Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (27 page)

Elsie refused to get out of bed the next morning. I understood completely; I’d barely slept, and felt as if my brain had been replaced with pudding. The fact that Rufus had decided to sleep at my feet and attack my toes every time I rolled over hadn’t helped. Not for the first time, I wondered why we’d picked a cat instead of a dog.

At least no one has shot up the house,
I thought as I bundled myself into my bathrobe and faced my daughter’s fry-phone interrogation. “I’m sorry I don’t have it,” I told her. “I’m working on it.”

“You promised,” she said.

“I know,” I told her. “And I’m so sorry.” Guilt stabbed me.

“No school,” she said. “I hate it there.”

“It’ll get better, honey,” I said, stroking her dark hair. “It’s a tough transition, I know.”

“Oh, just let her spend the day with me,” my mother said.

Normally, I’d insist she go to school, but after what had happened at Holy Oaks last night, I gave in. For all I knew, there was a full battery of AK-47s hidden in the gardening shed. Plus, I didn’t want her anywhere near Thumbs, particularly while he was recovering from last night’s depilatory procedure. How was I going to alert the administration without giving myself away? “Fine,” I said. “Just this once. I’ll e-mail her teacher and find out what the homework is.”

Elsie gave me a brief smile, then turned somber. Tears welled in her big eyes. “Why do you keep forgetting to bring me my fry phone?”

”I’m working on it,” I said, wondering what I was going to do to get it back. With everything else that had gone on, I hadn’t come up with a plan for Bubba Sue.

“Oh, she’ll get it back to you, sweetheart,” my mother said. “But we don’t need it today, anyway. We’ll make fairy houses in the backyard and walk to the library.” She turned to me. “You could come with us!”

“I’d love to,” I said, “but things are kind of hectic at work.” To say the least.

My mother sighed. “I was so hoping we’d have more time together.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling like not just the mother of the year, but the daughter of the year, as well. “Me too. I just didn’t realize this week was going to be so busy. Thank you so much for all of your help.”

My mother glanced out the window. “Whatever happened to the minivan, anyway?”

“Engine trouble,” I said breezily as I searched the cabinets for something to feed my children. In all the excitement, I’d forgotten to stop by the grocery store yesterday; it looked like another morning of apple slices and oatmeal. My mother had wanted to deep-six the Quaker’s, but I managed to salvage it on the basis of its whole-graininess. “It’s in the shop.”

I poured oatmeal and water into a bowl, tucked it into the microwave, and reached for my laptop to dash off an e-mail to Elsie’s teacher. My mother helped get Nick dressed as I doctored the oatmeal with honey—the only Grandma-approved sweetener in the house—and cinnamon. I still didn’t have a lunch plan; it looked like another pre-school trip to Subway was in my future.

As I gathered Nick’s shoes and began herding him toward the door, the phone rang. I hesitated—it could be Detective Bunsen—and then picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Margie! Are you okay?”

“Blake,” I said, putting down the shoes. “Hi. Yes, I’m fine. Why?”

“I’ve been calling your cell phone for days.”

“I, uh, lost it,” I said, smiling at Nick and retreating to my bedroom. I wasn’t sure I wanted to have this conversation in the same room as my mother and children. “How’s the retreat going?” I asked as I closed the bedroom door behind me.

“It’s been . . . interesting,” he said. “Did you go to the wives’ group?”

“It was . . . interesting,” I replied. I didn’t want to go into the whole meatloaf-and-push-up-bra philosophy of Warrior Wives—or the fact that I’d been shot at, abetted the waxing of a hog-tied custodian, and broken into my daughter’s school since his departure—so I asked, “Are you glad you signed up?”

“Yes . . . and no,” he said. “It’s been a mind-blowing experience.”

“Oh?” I asked cautiously.

“I’ve come to a big decision,” he said.

“Ah,” I said. “What’s that?”

He hesitated. “Um . . . we should probably talk about it face-to-face,” he told me. “I’ve got to run; they’re starting the first group session. Love to the kids. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Blake—”

“Bye, Margie!” he said, and hung up, leaving me holding the phone.

“Margie, dear!” It was my mother. “Nick’s calling for you!”

Still preoccupied, I headed out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where Elsie was sitting in the corner with a bowl of the untouched oatmeal. “I love you, sweetheart,” I said, leaning down to kiss my daughter’s head. She reached out and clung to my leg, pressing her soft cheek into my calf. “Don’t go,” she said.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” I told her. “You have fun playing hooky with Grandma.”

“You said you left it at the office, but you never bring it home.”

“I did leave it,” I told her, detaching her arms from my leg and feeling like the worst mother in the world. “And I’m getting it back today.”

Wanda gave me a suspicious look as I walked into the Pretty Kitten forty minutes later—we’d cleaned up the wax the best we could, but there were a few spots on the ceiling we couldn’t reach—and let myself into the Peachtree Investigations wing. I laid the yellow legal paper I’d found in Cavendish’s office out on the desk and stared at it for an hour, rearranging the digits and trying to make sense of it.
The key to the whole case must be here,
I thought, but I had no idea what the code meant. Defeated, I opened my laptop and started with the search term
pig sedative
. Within fifteen minutes, I had brushed up on my rudimentary understanding of hog-tying—and a plan. I couldn’t crack the Cavendish case, but at least I could get my daughter’s fry phone back.

