Free Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) by Karen MacInerney

hissed through a clenched jaw. “I fired you.”
    “I’m here as a parent,” I told her. “It’s my daughter’s first day of school.”
    “She won’t last,” Mitzi said, venom in her voice. “I promise you. She’s going to be completely out of her league.”
    “Thanks for the encouragement,” I said, my stomach contracting as she stalked off. I hated to admit it, but I was afraid Mitzi might be right. Thank goodness my mother had talked Elsie into leaving the dog collar at home—and I’d managed to confiscate the fry phone. I patted the plastic toy in my pocket, reassuring myself that it was still there.
    As the service droned on, I edged toward the door. I maneuvered myself to place a potted palm between me and Mitzi, and I leaned against the back wall as the chaplain led everyone in the Lord’s Prayer. We had just reached the “forgive us our trespasses” part when the glass doors opened.
    A man and a woman walked in, both wearing blazers. For a moment I wondered if they were parents, and my stomach flipped over as I recognized the man.
    It was Detective Bunsen, and he was staring right at me.

CHAPTER TEN
    T he last time Bunsen and I had met, he had seemed disappointed that he wasn’t putting me behind bars for murder. Something told me his opinion of me hadn’t changed much since then. I looked back at the terrazzo floor, mumbling through the end of the Lord’s Prayer and attempting to look pious and completely unaware that the headmaster had recently died in a wading pool, looking like an incontinent Aquaman wannabe.
    But Bunsen sidled up to me after the “Amen,” murmuring, “Ms. Peterson. I’m so glad to see you here.”
    I did my best impression of startled, and swore to myself never to help anyone move a body again. “Detective . . . Bunsen, right?” I blinked innocently. “I didn’t know you had a child here. What grade?”
    “I don’t have a child here,” he said as the music teacher—a woman with a pouf of gray hair and a thin, disapproving mouth—led everyone in a rousing rendition of “Kumbaya.” “But I’m pleased to find you here.”
    “Why?”
    “We found a dead man in East Austin this morning.”
    I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry to hear that. But what does that have to do with me?”
    “We’d like to talk to you about your friend Becky Hale,” he said.
    My mouth turned dry. “Why?”
    “There seems to be a connection between your friend and the dead man.”
    I swallowed again. “She wrote an article about him in the paper a few months ago, but other than that . . .” Too late, I realized I wasn’t supposed to know who the dead man was. I’d never functioned well on short sleep.
    “Interesting,” Detective Bunsen said. “Did you and your friend plan this together?”
    “Plan what?” I asked, as if I hadn’t just said the stupidest thing possible.
    “I think we need to chat,” he said with a grin that sent a shiver down my spine.

    “The headmaster of Holy Oaks is dead,” I told Becky on the phone as I backed out of my parking space a few minutes later, narrowly missing a Porsche Cayenne. I wished I was done with Bunsen, but I wasn’t; when I glanced in the rearview mirror, he was right behind me. We were going to Starbucks so he could interrogate me, unfortunately.
    “Wow. Really?” my friend asked.
    “It happened last night.”
    “Usually I’d say ‘poor man,’ but in this case, I think it serves the bastard right,” Becky said. “Although I do feel bad for his wife. He has a wife, right?”
    “He does,” I confirmed.
    “I still don’t know why you decided to send Elsie to that school.”
    I maneuvered out of the parking lot, stifling a sigh. “You’ve mentioned that.” Practically hourly, for months, I thought but didn’t add.
    “It’s all about the money for him,” Becky said. “One of the teachers told me that’s why the board hired the guy. What happened to him? Heart attack? Death by shame?”
    “Actually, he