The Mom Squad

By Christine Weiser

The Mom Squad is a mystery about a former up-and-coming rock star turned reluctant stay-at-home mom who stumbles upon a case of citywide corruption in Philadelphia. Enlisting the help of her playgroup moms, she juggles a toddler, a cantankerous stepdaughter, and an absentee husband in order to solve the murder that seems tied to the mayoral election – and possibly the husbands of her playgroup moms.

Maya D’Angelo had been on the verge of a successful music career as a singer for Nick Peyton’s hard-rock band. She didn’t mean to fall in love with Nick, cause his divorce, and get knocked up. But her now-mundane life as a new mom takes an unexpected twist when she meets moms Rachel and Susan, whose husbands are connected to a corrupt election scandal. As the moms investigate the disappearance and possible murder of the leading candidate, their detective work takes them into the recesses of Philadelphia politics: crooked politicians, strip club owners, a corrupt mayoral race. Maya teeters between excitement and anxiety as she peels layer after layer from the complex political story, never sure if the people in her new mommy life are as innocent as they seem.

With its quirky take on motherhood, eccentric characters, and Philadelphia flavor, The Mom Squad is an intriguing mystery that is solved using perseverance, wit, and an occasional pacifier. The Mom Squad is the first in a series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Weiser
• Release date: Oct 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310816581

Christine Weiser

Christine Weiser is the Executive Director of Philadelphia Stories literary magazine and the Executive Editor of Tech & Learning. She lives outside Philadelphia with her husband and son. Her critically acclaimed first novel, BROAD STREET (PS Books, 2008), tells the story of the lusty world of chick rock.

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The Mom Squad

By Christine Weiser

Copyright 2014 Christine Weiser

Smashwords Edition

http://www.christineweiser.com

Cover art by Cartoon Impact. Cover Design by Sue Harvey.

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CHAPTER ONE

I used to be rational and creative and interesting. But this morning I’m racing down the sidewalk past the Eastern State Penitentiary behind a stroller, humming the tune to Add It Up by the Violent Femmes—one of an endless list of songs I can no longer sing or listen to in front of my child. Charlotte, who is two, is banging a drumstick that once belonged to the drummer of The Donnas, one of my favorite all-girl bands.

So far today I have: cleaned up three bowls of Cheerios flung from a high chair; chased a screaming toddler around our fixer-upper row home and wrestled her into a dress, clean diaper, and leopard-print tights; and given up on rousing my bitter fourteen-year-old stepdaughter who is still sleeping and missing school—again. Though I had no energy left for a teachable moment with my cereal-tossing toddler, I did have forty-five seconds to pull a Jukebox Zero T-shirt over my head (one featuring a barely-dressed woman squatting, the band’s logo splashed across her thong-covered ass) and tie my long dark hair into a loose ponytail. At least I have new pink streaks—to remind me that I wasn’t always a housewife running late to mommy playgroup.

I used to be musician Maya D’Angelo, a Rolling Stone artist to watch. I wrote songs and played gigs across the US and in Europe. While working on my CD I paid the bills by singing backups for the hard rock band The Plague—which is where I met my husband, Nick, who’s their lead singer. I never meant to break up his marriage, and I certainly never intended to inherit his angry teenage daughter. He’s still out there, right now, on a national tour—drinking in the accolades of his adoring fans, playing music and celebrating all night with friends, and sleeping as late as he wants in a comfortable hotel room. And I’m at home changing diapers while my CD sits unfinished at a New York studio, all debt and no play.

I wait for the traffic to pass and tip the stroller down over the curb. I’d seen on Facebook that my old friends all went out last night to a show at Johnny Brenda’s, one of the best clubs for live music in town. Johnny Brenda’s has always welcomed old farts like The Feelies and Ruin and has broken in plenty of young acts as well—like me. But now I’m working up a sweat dodging joggers and ignoring the phone buzzing in the diaper bag, which is probably Susan texting me to ask where I am. Susan, Rachel, and I need to get to the park so we can sit on the bench, watch the kids run around, and talk boring mom talk.

