Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out (18 page)

“A free pizza? I don’t eat pizza.  Too many carbs.”

“If you’d like,” I stammered, “maybe we can substitute a salad.”

“Look, Amanda. Or Amelia, I don’t remember what you said your name was, but I am a
very
busy woman, and you are contacting me on my
cell phone
.”

“Um… sorry about that.  So, do you want a salad?”

“No.  I most definitely do not want a salad.  And please remove me from your phone list, or I will be in touch with your CEO.  Good day.”  She hung up.

I hadn’t gotten the address, but it didn’t matter. 

I recognized her voice.

I put down the phone, puzzled.  Why had Blake called his boss’s wife on her cell phone?

Then I dialed the sixth number, the one Blake had called several times between January and March.  “Hi, this is Evan Maxted with International Shipping Company.  Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”  I sat motionless, listening to a long beep, before clicking Off.  His voice was so young, so vibrant.  And he wouldn’t be making it to the phone ever again.

My stomach twisted.  My husband, who had denied even knowing Evan Maxted, had called him at least a dozen times.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.  At least it was Evan’s office phone; he could have been calling him at home.  Since Evan was a client, it would be reasonable to call his office.

But then why had my husband said he didn’t know him?

As I tucked the list of phone numbers into my back pocket, an unearthly sound came from the direction of the kitchen, and Elsie screamed.

I burst through the bedroom door and pounded toward the kitchen.  Elsie and Nick stood frozen, watching a furry ball of beige and orange writhing around in front of the open laundry room door.

“Out!” I yelled.  They didn’t move.  “OUT!”  I scooped the kids up and pushed them toward the hallway.  “Go to your rooms and close the doors. NOW!”

As they stumbled down the hall, I turned to face the cats, who by now had disengaged from one another and were streaking toward the living room.  I grabbed a broom from the laundry room and raced after them.

“Snookums!” I yelled.  “Rufus! Scat! Go away!”

Yeah, right. 

I advanced slowly, holding the broom out like a sword. 

I scooted them around the room for a bit, but they didn’t loosen their death grips.  Then I tried thrusting it between them.  It worked for a moment, but then they just shifted position and re-embedded their teeth and claws.  On the third thrust, Rufus disengaged for a moment and leaped to the top of the pile of laundry.  Snookums followed, and the two started writhing through the clean laundry and yowling again.

Water
.  A good shot of water would get them apart long enough for me to separate them.

I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a pot from the drawer.  As it filled in the sink, the sound of moaning and growling from the living room intensified.

“Mommy?” It was Nick.

“Go back to your room!” I barked.  The last thing I needed was to have my son mauled by a renegade cat.  Then Attila really would call Child Protective Services.

I yanked the pot out of the sink half full and ran to the living room.  The room looked like it had been hit by a laundry bomb. Socks, towels, and underwear were strewn around the room like shrapnel. And Rufus and Snookums were locked in a death embrace on my six-month-old Broyhill couch.

I sucked in my breath and emptied the pot over the cats.

It worked.

Rufus and Snookums streaked out of the room, each in a different direction.  I chased down Rufus first, tossing him into my bedroom and locking the door.  Then I grabbed a towel from the laundry explosion and began tracking down Snookums.  I found him crouched in the corner of the kitchen, fur standing up on his back and teeth bared.  I lunged for him, towel extended.

He flashed past me—and right into the laundry room.  I slammed the door behind him and sagged against the wall.

The living room had looked better.  Soggy laundry and tufts of cat fur were everywhere, and in addition to a huge wet spot and a few artful spatters of blood on the new couch cushions, yellow foam stuffing protruded where one of the cats had slashed through the upholstery fabric.  The laundry could be rewashed, but I wasn’t sure the couch cushions could be repaired.  I released the children from their rooms, and checked on Rufus, whose ear was slightly tattered, but was otherwise okay. And I had just started loading a laundry basket with wet socks when the front door opened, and my husband walked in.

“Blake!” I dropped the socks.  All of the emotions I had pushed down bubbled right back up.  I glanced at the children and struggled to keep my voice calm.  “What are you doing home?”

He blinked.  “What happened to the couch?”

Before I could come up with a response, Nick supplied the answer.  “The cats were fighting.”

“Cats?”

