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

didn’t die of natural causes.”
    “What, did some angry parent finally off him?” She snorted into the phone, and I remembered why I missed her so much. “I do feel bad for him, believe it or not, but I’m not surprised. After all, a guy who would give Zoe’s spot to that hair-care guy, just because he moved in from California and offered to pay for a building, isn’t exactly high on morals!”
    “Becky,” I said. “I just talked with Detective Bunsen. I don’t know why, but the police think you might have been involved in his death.”
    There was silence on the phone for a moment. “Involved?” she said, sounding confused. “What do you mean, involved?”
    “Well, you wrote that article in the Picayune , for starters, so they know you weren’t fond of him.”
    “I wrote a letter to the editor on Holy Oaks’ admissions policies and said I think the headmaster was selling spots in the school to the highest bidder. That’s not quite the same as knifing him in the back,” she said. “I haven’t seen the man in five months. How did he die, anyway?”
    “I don’t know,” I lied, again banishing the image of George Cavendish’s bullet-perforated, urine-soaked body. “Where were you last night?”
    “I was at home with the kids,” she said. “It was a school night.”
    “Was Rick there?” I was hoping her husband could give her an alibi.
    “No, he’s in Houston on business. Why?”
    Damn. “Was anyone else there?”
    “Of course not. Why would they be?”
    I let out a long, slow breath. “Well, the police are going to be in touch with you today. I don’t know why, but they think you may be linked with the crime. Be careful.”
    “They won’t find any physical evidence, anyway. Like I said, it’s been months since I talked with him.”
    “You do have that going for you,” I told her as I pulled into the Starbucks parking lot a few spots down from Bunsen. “I have to go talk with Detective Bunsen now. I’ll call you later.”
    “Isn’t that the guy from the last case—the Selena Sass thing? Why do you have to talk with him?”
    Because I’m an idiot who can’t keep her mouth shut , I wanted to tell her, but didn’t. “I’ll . . . it’s complicated. I’ll catch you later, okay?”
    I hung up before she could answer and stepped out of the car to join Bunsen; his partner had remained behind at Holy Oaks, presumably to break the news and talk to the staff.
    Bunsen and I stood awkwardly in line. We’d first met over a dead transvestite in the Princesses’ room at an Austin bar, and our relationship had never been chummy. Now, as we stood in line at Starbucks, I considered offering to pay for his coffee, but decided that would seem too much like a bribe. Besides, he wasn’t a cheap date; he ordered a six-dollar venti quadruple-shot mocha latte. I ordered a small drip, and we retired to a table toward the back of the shop.
    “Do you have children?” I asked, to break the silence.
    “No,” he said curtly as I took a sip of my budget coffee, which I’d doctored with several sugar packets and a good dollop of cream while he waited for his latte. “But you’ve got a kid at Holy Oaks now. Business must be pretty good.”
    “It’s not bad,” I said, which was stretching the truth more than a bit. So what if we only had one case this week? Summer was slow in the PI business. At least, that was my theory. Besides, Peaches had mentioned last night that she had a new job for me.
    “Where’s your new office? Or did you rebuild the old one after it blew up?”
    “It’s, um, on the east side of town,” I said. I wasn’t about to tell him we were sharing it with a Brazilian waxing salon. “How about you?” I asked politely. “Keeping busy?”
    “Oh, it’s going much better now that I know someone who has information on the case I’m working,” he said with a slow smile and pulled an iPad out of his briefcase.
    I blinked. “Who?”
    He stared at me, stylus poised over the