Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) by Karen MacInerney Read Free Book Online Page B

something else here, too,” Peaches said, pulling a clipped newspaper article out of his back pocket and unfolding it. “A story about one of those kids who died of that synthetic marijuana stuff.”
    “Afterburn,” Desiree said, and shuddered. “Horrible stuff. One of my friends ended up in the hospital after smoking some of that. She still isn’t right.”
    Peaches shoved the article back into the man’s pocket along with the wallet, then folded her arms over her ample cleavage and looked at me. “Are you in?”
    I sighed. I didn’t want to be involved in this at all. But I was here. And Desiree looked pretty miserable. I guessed it wouldn’t hurt if we just pulled him out into the courtyard. “Do we take the pool, too?” I asked.
    “I think we kind of have to,” Peaches said, “unless we want to get blood and . . . well, you know . . . everywhere.”
    “We should probably . . . adjust him a little bit,” I suggested. He really was in an awkward position. “Before rigor mortis sets in.”
    “Grab a leg,” Peaches said. “I’ll take his arm.” I put on the latex gloves and wrapped a hand around his spandex-clad ankle. It was still warm. “On three,” Peaches said, and at her count, we both pulled up, flipping him over. The bullet hadn’t penetrated his chest. If it weren’t for his head lolling to the side—and the blood—it would have looked like he was taking a nap in the pool.
    “Watch the goggles,” Peaches said. They were askew on his head, about to fall onto the carpet.
    Desiree reached down to adjust them, and they slid off of his balding head.
    I dropped the ankle and stepped back. “Oh my God.”
    Peaches looked at me. “What?”
    “I know him,” I said, looking with horror at the round face and fringe of silver hair.
    “One of your neighbors?”
    “No.” I swallowed hard. “He’s the headmaster of Holy Oaks Catholic School.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Y ou’re shitting me,” Peaches said, her mouth gaping as she looked at him.
    “He didn’t like that, at least,” Desiree said, wrinkling her nose. “I have limits.”
    “What was he doing here?” I asked, trying to reconcile the image of the headmaster in his Holy Oaks tie and blue suit with this goggled man in urine-soaked Aquaman tights.
    “I think that’s fairly obvious,” Peaches said. “But the real question is, how are we going to get him out of here?”
    “The patio door, I’m thinking,” Desiree said. “Why don’t I slip into something more comfortable?”
    “Good call,” Peaches said. “Those stilettos will trip you up.”
    As Desiree vanished into another room, I stared at Cavendish. “I can’t believe the headmaster got shot in a hooker’s apartment.”
    “He doesn’t look like headmaster material,” Peaches mused, poking at his leg with her red pump.
    “Who would want him dead, though?” I thought about it. “You think Desiree got tired of drinking Big Gulps?”
    “Nah. He was just a john. And she wouldn’t have offed him in her own apartment, anyway.”
    “True,” I said.
    “I’m betting it was one of those private-school moms,” Peaches suggested. “Maybe little Madison didn’t get into Holy Oaks, and her parents got mad. Remember that cheerleader mom who put out a contract on another cheerleader mom?”
    “They don’t usually cruise the streets of East Austin carrying howitzers,” I pointed out.
    “It wasn’t a howitzer,” Peaches said, running a critical eye over what was left of George Cavendish. “The whole apartment would be gone. Looks more like a small-caliber gun.”
    I looked down at the headmaster, wondering how he had ended up in this situation. There was obviously more to him than originally met the eye. And I wasn’t talking about the limp bratwurst in his tights.
    “I guess I could poke around at school,” I said.
    “Why?” Peaches asked. “It’s not our case. The police will look into it.”
    “I guess, but it bothers me. My daughter’s going to Holy