Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out (26 page)

I padded down the hallway and put my ear to the door, but I couldn’t hear anything.  Damn.  I stared at the plate over the door. 
Magnolia Ballroom: Room E
. I took a few steps down the hall; the next door down was labeled
D
.  It was one of those big ballrooms hotels partition off to make smaller spaces. 

I crossed my fingers and slipped through the doorway to Room D.  I was in luck.  One one side of the room was stacked a huge pile of metal chairs.  On the other was a sliding room divider with a two-foot gap. 

I hurried across the room to the gap. 

“Why has production been off?” It was Bitsy McEwan.  Her normally chipper voice was low and urgent.

“Morale’s been down,” Maria answered.  “Also, the demand is increasing. We’ve got twice as many orders as we did last year. 

“Well, start turning it around.”

“I’ll talk with them tonight.  There are two deliveries scheduled for tomorrow. One’s a brand new batch.  Hopefully that will help.”

“Maybe we need to expand operations.”

“I’ve thought about that.  I’ll get in touch with Xenia, see what she can find.  We’ve got the capital now.  Maybe it
is
time to expand.”

“We need to be careful, though.  Remember what happened with Ernesto…”

“I know, I know.  But that’s taken care of now, and I think the new procedures will ensure that won’t happen again.”

Maria’s voice sounded closer.  I took a step back and banged into a table.

“What was that?”

“Is someone in here?” Bitsy asked.  I scrambled across the room and dived behind a stack of chairs.  “Is anyone in there?” I held my breath and peered through the metal chair legs, thankful I was wearing carpet-matching beige instead of something sparkly and bright pink.  I ducked my head and shrank as low as I could as Bitsy approached my hiding spot.  Just when I was sure she would see me, she said, “I think we’re okay.”  My body went limp as they retreated into the next room.  “Anyway, Maria, see what you can do.  I want a better report by the end of next week.”

A moment later, a door clicked.  I waited a few minutes and crept to the door, peering out carefully.  The hallway was empty.  I smoothed a few dust bunnies from my jacket and closed the door to Room D behind me. 

Bitsy and Maria were nowhere to be seen when I reentered the main ballroom. Before returning to the kitchen, I slipped into the bathroom and made a quick examination of my fading makeup.  Becky knew what she was doing; although the lipstick had worn off, everything else was pretty much intact.  I refreshed the lipstick, took advantage of the facilities, and headed back to plate-stacking. 

“What took you so long?” asked Doris when I returned to my station in the kitchen.

“Oh, I ran into an old friend.”  Forty-five minutes later, we loaded the last box, and I went up to the bar in search of Becky.

She had tucked herself into a big leather chair, and sucked down the rest of a gin and tonic when I approached.  “Finally done?”

I sank into the chair opposite her.  “No thanks to you.”

“Hey.  Who got you into International Shipping? And who gave you this glamorous makeover?”

“I know, I know,” I said, waving away the waitress.  I leaned forward.  “Guess what I overheard?”

Becky’s eyes widened as I related the conversation between Bitsy McEwan and her assistant.  “Have you ever heard of someone named Xenia?” I asked.

“I think she’s one of Bitsy’s cronies,” Becky said.  “A real-estate agent.  Works for Callum and Higgins.”

“They said something about expanding operations.  Do you think maybe they’re looking to open a new store?”

Becky wrinkled her nose.  “Maybe,” she mused, “but I don’t see how that’s going to help with their production problems.”

I sighed and closed my eyes.  “It doesn’t make sense, but I’m too tired to think.”

“Then let’s get you home.  You’ve got another big day tomorrow.”  She paid her tab, and I followed her down to her Suburban.

As I fumbled in my purse to pay the parking attendant, Evan Maxted’s appointment book caught my eye.  I pulled it out flipped to the page with the scrawled address.  “Do you have a few minutes?”

“Sure,” Becky said as we pulled out of the garage.  “Why?”

“I want to swing by this place on East Seventh Street.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re kid-free and we’re only a few blocks away.”

“Okay.  That still doesn’t tell me what’s so interesting about East Seventh.”

“Because this address showed up in Maxted’s appointment book a few days before he died, and it was also in those ISC files that McEwan took.”

“Don’t you think the police are going to check it out?”

“They don’t have his address book.  And McEwan has the ISC files.”

She sighed.  “It’s worth a shot.  Now, where am I going again?”