Have you tried those Shout Wipes? They even get spaghetti sauce stains out!

That Easy Mac is great. It just takes a few minutes and my kid loves it.

Are you going to sign your kid up for Gymboree?

On and on. Like they’re being paid for product placements. But day after day I sit there, perma-grin plastered to my face, knowing it’s still better than being stuck at home alone all day doing the song and dance required to entertain my daughter.

I round the corner onto Brown and spot a tall, attractive brunette in jeans and a spotless yellow polo shirt, arms crossed, foot tapping, eyes darting. Susan. She’d left some bigwig executive job when she got pregnant at forty-three, but she still had her management skills. Her two-year-old son, Austin, sits dutifully straight-backed in his stroller, his sandy hair trimmed to a neat fuzz, wearing a matching, equally spotless, yellow shirt. I think the same thing I always do when I see this way-too-clean kid: it’s not normal. I want to reach down and smudge some dirt on him.

Am I late? I ask, slightly out of breath.

Susan looks me up and down. Nice shirt. She turns her stroller and starts to walk. Let’s go. Rachel’s meeting us over on Fairmount.

We see Rachel as we crest the hill of Fairmount Avenue, her head just visible above an expensive Bugaboo stroller. Her long dark hair hangs damp around her broad shoulders as she struggles to push the stroller up the hill against the weight of her very pregnant belly. It looks like she’s slept in her stretchy pants and huge gray sweatshirt and Joel is covered in crumbs and blueberries. Rachel is a trust-fund kid whose husband works for a city councilman. Susan’s husband, who owns a huge realty company, also has some cryptic ties to this councilman—something to do with unions or the mayor or something. I never fully absorbed the connection and doubt I ever will since we mostly talk about potty training and preschools.

I found a muffin at the bottom of the diaper bag, Rachel puffs.

Wonderful, Susan says. Let’s go.

Mugshots Café is filled with the usual hipsters, moms, kids, and students with laptops propped on small tables. We park ourselves in a corner, order coffee, settle the kids around a low table with some books and toys, and collapse into overstuffed chairs.

He’s already recognizing letters, Susan says as she watches Austin, who is quietly flipping through a board book. We’ve been practicing every night. He’s good at shapes, too. The other night he identified a hexagon.

What do you mean ‘practicing’? Rachel asks.

Just that, Susan says. We sit down every night after dinner and review letters, shapes, colors. We mix it up. It’s never too early to get started.

What, are like you prepping him for Harvard at age two? Rachel asks.

In a way, yes.

Rachel rolls her eyes at me. This is another annoying feature of our routine: the Joel vs. Austin conversation. I do my best to stay neutral and keep Charlotte out of the line of fire.

I think we should let kids be kids, Rachel says. There’ll be plenty of pressure in school later. Don’t you think, Maya?

I look over at Joel, who’s smashing a small metal car into a pile of sugar packets on the floor. He and Charlotte laugh hysterically. Austin looks up from his book for a moment and then returns his attention to the page. I swear he shakes his head in disgust.

Yes, I do, I say. Kids should be playing, not studying.

Susan raises an eyebrow at Joel and Charlotte. Charlotte has the car now, which she is rolling back and forth over the sugar pile, causing one to break open. She laughs and grinds the sugar deeper into the rug.

Whoops, I say. I confiscate the car and sugar packets, at which point both Joel and Charlotte begin to howl. I feel the collective glare of the Mugshots crowd as I scramble to find an alternative, less destructive, activity. I grab some plastic blocks from the diaper bag and place them on the floor with the car. Smashing resumes.

See? I say. They’re learning patience and sharing through play.

Right now my bigger concern is Sam, Rachel says, falling back against the chair and rubbing her round stomach. If he keeps working these hours after this kid’s born, I think I’ll lose it.

Why don’t you just hire an au pair? Susan asks. You can certainly afford it.

