I walked past clusters of men in business suits and a few women—or were they men?—in low-cut tops and abbreviated skirts.  Fortunately, this time I’d remembered to bring a sweatshirt with me, and I pulled it over my head as I settled myself at a barstool.  Adonis wasn’t on duty, but a short Hispanic guy named Domingo was.

“What can I get you?” he asked.  The diamond stud in his nose sparkled pink under the neon lights.

“Just a diet Coke,” I said.  “And could I have a lunch menu?”

He slid a sticky laminated menu across the bar toward me and turned to fill a glass with ice.  When he plunked my diet Coke on the counter, I asked if Cassandra was around.

“Cassandra?” He eyed my sweatshirt.  “Why do you want to talk to Cassandra?”

“We have a mutual friend,” I said.

“She’ll be here at one,” he said.  “Let me know when you’ve decided.”

I nodded, and deliberated for ten minutes between the Bunlovers’ Burger and the Fetish-ini Alfredo.  I decided on the Alfredo, and was pleasantly surprised by the plate Domingo brought out fifteen minutes later.  I was just scraping up the last bits of sauce when Cassandra swept into the bar.  She no longer looked like an orange Popsicle.  Today, she was dressed like Dale Evans in a short denim skirt, red cowboy boots, and a straw hat.  Only the heavy makeup and furry eyelashes were the same. 

“Cassandra!” Domingo called. 

She turned and fluttered those eyelashes at him, which was quite a feat, given their tonnage.  “Domingo! Did you miss me?”

“Sure, Cassandra.”

She pouted at him as he pointed at me.  “Lady here wants to talk to you.”

Cassandra’s fringed eyes sought me out, but instead of sparking with recognition, clouded with confusion.  “Do I know you?”

“We met the other night.  The night Evan—Selena—died.”

“Did we?”

“I was a little more dressed up.”  She still looked confused.  “Remember Emerald?” I said.  “Emerald Divine?”

She blinked.  “
You’re
Emerald?”

I nodded.  “Margie, actually.”

She sat back, exposing an awful lot of thigh.  “Well.  It’s amazing what a little makeup and hairspray will do.  Miracles, really.  I mean, you took third place the other night, and now, who would guess?”

“Gee, thanks.”  I resisted the urge to reach up and fluff my hair.  Did the makeup really make that much of a difference?  “I wanted to ask you a few questions about Selena, if that’s okay with you.”

“Oh, yes.  Poor dear.”  Her chandelier earrings—miniature silver horses and spurs—jingled as she shook her head.  “I can’t imagine who would do a thing like that to a beautiful girl like Selena.”

“That’s what I want to ask you.  Do you know who would have wanted to… to hurt her like that?”

“Why are you interested?”

I shrugged.  “It turns out she’s a friend of a friend of mine.  Besides, I found her…”

“So? The police will handle it.  And that gorgeous detective seems able to handle just about everything.”  She sighed.  “Too bad he’s straight.  But why should I talk to you?”

“Because I’m a private investigator,” I said.  The title sounded awkward to me.

It must have sounded awkward to Cassandra, too, because she eyed me skeptically.  “You? A private investigator?”

“Actually, I was on a job the night I came here.”

She blinked.  “No kidding.”

I forged ahead before she could ask for details.  “Do you know if Selena was seeing anyone?”

“That’s just what that handsome Detective Bunsen asked me.  I told him, a girl like Selena always has suitors.  She’s been in here with a lot of men.”

“Anyone in particular?”

Cassandra pursed her purple lips.  “Well, the last couple of months, she’s been hanging around with one guy more than the others.  Good-looking guy, wears a lot of black leather, and his
muscles
…”  She moaned.  “He must live at the gym.  I tell you, you’ve never
seen
such a tight bottom.  And in those leather pants…”

“Did he have a name?”

“I think Selena called him Marcus.  I told Detective Bunsen about him, too.”

“Any idea where he lives?”

“I don’t know, but Veronica might.”

“Veronica?”

“She runs the only tranny school in town.”  I must have had a blank look on my face.  “You know what a tranny school is, don’t you?”

“Kind of…”

Cassandra fumbled in her purse for a cigarette, which she jammed into a silver holder and perched on a purple lip.  After fluttering her eyes at Domingo for a moment, she gave up and lit it herself.  “Miss Veronica’s Boudoir,” she said finally.  “It’s a place that helps men get in touch with their feminine sides, if you know what I mean.”  She winked at me, but I still wasn’t getting it. 

Finally she rolled her eyes.  “For transvestites.  You know, to teach them girl stuff.  Picking out bras, stockings, how to apply makeup.”  She tittered.  “Of course, I never needed the help.  Fashion sense came naturally to me.  But a lot of these men, well, they couldn’t tell you the difference between a mule and a slide for a million dollars.”

I didn’t know the difference, either, but I didn’t tell Cassandra.  “Do you know where I can find her?”

“Sure.  She’s down on South Congress.  Even though I don’t need the instruction, I like to order a few things from time to time.”  She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper.  “Her thongs are to die for.  You should check them out while you’re down there.  She’s got lace, rubber… even some with plastic fruit, would you believe?”  Cassandra pulled a pen from her leather-fringed purse, jotted the address on a cocktail napkin, and pushed it toward me.  “There you go.  Can’t miss it.  It’s right behind the Hot Chicken.”

“The Hot Chicken? What’s that, a gay bar?”

She blinked her eyelashes at me.  “No, dear, it’s a takeout chicken place.”

#

It was only one-thirty when I stepped out of the Rainbow Room and slid into the oven that was the minivan.  I had a few minutes before it was time to pick up the kids, so I decided to cruise by Miss Veronica’s Boudoir.  Cassandra was right; it was tucked into the trees directly behind the Hot Chicken.  I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe a strip mall, or something concrete and grungy like Peachtree Investigations, but Miss Veronica’s was a little gingerbread Victorian, complete with lace curtains at the window and a porch swing.  It looked like a knitting store, not a training facility for wannabe transvestites.

I pulled into the driveway and peered at the hours sign posted next to the front door. 
Monday through Friday, ten to six.  Walk-ins welcome, appointments preferred
.  Appointments? What kind of appointments? As I stared at the building, a curvaceous woman in a chiffon miniskirt opened the front door, accompanied by a conservative-looking young man in slacks and a dress shirt.  Was the woman really a woman? The young man smiled at her, and I was reminded with a pang of Evan Maxted’s driver’s license picture.  I wondered if he was a transvestite-in-training.

As I peered at the couple, the woman in chiffon turned to look at me.  Even from a distance I could see that her eyes were a startling blue. She reminded me a little of Elizabeth Taylor.  I turned my head away and blushed, embarrassed to have been caught staring.  Then I threw the minivan into reverse and pulled back onto South Congress, resolving to come back tomorrow after dropping the kids off at school. Hopefully, the woman in the chiffon skirt wouldn’t remember me gawking at her.