Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) Read online

  “What do you mean? There are women everywhere,” Peaches said, pointing to the gorgeous African American woman gyrating on the stage closest to us. She wore a pointed foil hat, thigh-high silver boots, and a sultry smile. And that was it.

  I turned to Peaches. “Please tell me she’s not supposed to be a Hershey’s Kiss.”

  Peaches grinned. “You’ll never think of them the same way again, will you?”

  The waitress sashayed over before I had a chance to respond. “Can I get you ladies something?”

  “Two strip steaks, please, darlin’.” Peaches looked at me. “Medium-rare, right?”

  I nodded.

  “And those two gentlemen would like to buy you each a drink,” the waitress added, nodding toward two octogenarians in the corner. They bobbed their heads when I looked.

  “Sorry, but I’m driving,” I said.

  “I’m not,” Peaches said cheerfully. “Two Cuervo margaritas, please. And tell them thanks.”

  “Aren’t you working?” I pointed out.

  “Supervising,” she said. “Besides, it’s been a rough week.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Man troubles,” she said.

  “Tell me about it,” I replied. “But not now,” I added as Marty and his buddies stood up and headed toward the back of the club. “Where’s he going?”

  “Why don’t you go find out?” she asked. “I’ll take care of the drinks. If you need to take a picture, don’t forget to turn off the flash!”

  I hurried after Marty Krumbacher, trying to look casual and wondering if I might fit in better if I stripped down to my bra and panties. Not enough sequins, I decided. Besides, I already felt like a Budweiser Clydesdale in a roomful of My Little Ponies. Exposing a few extra acres of post-baby stomach wasn’t going to do anything to help me look like I belonged here.

  I hung back as Krumbacher and one of his friends walked down a pistachio-green hallway and into a room at the far end. I gave them a moment before trotting after them and sidling up to the door, hoping they hadn’t closed it. It was open about an inch.

  Glancing behind me to make sure no one else was in the hallway, I peeked through the crack in the door.

  I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe a hot-fudge-and-maraschino-cherry-studded orgy featuring Plum Puddin’ and Raspberry Tart—but, despite being in a strip club, Marty Krumbacher didn’t look like he was into tarts.

  He was sitting at a table with two other men, and they were deep in discussion.

  “I told you, it’s out of our hands,” one of the men said. “We’re waiting on a shipment. Without raw materials, there’s nothing we can do but wait.”

  “Find another supplier,” Krumbacher said, his voice cold and hard—and remarkably similar to his wife’s, now that I thought of it. They made a pretty good match. “I have deadlines to meet.”

  “But Mr. Krumbacher—”

  “The next shipment goes out next Wednesday. Figure it out, or I’ll have to send Thumbs to pay you a visit.”

  I had read about people blanching, but I’d never understood the term until now. The guy Krumbacher was talking to suddenly looked like a vampire had just sucked all the blood out of him.

  Whatever was going on here was weird, but not the kind of thing Mrs. Krumbacher was interested in. Would she be happy, I wondered, or sad that her husband wasn’t getting it on with one of the bonbons from an X-rated Nutcracker?

  “Better get going,” Krumbacher said, standing up and stretching. “I don’t want to miss Shortcake.”

  I turned to run back to the table. Unfortunately, I bounced off a nubile young woman wearing nothing but a cupcake wrapper as a skirt. She was accompanied by a jeans-clad man who was looking at her like he’d just spent six months on the Atkins diet and she was his first dessert.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “Is the ladies’ room back here?” I asked as Krumbacher stepped out of the room behind me. I flicked my eyes to him, and his locked on mine. I gave him a weak smile before turning back to the cupcake woman.

  “You’re in the wrong hallway,” she said. “These rooms are for . . . private dances.” As she spoke, the man behind her licked his lips.

  “Thanks,” I said, and excused myself, hurrying away from Krumbacher.

  “How’d you do?” Peaches asked when I scuttled back to the table.

