Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out (7 page)

“It was an infidelity case,” I said.  “I was trailing a woman’s husband.”

He stared at my dress.  “Do you always dress like this when you’re on a job?”

“No.  Only when…” I trailed off.  I didn’t want to tell this man I was supposed to be a honey pot.

“Only when what?”

I sighed.  If he talked to Peaches, he’d find out anyway.  “Okay.  I was here because I was supposed to seduce someone, then call the photographer.”

He blinked at me.  “You came to a gay bar to seduce someone’s husband?”

“I didn’t know it was a gay bar.”

“The urinals in the ladies’ room didn’t tip you off?”

“The ladies’ room wasn’t my first stop.” 

“You hadn’t met the victim, but you and this Cassandra woman seemed pretty cozy.  Want to explain that?”

“It was just a fluke.  She introduced herself and invited me to join a beauty contest.  I didn’t realize the rest of them were all drag queens.”

He cleared his throat.  “So I’m guessing things didn’t work out with the guy you were tailing.”

I flushed.  “No.  Not really.”

“Well.”  His mouth twitched upward.  “On the plus side, at least you walked away with a bronze.”

Anger flared in me.  “Look,” I said.  “A woman—a man, I mean—was just murdered.  Don’t you have anything relevant to ask me?”

He flipped over a page in his notebook.  Miss Peterson, I’m going to need the number of the agency you work for.”

“I don’t remember the number offhand, but I can get it for you.”

“You don’t remember it?”

I shook my head slowly. 

He sighed.  “Okay, Miss Peterson.  Before you found the body, did you see anyone else in the corridor, or in the bathroom? Anyone entering or leaving?”

“No, there was no one.  Someone went down the hall while I was waiting for you guys to come, but that was it.”

“Did you see who it was?”

I shook my head again.

“Was the door to the stall open, or closed?”

“Closed, but not locked.  I waited for a while, but it was so quiet, and she didn’t answer when I asked if she was okay, so I pushed it open, and then….” An image of Evan Maxted’s face flashed into my brain again.  I swallowed hard.

“And you called from the victim’s phone because your phone was dead.  Where was the victim’s purse before you went through it?”

“I didn’t go through it, exactly.”  Well, not the purse, anyway.  Just the wallet.  “All I did was get the phone out.  Anyway, it was on the floor, open, next to the toilet.  That’s how I saw the phone.” 

“If you just got the phone out, then how come the victim’s wallet was open on top of the phone?”

I shrugged.  “I don’t know.  It must have happened when I put the phone back into the purse.”

He fixed me with a hard stare.  “Miss Peterson, this is important.  Was the wallet open when you first got there?”

Sweat broke out on my brow.  “I’m sorry, officer.  I was in such a panic, I don’t remember.”  I straightened my dress.  “And by the way, it’s Mrs., not Miss.”

“You’re married?”

I nodded.  “In fact, I have to get home.  My son is sick.  Do you need anything else from me?”

Bunsen shook his head slowly.  “Married.  Unbelievable.”  He flipped to a new page.  “I’ll need to know where to reach you.  I don’t suppose you have a card?”

“No, not yet.”   I reeled off my home address.  “I don’t have the number for Peachtree Investigations on me, but I can get it to you.”

He pulled a card out of the breast pocket of his uniform.  “Give me a call when you have it.  Show this to Edwards when you leave. He’ll let you go.  I’ll be in touch.”

I tucked it into my purse and turned to leave, relieved to be away from Bunsen.  As I walked down the corridor toward the dance floor, he called after me.

“Oh, and Mrs. Peterson?”

“Yes?” I turned, cringing.  What now?  

He smirked at me.  “Good luck with your career.”

I pulled my wrap tighter around me and stumbled toward the door. 

A gangly man with a large paunch stopped me.  “You Margie Peterson?”

“Yeah.”  How did he know my name?

His eyes raked over me.  “Nice outfit.  I’m the photographer.  Where’s the happy couple?”

The photographer? I’d forgotten I’d called him.  I did a quick survey of the bar.   Emerson was gone.  “You’re too late.”

He ran a hand through his thinning hair.  “Fuck.  The Cowboys were winning, too.  And now they won’t let me leave.  What are all these cops here for?”

“There was a murder.  Look, I’ve got to go.  Sorry you came out for nothing.”

“It’s still gonna cost you, you know.  And the longer they make me stay here, the higher my bill.”

