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

iPad screen. “How did you know I was talking about George Cavendish this morning?”
    “I . . . heard a rumor.” I took a swig of coffee, burning my mouth.
    “Really,” he said in a dry sort of tone that didn’t inspire confidence in me. “Who told you?”
    “I don’t remember,” I said. “I hadn’t had coffee yet.” There was a long silence. “Also, I’m a little psychic sometimes.”
    “Psychic.”
    “I get it from my mother.”
    He sighed and jotted a note on his iPad. “Tell me about your friend Becky,” he said. “She wasn’t very happy with Mr. Cavendish, was she?”
    “She didn’t like anything about Holy Oaks,” I told him. “They booted her daughter to let in the kid of a hair-care magnate who offered to pay for a new building.”
    “And yet you sent your daughter to the school. That can’t have been great for your friendship.”
    “What happened to Cavendish, anyway?” I asked, feigning what I hoped looked like natural curiosity.
    “Why don’t you tell me?” he smirked. “You can use your psychic powers.”
    I took another sip of my coffee and attempted to look innocent. “I’m assuming it must be foul play, since you’re involved,” I said. “But why are you so interested in Becky? People write letters to the editor all the time, and they don’t get questioned by the police.”
    “We found something at the crime scene,” Bunsen said. He reached down and pulled a piece of paper out of his briefcase, then slid it across the table to me.
    My heart almost stopped.
    It was a copy of Becky’s Mary Kay Consultant business card.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    W hat was he doing with Becky’s card?” I asked out loud, even though I knew. When I’d pulled out my new business cards to show Peaches, I must have dropped Becky’s card—I always carried a few to help her network. How had I missed it?
    “I was wondering the same thing,” Bunsen said.
    “She gives those cards out all the time,” I improvised. “He probably had tons of cards with him.”
    “No,” Bunsen said mildly. “Only this one.”
    “Maybe he was going to call and offer her a spot at the school,” I suggested. “You can’t possibly think she did him in and left her card behind. She’s not stupid.”
    “When we found him, he didn’t look like he was about to make a phone call,” Bunsen said. “I have to ask you again. How did you know the headmaster was dead?”
    “Someone said something,” I said. “Normally, I wouldn’t think anything of it, but he wasn’t there that morning, and the elementary-school head seemed uncomfortable. And when you showed up . . .”
    “You somehow divined that the headmaster had died in suspicious circumstances,” he said. “Right. Did your friend call you last night?”
    I hesitated, thinking of Peaches, then realized (duh) that he was talking about Becky. “No,” I said. And then remembered that I was wrong. Becky had called me. “Actually, she did,” I said. “My husband took the message, but I didn’t get a chance to call her back.”
    “What time was that?” he asked.
    “Oh, around six, I think.”
    He made another note on his iPad. “We’ll check the phone records, you know.”
    Would they? And if so, what would they think of Peaches’s call to me at three in the morning? I’d burn that bridge when I got to it, I decided.
    Bunsen took a long swig of his giant latte and looked at me as if he wanted to shake the truth out of me. I gave him a bland smile. “I suppose that’s it for now,” he said grudgingly. “But this isn’t over yet. I’m going to find out how you knew he was dead. And I’m going to find out what your friend Becky Hale had to do with it.”
    My coffee curdled in my stomach as he flipped me a business card. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”

    Things were hopping at the Pretty Kitten when I pulled up to the strip mall a half hour later; three young women and a man with tweezed eyebrows were reading fashion magazines in the