The moaning had already started next door by the time I headed back out to the car—apparently, Wanda was occupied with hair removal, so I didn’t have to face another withering glare. My first stop was a hardware store, where I picked up a coil of rope and a tarp. My second stop was HEB, where I went through the express lane with a dog bowl and a six-pack of Lone Star beer.

“Rough morning?” the checker asked as she slid the six-pack into the cloth bag I’d brought.

“You have no idea,” I told her, giving her a grim smile as I grabbed the bag and headed to the Leaf.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

T
here was no sign of life at Bubba Sue’s place. I parked a few houses down, grabbed the bag with the beer, and once again attempted to look nonchalant as I strolled into the side yard of the bungalow.

The shades were down and there was no Range Rover in the driveway—a good sign, I thought. I could hear the sound of snuffling and low grunting from behind the fence—also a good sign.

I popped open one of the Lone Stars, poured it into the dog bowl, and opened the gate a few inches. “Here, piggy, piggy, piggy!” I crooned, pushing the bowl through the gate and quickly yanking it closed.

The grunting intensified. A moment later, I heard the thud of hooves, and the snuffling sound came closer. “That’s a good girl,” I said, peering at Bubba Sue through a crack in the fence. She had evidently been wallowing; her coat was covered in dried mud, making me glad I’d thought to bring the tarp. She sniffed at the bowl, then gave it a tentative taste. Evidently beer for breakfast was all right with Bubba Sue; the tasting turned into slurping, and within thirty seconds the bowl was empty. I popped open the second Lone Star and pushed the gate open enough to fit my arm through. She let out a squeal, but the sound of beer pouring into the bowl calmed her quickly. She finished off the second Lone Star in record time, licking the foam off of her muzzle and giving me a hopeful look.

“That’s enough for now,” I told her, and checked to be sure the gate was closed. Then I gathered my empties and headed back to the car. A half hour later, after stopping for a quick coffee and a review of eHow’s page on hog-tying, I returned to Bubba Sue, the rope in one hand and the tarp in another.

I once again strolled to the side yard of Bubba Sue’s house, standing beside the Turk’s-cap bush and listening. There was no grunting, which was encouraging, and when I peered through the crack in the fence, there was no sign of a pig. “Bubba Sue!” I called.

Nothing.

I eased the gate open and stepped inside, praying that the Lone Star had done its job. I crept to the edge of the house and peeked around it. Bubba Sue was sprawled in the middle of the backyard, emitting a light, whiffling snore at regular intervals.

Next to her, coated liberally in something slimy and brown, was Elsie’s fry phone.

With a nervous glance back at the house—I hadn’t forgotten that shotgun—I tiptoed out into the middle of the yard, scanning for signs of movement from Bubba Sue—and for my iPhone, which was still MIA. I grabbed the fry phone, which looked miraculously intact, and wiped off most of the brown gunk on a patch of grass.
I should have bought bleach while I was at the store,
I reflected as I tucked it into my pocket.

I grabbed the rope, said a small prayer, and reached for Bubba Sue’s rear hooves.

She twitched, and I jumped back, prepared to run for the gate. But her eyes didn’t open. Emboldened, I looped a bit of the rope around the hooves and approximated what I’d read about in the hog-tying tutorial. She didn’t move—the beer tip had evidently been right on target—but the tangle of rope around her hooves looked nothing like the pictures on eHow.

She was still asleep, though, and it would have to do. I heaved her onto the tarp and wrapped it around her so she looked like a pig burrito, and then saw the flaw in my plan.

How was I going to get a 150-pound pig out of the backyard and into a Nissan Leaf?

I grabbed the ends of the tarp and tugged with all my strength. She moved about a foot, and grunted softly. I wiped my brow and tugged again. Ten minutes later, I was standing at the gate and looking at the rental car. I was going to have to move it a whole lot closer.

I abandoned Bubba Sue and retrieved the car, pulling it up as close to the gate as I could, and jogged back to the gate. I was about to pull her out of the side yard when a familiar ring came from somewhere in the yard. I dropped the tarp and raced to the back of the house, searching for the source.

A moment later, I found the corner of my phone peeking out of a pile of pig manure. I grabbed it and swiped the screen on the grass before looking at the display.

It was Detective Bunsen calling.

Maybe it was karma after the week I’d had, but somehow I managed to get Bubba Sue out to the curb without incident. It was only when I tried to lever her into the backseat (there was no way she’d fit into the trunk) that I ran into trouble. I was straining to get her head up onto the seat when a young man with a scraggly beard called out to me from across the street.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

I looked up guiltily, feeling like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Or a purloined pig halfway into my rental car, as the case may be. Bubba Sue grunted quietly; was she coming to? Should I have given her a third beer?

“My, uh, pig is sick,” I said. “I was trying to get her to the vet. She’s pregnant with piglets, and I’m worried about her.” Partial truth, Peaches had said, was the best way to go. Bubba Sue
was
pregnant, and I
was
worried about her—primarily that (a) I couldn’t get her into the car, and (b) if I did get her into the car, she’d wake up when I was only halfway home and start a one-pig stampede in the backseat.

“I haven’t seen you in the neighborhood,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “I . . . I’m new to the area.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, ambling over. “Can I give you a hand?”

“That would be great,” I said, thanking my guardian angel or whoever it was who seemed to be looking out for me this morning. With the young man’s help, we levered Bubba Sue into the back of the Leaf. I tucked her snout in and gently closed the door.

“Where are you taking her?” he asked.

“My laundry room,” I said without thinking.