I tossed the end of my wrap over my shoulder and stalked toward the front door.  “Take it up with Peaches.”

I flashed Bunsen’s card at the cop stationed next to the door and stepped out into the evening’s lingering heat.  The warm, soft air was welcome after the chilly bar, and I stopped a few yards away from the entry, closing my eyes and letting the events of the evening roll over me. 

I’d ended up in a drag queen contest, found a dead body, and been interrogated by the police.  Now I had to go home and face my husband and sick child with a crunched minivan and a dress that looked as if someone had torn it off of me. 

I fished for my car keys as I trudged past the crime scene van, my feet aching with every step.  It would be nice to get home and change into something normal.  My hand closed on my keys as I got to the parking spot where I had left the minivan.

It was empty.

I whirled around just in time to see my battered Dodge Caravan disappear around the corner, attached to the back of a tow truck. 

SIX

The house was dark by the time I climbed out of a taxi and teetered up the front walk, clutching the rear bumper of my minivan.  I dragged it up the front walk and leaned it up next to the front door, grateful to have made it home. 

When the front door closed behind me, I kicked off the slingbacks and crept up the stairs to Nick’s bedroom.  The sour smell of vomit assaulted my nostrils as I cracked open the door.  Except for pile of soiled sheets, Nick’s bed was empty.

I found him in our bedroom, curled up in the crook of Blake’s arm.  I studied the two men in my life in the half-light leaking from the hall.  Nick’s broad cheekbones and sandy hair mirrored his father’s, and behind the closed lashes I knew his eyes were the same piercing blue.

In sleep, mouth slightly ajar, the years reeled away from Blake.  His face, so tense recently, softened, looking more like the face of the man I had married eight years ago. Full of hope, quick to smile.

For a moment, the horror of the evening faded.  I reached out to touch their faces—first Nick’s downy cheek, like the skin of a peach, then the soft bristle of my husband’s.  As my fingers brushed across Blake’s jaw, his eyes jerked open.

“Sorry to wake you, “I whispered.  “I was just checking on the two of you.”

He sat up and ran a hand through his hair.  “Where have you been?” His eyes dropped to my gaping dress.  “Good God.  What happened to you? Did you change your mind and go for the exotic dancing after all?”

I pulled Carmen’s wrap tight around me.  “I was on a job.  Go back to sleep.  I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”  I touched my son’s damp forehead.  “How’s Nick?”

“I hope nobody saw you like this.”

I decided this wasn’t the moment to mention the drag queen contest.  “Is Nick okay?” I repeated.

“You mean aside from throwing up all over the place?”

“He seems to be doing better.”

“Well, he is, but my car’s not.  I hope you cleaned the van out this week, because I’ve got clients to meet tomorrow morning.  First Nick throws up everywhere, then you come home looking like something out of Moulin Rouge…”  He glanced over at the glowing digital clock.  “I don’t have time to deal with this right now.  I need to get to sleep.  The alarm’s set for five.”  He jerked the covers up and rolled away from me.

I blinked at him for a moment, startled by his curtness.  His breathing slowed as he drifted back to sleep.  I knew he was getting ready for a big case, and granted, it wasn’t every day I came home in a dress that was half torn off, but what happened to civil conversation?  As I watched his chest rise and fall, my mind turned to the cell phone in the bathroom of the Rainbow Room.  Had the dead transvestite been calling my husband? And if so, why?

My stomach fluttered slightly as I stood up and tiptoed to the bathroom. 

#

Someone was shaking me. 

I swam up through a dream involving Cassandra Starr and Esther Williams, who were performing
Swan Lake
under a disco ball. 

“Where is the minivan?” My husband hovered over me, smelling like aftershave and shampoo. 

“You smell nice,” I said groggily.  “What about the minivan?”

“Where exactly
is
it? You brought home the bumper.  What happened to the rest of it?”

The events of the previous evening came reeling back to me.  “It got towed,” I said.

“You smashed it up so much it wouldn’t run?”

“No, it got towed later.  After the accident.”

“
After
the accident?”

I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.  “Why do you need it?”

“Because I have clients to meet with, and my car smells like the inside of a dumpster.”

My eyes shot to Nick, who lay spread-eagle on the bed.  I’d forgotten about that.

I bit my lip.  “Can you drive it with the windows down?”