“I’m watching a cat for a friend,” I said, flustered.  “I was keeping him in the laundry room, but the kids accidentally let him out.”

“You’re keeping another cat in the laundry room? For how long?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Jesus, Margie.  That’s the new couch.  We spent fifteen hundred dollars for it, and now look at it.  First the minivan, now the couch.  What are you going to do next? Burn the house down?”

I gritted my teeth, suppressing the rage that boiled up in my throat.  Since at least sixteen thousand dollars were unaccounted for, I felt that complaining about a fifteen-hundred-dollar couch was a bit unreasonable.

“I’m sure it can be fixed,” I said through clenched teeth.  “What are you doing home? It’s not even five o’clock.”

“I had a client meeting right nearby.  It ended early, so I figured I’d work from home tonight.”  He stared at the mess in the living room and shifted his briefcase to his other hand.  “I’ll be in my office.  Let me know when dinner’s ready.”  He bent down to give each of the kids a perfunctory kiss, then headed upstairs to his office.

I jammed the wet, fur-covered clothes into laundry baskets, hardly seeing what I was doing.  Every cell in my body was aware of my husband’s presence, and was yammering at me to lay it out on the table now.

But first I had to find out more.

I tossed the chicken onto a baking pan and put a pot of water on the stove to boil while I scrubbed at the stains on the couch, taking out some of my anger on the mutilated upholstery.  The couch didn’t look a whole lot better when I was done.  I didn’t feel any better, either.  A half hour later, I sent Elsie to retrieve her daddy for dinner.

Blake stalked into the kitchen, glaring at the laundry room door before taking his seat at the table.  Rufus was stationed outside, flanked by the piles of wet laundry I had rescued from the living room.  I hadn’t been brave enough to actually open the laundry room door and shove them in.  When I offered Blake the salad bowl, he tore his eyes from the laundry room door and spooned a bit of lettuce onto his plate. 

“Ick, spicy chicken,” Elsie said.  “Do I have to eat it?”

“Yes,” I said.  I deposited one on her plate.  She wrinkled her nose as if I had just served her a dead rat.  I glanced at Nick, who thankfully had not picked up his sister’s eating habits; he was already halfway through his chicken breast.   

I spooned some noodles onto my plate and addressed my husband in a tone that I hoped came off as light.  “How was work?”

“Fine.”  He popped a piece of chicken into his mouth, and his eyebrows rose.  “Not bad.” 

What I wanted to say was, “I was rifling through your desk today, and there seems to be an accounting error… to the tune of two thousand dollars a month.”  Instead, I said, “Glad you like it.  Oh, by the way, I’ve decided to volunteer at the Junior League Fashion Show.”

Blake looked up from his plate.  “Really? What made you change your mind?”

“Bitsy called me today and talked me into it.  I suppose it’s for a good cause.”

His face lightened, thoughts of minivans and couches temporarily dismissed.  “Absolutely.  And good for my career, too.” 

I glanced at Elsie’s plate.  It was empty, as was the placemat in front of it.  “Elsie!” I barked.  “Your plate needs to be on the table, not the floor.  You are a girl, not a dog.”

“But Mommy…”

“On the table.  NOW!”  Blake raised his eyebrows.  Elsie’s head jerked up from under the table.  She hastily slid her plate back onto the placemat, staring at me wide-eyed.  I ate a few bites of salad and turned back to Blake.  “Have you talked much with Bitsy McEwan?” I asked, as if I hadn’t just bitten my daughter’s head off.  “She seems like quite a woman.”

“Not much,” he said.  “Only at company events, really.”

The children ate in uncharacteristic silence, their eyes trained on my face.  A growl sounded from the laundry room.  Blake grimaced.

I swallowed a mouthful of chicken and stared at my plate.  “Anyway, she’s got the most terrific phone voice, don’t you think?”

Blake’s eyes were on the laundry room door.  “Who?”

“Bitsy McEwan.”

He poked at his salad and shrugged.  “I don’t know.”

A loud slurping sound came from Elsie’s end of the table.  “Use your fork, Elsie.”

“But Lady doesn’t.”

I spoke through clenched teeth.  “Lady is a cartoon dog.  You are a child.  And you will use your fork or you will leave the table.”  Elsie retrieved her fork and poked at her chicken.  I turned back to Blake.  “You mean you’ve never called Bitsy?”