  “Not so hot,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was meeting with a couple of guys, talking about shipments and someone named Thumbs. Then I turned around and bumped into a cupcake lady, and he saw me.”

  “He saw you?” Peaches groaned. “First rule of private investigation: don’t let them see you.” She took a sip of one of the fishbowl-size margaritas that had appeared in my absence and then said, “He’s looking at you.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “Hi there, ladies!” It was the octogenarians. “Don’t mind if we join you,” the taller one said, sliding into the sticky seat next to mine. His friend, who was like the little teapot—short and stout, only wearing glasses with lenses so thick I wondered if he’d borrowed them from the Hubble Telescope—pulled up a chair next to Peaches.

  “Actually—”

  “I’ve not seen you in here before, sugar,” the man next to me cooed, sliding a skeletal hand onto my thigh. “Ooh.” He gave my leg a squeeze. “Nice and plump. I like a woman with a little meat on her bones.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t. Instead, I reached down and pried his bony fingers off my leg, wondering how on earth this man had made it through eight-plus decades of life without learning not to call a woman you wanted to sleep with “plump.” On the other hand, perhaps that’s why he spent his Sunday afternoons trying to pick up women in strip clubs.

  “I like your dress,” purred the guy next to Peaches, switching to his reading glasses to get a better look at her cleavage. “I like the way it matches your hair.”

  “Thanks, hon,” Peaches said absently, taking another swig of her margarita.

  “How come you’re all covered up?” asked the man next to me, who was inching his chair closer and looking like he was considering making another try for my leg. His arm was covered in liver spots the size of Chihuahuas. It was a little alarming, really.

  “Have you had that checked?” I said, pointing to one that looked a little like Darth Vader’s helmet. “It looks like it could be melanoma. See how the borders are irregular, and it’s darker at the top?”

  “If you’d like, you can give me a full-body checkup. I’ve got another one right down here.” He reached for his belt buckle and started to undo the clasp.

  Fortunately, at that moment the announcer came on. “Gentlemen,” she purred, “are you ready to have some fun?”

  Liver Spots tucked the tongue of his belt back in, to my relief, and from the whistles and hoots that erupted around me, I was guessing the answer was yes. Even Krumbacher seemed to have forgotten about me; he was handing a wad of bills to the whipped-cream salesgirl and tucking three cans under his elbow. “Well, then, head on down to the pool, gentlemen, and help Strawberry Shortcake and Banana Twirl kick off Whipped Cream Sunday!”

  As we watched—evidently the lure of whipped-cream-covered flesh was enough to distract Liver Spots from his campaign to show me his moles—Shortcake and Banana Twirl minced down the runway, their slick lips pushed into provocative pouts. Shortcake slipped out of her heels and peeled off her striped stockings one at a time, leaving her dressed in about six inches of green dental floss.

  Banana Twirl had a bit more to take off, and after slowly removing a bright-yellow bikini top and a green scrap of fabric that I was guessing was supposed to be a banana leaf, she took a provocative twirl around the pole, which resulted in howls from the crowd.

  “Her signature move,” Peaches said knowledgeably as Liver Spots grunted in appreciation.

  The two women held hands and jumped into the pool tog
ether. “Let the creaming begin!” the announcer declared. The men who’d gathered at the end of the stage put the whipped-cream cans in front of their belt buckles and began squirting the women as they slithered around in the pool.

  “Why are they holding them like that?” I asked.

  Peaches gave me a look over the rim of her glass.

  “Oh,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “They really pay ten dollars a can so they can pretend they’re . . . you know?”

  “Looks like it,” Peaches said.

  I watched the men holding the cans at their crotches—including our friend Krumbacher, who was right at the front—and shuddered. “Gross. Should we get a photo?”

  The men beside us, thankfully, seemed to have forgotten our existence and were staring slack-jawed at the spectacle at the end of the stage. The two women were writhing around together on the bottom of the pool. It looked a little like they were playing Twister, except that they were mostly naked and covered in Reddi-wip. And Banana Twirl’s G-string had slipped twice.