Ten minutes later we were coasting down East Seventh Street.  The skyscrapers and fancy restaurants of downtown had given way to
taquerias
whose bright pink paint glowed in the streetlamps, and billboards blaring
Envios dinero a Mexico
!  The Suburban passed a brightly lit bakery named La Victoriana.  “I wonder if they have good
churros
?” Becky murmured.  She had an avowed weakness for the doughy, cinnamon-sugar dusted pastries. 

“Turn here!” I barked.

She wheeled the car around.  “They’re open twenty-four hours,” she said.

“We can get it on the way back.  Didn’t you get enough Italian Cream Cake?”

“That was two hours ago.”  She peered through the windshield at the dimly lit street.  “What are we looking for?”

“Number 725.”  I pointed to a dilapidated warehouse hunkering next to the railroad tracks.  Ancient washers and refrigerators dotted the weedy strip of ground between the building and the street, like debris washed up on a beach.  The windows were covered with sheets of plywood, and even by the dim light of the streetlamp it was obvious that the building suffered from years of neglect.  “That’s it.”

Becky looked at me.  “Great.  An old warehouse.  Now let’s get
churros
.”

“Not yet.  It hasn’t been boarded up that long. Look, the plywood is new.”

“So?”

“There’s a light on inside.”

She squinted.  “How can you tell?”

“That door.”  I pointed to a metal door in the corner.  “There’s a slit of light at the bottom.  See?”

“So it’s not abandoned.  Great.  Now can we go to the bakery? Do you think they have those little chicken things Josh likes?”

“I’m going to get a closer look.”

She sighed.  “Whatever.  I’ll park over there.”

My feet complained as I crossed the street and navigated through the appliance graveyard to the rusted door.  Although the door itself looked as old as the concrete surrounding it, both the knob and the deadbolt lock gleamed like new.  As I reached out to try the knob, headlights came around the corner.  On instinct, I sprinted toward the nearest dead washing machine and squatted down behind it.

The car crunched to a stop in front of the building, and a moment later I heard the clip-clop of high heels on pavement.  Then the jangle of keys.  I peeked around the washer just in time to see a flash of red satin disappear into the building.

It was Maria Espinosa.

A moment later I scurried back to Becky’s Suburban.  “Did you see that?”

Becky nodded.  “What is Bitsy’s assistant doing here?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I intend to find out.  Let’s see how long she’s in there.”

We didn’t have to wait long.  Ten minutes later she slid out the door and hurried back to her car.  We huddled in our seats as her car, a silver Mercedes, zipped by us and turned onto Chicon Street.

“Nice car for an assistant,” Becky said.  “How did you find out about this building again?”

“The address was in Maxted’s appointment book.  And the ISC files in Blake’s office.”

“What does Maria Espinosa have to do with ISC?”

“I don’t know,” I said.  “But the address shows up in Maxted’s book on September 15.  Five days later, he was dead.”

Becky’s mouth was a thin line.  “You don’t think the McEwans had something to do with it, do you?” She was quiet for a moment.  “Or Blake?”

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself.  The only thing is, if Blake is involved, then why did McEwan sneak into his office to take the ISC files? Why not just ask him for them?”

“Good point.  But he signed in downstairs, didn’t he? So Blake could figure out who was in the office.”

“Yeah, but lots of people come in on weekends.  They’re attorneys, remember? Besides, who would suspect the principal partner of stealing?”

“I see what you mean.  What do you think is going on?”

I gazed at the dark building.  “Something tells me the answer is in there.  The problem is, I don’t know how to get in.”

TWENTY-ONE

Blake hadn’t woken up yet when Prue stopped by to pick up the kids the next morning.  She waltzed through the door, resplendent in a peach twin set that I was betting would be covered in peanut butter before noon.

“What happened to Blake’s car?” she asked.

“It blew up,” Elsie answered helpfully.

“Blew up?”

“Oh, a short in the wiring.”  I reminded myself to ask Blake later if the fire marshal had come up with any more information on the pipe bomb.  “The insurance will take care of it. Blake is renting a car in the meantime.”

She glanced out the window at the blackened metal, which sat next to my still-crunched minivan.  “Not having much luck with cars lately, are you?”

“My mommy is a vestigator now,” Elsie said proudly.

Prue’s tweezed eyebrows shot up.  “A what?”

“A vestigator.  She follows people around.”

“Follows people… Margie, what on earth is she talking about?”

