Read Online Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) by Karen MacInerney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen MacInerney
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sniffing her lunch box. I prayed she wouldn’t drop to all fours and start barking.
I drifted to the back of the room, my anxiety growing as I left my dark-haired daughter among the sea of largely blond, singing children. Again the urge rose in me to snatch her up and hustle her back to the minivan, but I tried to ignore it. I couldn’t keep her home forever; she had to learn to make friends and figure things out on her own.
When the hymn ended, the woman who had run the parent orientation—the headmistress of the lower school, I remembered now—clicked across the terrazzo floor to the front of the room, beaming at us like a spotlight. A big, gold cross gleamed on her bony chest. “Usually Mr. Cavendish would be here to greet you, but he’s been, ah, detained this morning,” she began. That’s one word for it, I thought. “Refrigerated” was another. For just a moment, her smile wavered, and she looked as if she wasn’t sure how she’d found herself standing in front of a bunch of plaid-encased children singing an off-key tune about Jesus. It was enough to make me wonder if she had some idea, somehow, that the headmaster was on a slab in the morgue this morning, rather than behind the desk in his home office. At least, that’s where I was guessing he was; odds were good he was no longer “marinating” in a wading pool on the curb of Chicon Street. Had Peaches and Desiree left his wallet with him? And if they had, had someone stolen it before the police were called? If so, it might take longer to identify him.
“We’re excited about all the bright and shining faces here this morning. If this is your very first day, let me be the first to welcome you to a new year at Holy Oaks Catholic School!”
There was polite applause, after which she launched into a description of how wonderful the faculty was and how great the new facilities would be when they were built. “Just think how amazing it will be to have a university-grade science lab and four squash courts!” As I wondered what a squash court was, I glanced around the room, looking for friendly faces. I came up empty.
On the other hand, there were at least a few people I recognized from the newspaper. Leonard Graves, who had made his fortune selling expensive shampoo to women, sat in the back, sprawled over a chair as if he were a lion claiming his territory. It was ironic that he should have made his fortune in hair-care products; his head gleamed like a polished bowling ball. His wife, whom I’d seen in the paper promoting a local reality show about modeling, sat primly beside him, looking like a well-dressed stick insect. Her tan, sinewy arms reminded me of beef jerky, and all of her body fat appeared to have been surgically relocated to her lips.
My eyes moved on, landing on Deborah Golden, who Prudence had informed me was a real-estate agent with a lock on all the million-dollar-plus lake properties in Austin, and made more money in a day than I would in two years. She looked a bit older than the photos I saw plastered on “For Sale” signs in my mother-in-law’s neighborhood, but still beautiful, with chiseled cheekbones and dark-brown hair. I wondered which child was hers.
The hair prickled on the back of my neck, and I turned to see Mitzi Krumbacher staring daggers at me, her enormous green earrings swinging menacingly under her impeccably highlighted and styled hair. Peaches had told me she’d gotten an earful yesterday afternoon; apparently Mitzi had terminated our agreement and was demanding a refund. I gave our former client a weak smile and turned away, tugging at my T-shirt hem. I’d had to buy an assortment of plaid and khaki uniform clothes for Elsie, but no one had told me the adults had a dress code, too.
As I stood pretending to listen to the woman with the gold cross drone on, Mitzi edged over to me, smelling like a funeral-home floral arrangement.
“Hello,” I said with a polite smile.
“What are you doing here?” she
I drifted to the back of the room, my anxiety growing as I left my dark-haired daughter among the sea of largely blond, singing children. Again the urge rose in me to snatch her up and hustle her back to the minivan, but I tried to ignore it. I couldn’t keep her home forever; she had to learn to make friends and figure things out on her own.
When the hymn ended, the woman who had run the parent orientation—the headmistress of the lower school, I remembered now—clicked across the terrazzo floor to the front of the room, beaming at us like a spotlight. A big, gold cross gleamed on her bony chest. “Usually Mr. Cavendish would be here to greet you, but he’s been, ah, detained this morning,” she began. That’s one word for it, I thought. “Refrigerated” was another. For just a moment, her smile wavered, and she looked as if she wasn’t sure how she’d found herself standing in front of a bunch of plaid-encased children singing an off-key tune about Jesus. It was enough to make me wonder if she had some idea, somehow, that the headmaster was on a slab in the morgue this morning, rather than behind the desk in his home office. At least, that’s where I was guessing he was; odds were good he was no longer “marinating” in a wading pool on the curb of Chicon Street. Had Peaches and Desiree left his wallet with him? And if they had, had someone stolen it before the police were called? If so, it might take longer to identify him.
“We’re excited about all the bright and shining faces here this morning. If this is your very first day, let me be the first to welcome you to a new year at Holy Oaks Catholic School!”
There was polite applause, after which she launched into a description of how wonderful the faculty was and how great the new facilities would be when they were built. “Just think how amazing it will be to have a university-grade science lab and four squash courts!” As I wondered what a squash court was, I glanced around the room, looking for friendly faces. I came up empty.
On the other hand, there were at least a few people I recognized from the newspaper. Leonard Graves, who had made his fortune selling expensive shampoo to women, sat in the back, sprawled over a chair as if he were a lion claiming his territory. It was ironic that he should have made his fortune in hair-care products; his head gleamed like a polished bowling ball. His wife, whom I’d seen in the paper promoting a local reality show about modeling, sat primly beside him, looking like a well-dressed stick insect. Her tan, sinewy arms reminded me of beef jerky, and all of her body fat appeared to have been surgically relocated to her lips.
My eyes moved on, landing on Deborah Golden, who Prudence had informed me was a real-estate agent with a lock on all the million-dollar-plus lake properties in Austin, and made more money in a day than I would in two years. She looked a bit older than the photos I saw plastered on “For Sale” signs in my mother-in-law’s neighborhood, but still beautiful, with chiseled cheekbones and dark-brown hair. I wondered which child was hers.
The hair prickled on the back of my neck, and I turned to see Mitzi Krumbacher staring daggers at me, her enormous green earrings swinging menacingly under her impeccably highlighted and styled hair. Peaches had told me she’d gotten an earful yesterday afternoon; apparently Mitzi had terminated our agreement and was demanding a refund. I gave our former client a weak smile and turned away, tugging at my T-shirt hem. I’d had to buy an assortment of plaid and khaki uniform clothes for Elsie, but no one had told me the adults had a dress code, too.
As I stood pretending to listen to the woman with the gold cross drone on, Mitzi edged over to me, smelling like a funeral-home floral arrangement.
“Hello,” I said with a polite smile.
“What are you doing here?” she
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