  “It’s not grounds for divorce, but it’ll look good in the report,” Peaches said. “Show that we’re doing something.”

  “You should go,” I said. “He’s already seen me.”

  “First rule of private investigation,” she repeated sternly. “I’ll go,” she said grudgingly, “but wave at me when the steak gets here. I don’t want it to get cold.”

  I agreed and sat back happily, scooting my chair farther from Liver Spots as Peaches headed down toward the pool.

  She wove through the crowd of men, tugging her orange dress down over her thighs, and wedged herself into the crowd until she got a ringside seat opposite from Krumbacher; I guess she figured she’d have a better shot of him that way. She had just positioned herself between two men in cowboy hats and pulled out her smartphone when Banana Twirl’s head popped up from the tangle of Reddi-wipped limbs, a giant glob of whipped cream hanging from her chin.

  “Hey,” she said, wiping her eyes and squinting. “I know you.” She was looking right at Peaches. “You’re the bitch who followed my boyfriend around and took pictures of him at the monster-truck rally last month.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peaches said, and took a step back.

  But Banana was advancing on her.

  “You’ve got the wrong girl,” Peaches protested as Banana stepped over the rim of the pool, leaving a dollop of cream on the pink carpet.

  Banana wasn’t smiling anymore, I noticed. “He lost ten thousand dollars in workers’ comp thanks to you!”

  Peaches tried to back away, but the cowboys were blocking her escape route. Before she could find another exit, Banana Twirl had grabbed her wrist with a cream-covered hand and hauled her into the pool.

  CHAPTER THREE

  What happened to the first rule of private investigation?” I asked Peaches as I slammed the van door behind us, almost forty minutes later. It had taken me ten minutes to wrangle Peaches away from the slippery talons of Banana Twirl, and we’d spent another fifteen minutes in the ladies’ room rinsing off the Reddi-wip and tending to Peaches’s black eye. Chewy had had to hustle us out the back door, leaving our steaks untouched.

  “We all have bad days,” Peaches said.

  “How did she spot you at a monster-truck rally? Aren’t there like thousands of people at those things?”

  “It’s a long story,” she said. “I’ll tell you over a beer sometime.”

  I looked at the clock; it was 3:45. “This day is turning out to be a disaster.”

  “It was just a little whipped cream,” Peaches said.

  “I have to be at Holy Oaks in fifteen minutes,” I reminded her, throwing the van into reverse and just missing the corner of the Corolla. “It’s my first time meeting the other parents, and I look like I lost a battle with the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Plus, we didn’t get a picture, and now Krumbacher’s seen both of us.”

  “More of me than you,” Peaches pointed out. She was right; at least twice during the tussle, Peaches had inadvertently mooned the entire club, Marty Krumbacher included. Miraculously, her top had stayed in place, but it had been touch-and-go a couple of times. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a little setback, Margie,” she said, flipping down the visor and applying a coat of lipstick. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

  A little setback. Peaches was nothing if not optimistic.

  I glanced at myself in the mirror. My reddish hair was still streaked with globs of white, and there were powdery patches appearing on my cheeks where the cream had dried. Plus, I was starting to pick up a yogurty aroma from my clothes. “I need to go home and change; there’s no way I can show up at the school looking like this.”

  Peaches shook her head. “If you do that, you’ll miss the whole thing. Can your hubby fill in?”

  “Blake’s in a client meeting this afternoon,” I said.

  “On a weekend?”

  “He’s an attorney, remember?” I reminded her. “Anyway, my mother-in-law agreed to watch the kids so that I could go.” Normally I could turn to Becky Hale in a pinch, but since Holy Oaks had turned Becky’s daughter down and she had written a nasty editorial about it in the Austin Heights Picayune, things had gotten a bit chilly between us.

  Peaches turned and squinted at me. “It’s not really that bad, you know. If you sit in the back of the room, you’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, stealing another look in the mirror.

  “You’ve got baby wipes, right? Just sponge yourself down with those and you’ll be fine. If anybody asks, tell them you were doing an art project with the kids and lost track of time.”