My face turned scarlet.  “It’s a little part-time thing,” I mumbled.

Comprehension dawned on my mother-in-law’s powdered face.  “You’re a private investigator?”

I nodded. 

She raised a manicured hand to her forehead.  “Dear God.”  For a moment, I thought she was going to pass out in my front hall.  You’d think I’d admitted to selling children on the black market, or performing human sacrifices and baying at the full moon.  Then she opened her eyes.  “What does Blake think?”

“Well, I don’t think he’s crazy about it…”

“I can see why.”  Her voice was waspish.  “No wonder you’re having problems.”

I blinked at her.  “Problems?”

“Margie, I know that staying home can be… challenging sometimes.  But a private investigating job… well, it’s dangerous, and just… just
inappropriate
.”  She sighed and put a hand on my arm.  “I’ll tell you what.  Why don’t I call Bitsy.  I’ll sponsor you, she’ll sponsor you, and we’ll get you involved in the League.  It’ll keep you busy, although lord knows there’s enough that needs doing here…” She eyed the messy living room meaningfully. 

“I’ll think about it.”

“A private investigator,” she murmured, shaking her coiffed head.

“Thanks so much for taking the kids.”  I said, trying to change the subject.  “What do you have planned for the day?”

“We’re going to go shopping,” she said, still looking pale.  She leaned down to smooth Elsie’s wayward hair.  “Won’t that be fun, sweetie?”

“Can I get a new dress?” Elsie asked eagerly.

“We’ll get a couple of new dresses.  And maybe some new shoes.”

“Oh, Prue, you don’t have to do that…”

“I’ll have them back by five,” she said briskly.  “We’ll talk more about this then.”

I kissed the kids and watched them trail their grandma to her shiny new Camry, sure that Prudence would spend the rest of the day quizzing my children, looking for evidence of maternal neglect.  When the Camry disappeared around the corner, I jotted a quick note to my husband, grabbed the Nordstrom bag, and headed to Becky’s.

#

“I thought this was supposed to come out black.”  Becky and I stood at her mirror, staring at my formerly reddish-brown hair.

“Well, it said Darkest Ebony on the label.”  Becky picked up a lock of my wet hair and squinted at it.  The she picked up a hairdryer and a brush.  “Maybe it’ll look different when it dries.” 

Twenty minutes later, we stared into the mirror again.

“The hairdryer just made it brighter.”

“Hmmm.  Well, I think it looks kind of stylish.  I was reading the other day that Aubergine is all the rage in Paris.”

“Aubergine?”

“It’s French for eggplant.”

“Eggplant! Becky,” I said, turning to face her.  “My hair is purple.  Purple! I have a funeral to attend in—” I glanced at my watch “—forty minutes, and my head looks like it just came back from a bad acid trip.  I was going for incognito, remember? This is
not
going to help!”

“Let me try one more rinse of color.”

“There’s no time!”

“I could always try shoe polish.”

“No!” I stared at my bright purple hair. 

She pursed her lips.  “I might have a hat you could borrow.  Big, black, floppy—if we put it up in a bun and stick the hat on, it’ll cover it.”

We gazed at my hair in the mirror, fascinated by its brilliance.  “How long does it take this to wash out?”

Becky squinted at the bottle.  “About ten shampoos, it says.”

I sighed.  “Damn.  I hope there’s enough time to get it out before Prue comes back with the kids.”

“Oh, that’s right.  How did it go this morning?”

“Elsie spilled the beans about my new job.”

Becky winced.  “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.  I thought Prue was going to have a stroke in my living room.”

“Your life just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?”

I sighed.  “Honestly? I don’t see how it could get any worse.”

#

I walked into Lakeside Baptist Church two minutes before the service was scheduled to start, clutching my floppy hat and ducking my head.  The orange and green stained glass obviously dated from the seventies, and thirty years’ accumulation of must and lilies assaulted my nostrils as I snatched a program and hurried to one of the dark wooden pews.

I scanned the backs of the heads in front of me.  A woman in a black turban was three rows from the front, accompanied by a stooped, bald man.  Willie and her husband.  I stared hard at the backs of the rest of the heads, hoping I wouldn’t see Bunsen, but men are hard to recognize by the backs of their heads.  A few women were smattered among the crowd, including a blonde in the front row. I found myself wondering if she or the other handful of other women were transvestites.  Then again, this was a Baptist church, so maybe not.