His head jerked up.  “What? Of course not.  Why would I?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe if you had a message for her husband, and he couldn’t be reached…”  I took a sip of water. 

“Nope,” he said.  “But we really need to get my car cleaned. I’ve been driving with the windows open all week.  And I want to find out how much it’s going to cost to get the minivan fixed.  I don’t want you driving around in that thing. It looks bad.  Why don’t I take the minivan tomorrow, and you can take the Audi to the Finish Line?” 

Normally I’d be happy to, but I wasn’t feeling particularly cooperative tonight.  “I don’t know.  I kind of have a busy schedule tomorrow.”

“Busy? How so?”

“Junior League stuff.”  I wasn’t about to tell him I was headed to Miss Veronica’s Boudoir.  “Plus, Attila…” I glanced at the kids.  “I mean, Mrs. Bunn has some work she wants me to do for her.”

“Volunteering for the school? Great.  I’m glad to hear it.”  He took a last bite of chicken and pushed back from the table.  “I’m bushed.  Would you mind getting the kids down tonight? I’ve got to get up early again.”

I pulled my lips into a thin smile and grabbed his plate from in front of him.  “No problem.”

He rumpled the kids’ hair and headed upstairs.  As I washed the baking pan, it occurred to me that he hadn’t mentioned Lydia or the petition.  Maybe Attila had shut her down before she spread the word about the Pence photo too far.  On the other hand, he hadn’t said a word about his phone call to Bitsy McEwan, either.

I took my time putting the dishes up and getting the kids down, stretching it out as long as possible to avoid having to go up to the master bedroom.  I briefly considered sleeping on the couch, but decided against it.  I didn’t want Blake to know that there was a problem until I had as many facts as I could find.  

When I got to our bedroom an hour and a half later, Blake was already in bed, eyes closed, lights off.  I brushed my teeth and changed in the bathroom, then slipped into my side of the bed, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing.  Although only three feet lay between us, it felt like we were on opposite ends of the world.  I picked up a paperback thriller, but my mind kept churning up all kinds of terrible scenarios.  Drugs, mistresses, gambling… Finally, three hours later, I gave up and turned off the light.

I was about to drift off to sleep when an explosion shook the house.

FIFTEEN

The kids screamed as I hurled myself out of bed and thundered down the hall.  Elsie and Nick stood at their doorways, eyes wild.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I murmured, clutching their trembling bodies to my chest.  “Everything’s all right.”

“What the hell was that?” Blake rushed up behind me.

“I don’t know.  I think it came from outside.”

“Stay here.  I’ll go see.”

I sat and held the kids for a few minutes until their breathing slowed to normal.  “What was that noise?” Nick asked.

“I don’t know, sweetie.  Your daddy’s going to check.”

My daughter said, “Was that a gun? Because it sounded like a gun.”

“How do you know what a gun sounds like?”

“Bethany’s mommy watches a lot of shows with guns in them.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said.  Scratch Bethany off the playdate list.  “Can you two stay together while I go and find Daddy? Everything’s okay.  I just need to find out what happened.”

Elsie nodded and grabbed for Nick’s hand.  “Stay here,” I said.  “I’ll be right back.”

“I love you, Mommy.”

“I love you too, sweetie pie.”

A whiff of acrid smoke wafted toward me as I crept down the hall.  The front door was ajar.  When I stepped through to the front porch, the front yard was bathed in orange light.

Blake’s car was on fire.

As I stared at the black skeleton of his Audi, orange flames leaping from the broken windshield toward the star-flecked sky, my husband staggered up the walk.   “Someone blew up my car.”  My eyes jerked from the burning car to my husband, his pale face illuminated by the inferno in the driveway.  His normally robust, trial-attorney voice was thin and strained.  “Why would someone do that?”

I eyed him coolly.  “I don’t know,” I said.  “Do you?”

His eyes darted to mine.  Then he shook his head and turned away.

“I’ll call 9-1-1,” I said.  One of the neighbors was already approaching the house.  I glanced at Blake’s boxer shorts and t-shirts and realized I was wearing nothing but a short nightshirt decorated with lobsters.  “I’m going in to get changed.  You’d better get a bathrobe.”

He nodded dumbly and followed me into the house.

#

“It’s too early to tell, but it looks like a Molotov cocktail.”