  “Whipped-cream finger-painting?”

  “Sounds good to me,” she said.

  We pulled into the last available space of the Holy Oaks Catholic School parking lot at 4:15. There’d been no time to drop Peaches off; she was planning on waiting outside and making some phone calls while I was inside.

  I spent another five minutes frantically wiping my hair and body with Huggies Wipes, the end result being that I now smelled like yogurt and diapers.

  “How do I look?” I asked Peaches.

  “Like you just came out of a car wash,” she said, squinting at my blotchy T-shirt.

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey. At least you look clean!”

  I ran my fingers through my hair one more time and grabbed my purse. “This shouldn’t take long,” I told her.

  “I hope not,” she said. “I’ve got a hot date in two hours.”

  So did I. Unfortunately, it was with a six-year-old who only ate her food if it was white and I referred to it as “kibble,” and a four-year-old whose favorite word was “no.” I loved my kids, but there were days when I missed my single life.

  Or did I? Despite Blake’s assertion that his fascination for men in blue satin was “only a phase” and that we’d “work things out,” I was likely looking at being single again. Only this time, with two young kids in tow.

  I pushed that unpleasant thought from my head as I hustled through the manicured grounds toward the front entry. I couldn’t help noticing that there were not a lot of minivans in the parking lot. And certainly not a lot of minivans with their back bumpers held on with coat hangers. In fact, the lineup of sparkling Porsche Cayennes and Mercedes SUVs made me wonder for a moment if I’d accidentally driven to a luxury-car dealership.

  It was 4:25 by the time I reached the front door and slipped into the lobby, which was the temperature of a meat locker. A young woman in a designer dress and sky-high heels glanced down at my outfit, made a poorly concealed moue of distaste, and said, “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for the new-parent orientation,” I told her.

  “Right there in the library.” She waved a French-manicured hand at a set of double doors. I thanked her and scurried over to it, slipping in quietly and heading toward one of the few empty chairs in the back of the large, book-lined room.

  My whipped
-cream-stained shorts had barely hit the seat when the petite, perky woman at the front of the room said, “And who is this?”

  It wasn’t until the entire room turned around to look that I realized she was talking about me.

  I raised a hand and gave a little wave. “Margie Peterson,” I said, trying to sound casual. “My daughter’s name is Elsie; she’s starting first grade.”

  “Wonderful!” the perky woman exclaimed, the brittle smile never wavering. “We were just discussing the uniform policy. There’s a packet of information for you here.” She held out a folder with PETERSON emblazoned on the front.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Sorry I’m late.” I heaved myself to my feet and traipsed the length of the library, aware of every set of eyes on my whipped-cream-stained backside. It quickly became apparent that I was the only one who favored cream-covered shorts. In fact, I was the only one wearing shorts at all; the women all wore coordinated jogging ensembles or cute belted dresses, and the men had on jeans or khakis and button-down shirts.

  I grabbed the folder from the head of the elementary school, who was dressed in a red sheath dress and a scarf with the Holy Oaks logo printed on it in blue. Beside her sat the headmaster, a vague, avuncular look on his round face. He had a fringe of white hair around his bald scalp, blue slacks over which spilled a small gut, and a tie with the Holy Oaks logo emblazoned on it. Was there a whole Holy Oaks wardrobe available at the school store?

  As I turned around, ready to sprint back to my seat, my gaze fell on a familiar face.

  It was Mitzi Krumbacher, her eyes boring into me like she was trying to reduce me to cinders telekinetically.

  And next to her, with a smirk on his face, was her husband Marty.

  The next hour seemed to go on for days—and not just because I was wearing damp shorts that smelled like yogurt. The woman in charge of the elementary school—Claire Simpson, I remembered her name was—covered the uniform policy, the fundraising campaign for the new buildings, the hot lunch program, the facilities they hoped to add once they’d fundraised for the new buildings, the importance of parent council, and more details on the capital campaign for the new buildings.