His blue eyes were uneasy.  “Margie, I don’t know what’s happening to you.  It’s like you’re turning into your mother or something.”

My mother? I’d taken a job as a private investigator, not a Tarot reader.  I pushed my hair behind my ears and tried to come up with a response, but the first thing that popped into my mind was the call history on the dead woman’s phone.  Now was probably not the time to bring that up.  “Look,” I said.  “Call a taxi.  I’ll take care of the car today, and I’ll get the minivan back.”

He stared at me for a long moment.  Then he stalked out of the room, leaving the smell of aftershave in his wake.  I glanced at the clock.  Five-forty-five.  As I burrowed back into the covers and tried to banish thoughts of Blake, the Rainbow Room, and the dead woman’s cell phone, it occurred to me that I had no way to get my children to school that day.  The car seats were still in the minivan. 

#

“Your home number was on a dead transvestite’s cell phone?” Becky asked as we tooled down Mo-Pac toward Green Meadows Day School.  When I’d called her at seven-thirty and told her about the minivan, she’d offered to help immediately. 

I adjusted my seatbelt and glanced over my shoulder at the kids.  I’d told Becky a few of the details, but hadn’t had a chance to tell her the whole story.  “I don’t want to talk about it in front of Elsie and Nick.”

“Fine,” she said, checking her pink lipstick in the rearview mirror.  Then she flipped it up and honked at the station wagon in front of us, which was lumbering along at ten miles an hour below the speed limit.  “But as soon as we drop them off, I want every detail.”

“What about Nick?”

“He can sit in the car for a few minutes while you fill me in outside.”

We arrived at Green Meadows Day School just after eight-thirty.  Becky stayed with Nick while I hustled the kids to their classrooms and ducked into the office to deliver the photos for the school newsletter.

“Ah, Mrs. Peterson.”  Mrs. Bunn stared at me from behind her massive desk, a look of anticipation on her bloated features.  “On time this morning, I see.  I was hoping you would stop by.  We need to chat about your daughter.”

“Can we set up a time to do that? I’d talk about it now, but somebody’s waiting for me in the parking lot.”  I flashed her a toothy smile and pulled the CD out of my bag.  “Here are the pictures for the newsletter, by the way.” 

As I slid the CD onto the desk, Mrs. Bunn sidled out from behind it like a giant crab.  I found myself mesmerized by a black hair bobbing on the end of her chin as she launched into her topic.  “I think this is something that needs to be dealt with immediately.”  She crossed her ham-like arms over her ample chest, and my hand drooped as it reached for the door.  “You may not be aware of this, Mrs. Peterson, but your daughter seems to believe that she is a dog.”

“A dog?”

“Yes.  A dog.”

I laughed with relief.  From Attila’s tone, I was expecting to hear she thought Elsie was a budding ax murderer.  “I guess it’s from watching
Lady and the Tramp
.  At least she’s not howling at the moon.”  Attila blinked, unmoved.  I tried a different tack.  “I’m sure this is fairly common.  Don’t all kids go through phases like this? Where they pretend to be something they’re not?”

“Mrs. Peterson, I don’t think you comprehend the serious nature of this problem.  Your daughter refuses to drink from a glass. Mrs. Pitken caught her pouring her milk into a bowl and lapping it up the other day. She continually moves her lunchbox to the floor, where she rips her food apart with her teeth rather than using utensils.  Furthermore, she has taken to licking—and even biting—her schoolmates on the playground.  I’m sorry to report that she’s spent a good bit of time in the office recently.”

Mrs. Bunn didn’t look sorry at all.  In fact, her brown eyes looked almost gleeful.  “Mrs. Peterson, is there a problem in the home?” she asked.

Licking? Biting?  Barking from time to time was one thing, but even I had to admit that crawling around and licking your milk from a bowl was a bit much.  I smiled my brightest smile anyway. 

“No, no,” I said.  “Everything’s fine.”  No need to tell her that I’d recently participated in a drag queen contest, my minivan was smashed, and a transvestite had called my home phone number before being murdered and discovered by me in the ladies’ room.  Mrs. Bunn’s brown eyes bored into me.  “I’m sorry about Elsie’s behavior,” I stammered.  “She’s always had an active imagination, and we watched
Lady and the Tramp
a few weeks ago… I knew she liked to pretend to be Lady, but I didn’t realize it was such an issue…”