Read Online Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) by Karen MacInerney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Karen MacInerney
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and—”
“Let’s talk about it later,” I interrupted. “I’ve got to get everybody ready for school. Blake, can you get them their vitamins?”
The next half hour was chaos, but by the end of it, both children had their hair and teeth brushed, I’d managed to surreptitiously strip the sheets from the cot in the office, and everyone was fully dressed. (Elsie had agreed to wear the school-prescribed plaid jumper only if I promised her a trip to PetSmart.) My mother had even convinced Elsie to take off her dog collar. “I’ll see if I can polish up those rhinestones while you’re at school,” she told my daughter as Elsie surrendered it reluctantly. I mouthed thanks to her as I herded the kids toward the door, Elsie clutching her fry phone and looking at me like I was Cruella de Vil. “I’ll clean up and we can have a cup of tea when you get back,” my mother said as the kids filed out the door.
“I’ve got a parent coffee and another appointment today,” I told her. “It’s kind of a busy day.”
“Why don’t we all have dinner at Casa de Luz, then?” she asked. “I’ve heard great things about it. We can invite Prudence and Phil, too; I’ll call her this morning. That way you won’t have to cook!”
“They’re not really into vegetarian food,” I said as we headed out.
“Oh, the food is so good they won’t miss the meat!” my mother said cheerily. It wasn’t until I’d gotten the kids buckled into their booster seats that I realized I’d forgotten to pack their lunches.
CHAPTER NINE
W e got to Holy Oaks only five minutes late, which wasn’t bad, considering the fact that I’d had to run back in and assemble two lunches while my mother made a pile of GMO-laden products in the middle of the kitchen table. Still, it was awkward filing past the “Sky High!” fundraising banner into the middle of the opening hymn, which sounded something like a musical limerick about Jesus and flowers and new beginnings.
“Are you sure I can’t have my fry phone?” Elsie asked.
“I would hate for you to lose it,” I told her, patting my pocket. “I’ve got it right here. I’ll keep it safe.”
She gave me a look that suggested she didn’t completely believe me. To be honest, I couldn’t blame her; my track record wasn’t exactly unblemished when it came to the fry phone.
“Promise. And sweetheart, I know you like being called Fifi, but I think that’s probably something we should save for home,” I reminded her as the door swung shut behind us.
“Don’t want to,” Elsie said, balking a few steps inside the door and clinging to my leg.
“Your teacher’s over there,” I said, pointing to a motherly looking woman whose brown bouffant hairstyle was straight out of a 1959 Redbook magazine. “See? She’s saved you a spot.” I led my daughter to the empty plastic chair at the end of the first-grade row, conscious of several pairs of eyes on me. I hoped it was only because we were late, and not because the news of Peaches’s colorful phone conversation had spread through the population like chicken pox. Still, that was nothing compared to what the headmaster had been up to last night. Had he been identified yet?
I gave Elsie’s shoulder a squeeze. She looked up at me as if we were at the owner surrender department of the Austin Animal Center. I handed her her backpack and lunchbox—which I’d filled with leftover Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, mozzarella cheese sticks, and grapes—and forced myself to step away. I knew Elsie wouldn’t touch the grapes—they weren’t white or artificially colored—but lunch-packing was always a triumph of hope over experience. My daughter whimpered as I stepped away from her, and my heart squeezed. Ms. Rumpole smiled at Elsie, directing her attention to the words of the hymn, which were displayed on a video screen at the front of the room, but while the rest of the room sang about rainbows and sunrises, my daughter bent her head and began
“Let’s talk about it later,” I interrupted. “I’ve got to get everybody ready for school. Blake, can you get them their vitamins?”
The next half hour was chaos, but by the end of it, both children had their hair and teeth brushed, I’d managed to surreptitiously strip the sheets from the cot in the office, and everyone was fully dressed. (Elsie had agreed to wear the school-prescribed plaid jumper only if I promised her a trip to PetSmart.) My mother had even convinced Elsie to take off her dog collar. “I’ll see if I can polish up those rhinestones while you’re at school,” she told my daughter as Elsie surrendered it reluctantly. I mouthed thanks to her as I herded the kids toward the door, Elsie clutching her fry phone and looking at me like I was Cruella de Vil. “I’ll clean up and we can have a cup of tea when you get back,” my mother said as the kids filed out the door.
“I’ve got a parent coffee and another appointment today,” I told her. “It’s kind of a busy day.”
“Why don’t we all have dinner at Casa de Luz, then?” she asked. “I’ve heard great things about it. We can invite Prudence and Phil, too; I’ll call her this morning. That way you won’t have to cook!”
“They’re not really into vegetarian food,” I said as we headed out.
“Oh, the food is so good they won’t miss the meat!” my mother said cheerily. It wasn’t until I’d gotten the kids buckled into their booster seats that I realized I’d forgotten to pack their lunches.
CHAPTER NINE
W e got to Holy Oaks only five minutes late, which wasn’t bad, considering the fact that I’d had to run back in and assemble two lunches while my mother made a pile of GMO-laden products in the middle of the kitchen table. Still, it was awkward filing past the “Sky High!” fundraising banner into the middle of the opening hymn, which sounded something like a musical limerick about Jesus and flowers and new beginnings.
“Are you sure I can’t have my fry phone?” Elsie asked.
“I would hate for you to lose it,” I told her, patting my pocket. “I’ve got it right here. I’ll keep it safe.”
She gave me a look that suggested she didn’t completely believe me. To be honest, I couldn’t blame her; my track record wasn’t exactly unblemished when it came to the fry phone.
“Promise. And sweetheart, I know you like being called Fifi, but I think that’s probably something we should save for home,” I reminded her as the door swung shut behind us.
“Don’t want to,” Elsie said, balking a few steps inside the door and clinging to my leg.
“Your teacher’s over there,” I said, pointing to a motherly looking woman whose brown bouffant hairstyle was straight out of a 1959 Redbook magazine. “See? She’s saved you a spot.” I led my daughter to the empty plastic chair at the end of the first-grade row, conscious of several pairs of eyes on me. I hoped it was only because we were late, and not because the news of Peaches’s colorful phone conversation had spread through the population like chicken pox. Still, that was nothing compared to what the headmaster had been up to last night. Had he been identified yet?
I gave Elsie’s shoulder a squeeze. She looked up at me as if we were at the owner surrender department of the Austin Animal Center. I handed her her backpack and lunchbox—which I’d filled with leftover Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, mozzarella cheese sticks, and grapes—and forced myself to step away. I knew Elsie wouldn’t touch the grapes—they weren’t white or artificially colored—but lunch-packing was always a triumph of hope over experience. My daughter whimpered as I stepped away from her, and my heart squeezed. Ms. Rumpole smiled at Elsie, directing her attention to the words of the hymn, which were displayed on a video screen at the front of the room, but while the rest of the room sang about rainbows and sunrises, my daughter bent her head and began
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