Rachel looks down at her stomach. What, bring in some young exotic girl to prance around my huge belly? No way. Besides, my parents are very specific about how I can use their money. She pulls a wadded napkin from her pocket and dabs at her sweaty forehead. I’m supposed to use the money for the kids’ education and clothes, stuff like that, but I end up using it to pay credit card bills. Honestly, I don’t know what we spend all our money on.

Susan and I glance at each other. We know where it goes. Rachel never looks at price tags, takes her family on impulsive trips to Europe, and is constantly hiring decorators and contractors to improve their already impressive house.

Well, Susan says, you just need to put your foot down and tell Sam he has to come home earlier.

One of the kids starts wailing, and I leap up when I see Charlotte beating Austin over the head with her drumstick.

Charlotte! I yell. I grab her wrist mid-swing. Stop it!

Austin clutches his head and cries. Susan walks over and puts her arm around him.

You’re fine, she says, shooting an angry look in my direction.

He take my book! Charlotte cries.

Austin sobs softly.

I pull the drumstick from her grasp. Charlotte, say you’re sorry to Austin.

She shakes her head.

Say you’re sorry now, or we go home.

Charlotte turns and tilts her head. Sorry, she says without an ounce of sincerity.

Austin leans further into his mother.

I give Charlotte a gentle push and she wraps Austin in a tight hug, nearly knocking him over—and Susan as well. She squeezes harder.

Okay, I say. That’s enough, thank you. I hand her another book from our stroller. Here, why don’t you read this?

A semblance of calm resumes as each child plays quietly. Our order is called, and we retrieve our drinks. As I sip my coffee, I pull my phone from the pocket of the diaper bag and log in to check Nick’s updates. Nothing since yesterday afternoon, when a bandmate tagged him in a photo at a diner in Austin, Texas. Then I check out The Plague’s page. A fan has uploaded photos from the gig last night. Nick screaming into the microphone. Nick thrashing his guitar, the lights reflected in his sweat-drenched face like fireworks. Nick clearly having way more fun than I am.

I check my email, hoping something interesting has landed in my inbox. Of the twenty new messages, more than half are from the Art Museum Parent group, or AMP for those in the know.

Good lord, I say, flipping through the inane parent questions:

How old should my daughter be before I pierce her ears?

Has anyone tried that new diaper cream that Klein’s has on sale?

How much should I water my hydrangea bush?

What’s up with this AMP group? I ask. I swear these people can’t wipe their asses without checking with the group first.

Rachel laughs. I know. I have to wade through like thirty messages until I find something useful. But, every once in a while, I find some good tips.

These women are pathetic. ‘I can’t unclog my toilet, what do I do?’ I say in my whiniest voice. Or this one: ‘My son is getting diaper rash. Any recommendations?’ Yeah—get some diaper cream, for god’s sake! Geez. I flip through the notes, deleting as I go, and then one catches my eye:

What’s up with that construction site on Fairmount? They’re taking up all these parking spots and half the time the guys aren’t even working. Seems kind of shady and I’d hate to see kids get hurt. I think there’s a mom in the group named Maya who knows the owner. Does anyone know her?

The message is unsigned and the email address is just a series of numbers at a gmail account. I squint at the message on the small screen. Do you know if there’s another Maya on the AMP list? I ask.

Rachel shrugs. Not that I know of. Why?

There’s a message here about the construction site on Fairmount. The person’s complaining about it and mentions me for some reason.

Let me see that. Susan grabs the phone from my hand. She’s talking about Bob’s site. What does she mean shady? And why is she referencing you and not me?

"Maybe she saw that Inquirer article about Bob?" Rachel asks, eliciting another angry glare from Susan.

That article is a load of bull, Susan snaps. Bob’s worked his behind off for everything his company owns.

What article? I ask.

They ran an article that focused on one small apartment building in West Philly that had some minor code violations, Susan says. They blew the whole thing up and all but accused Bob of using his friendship with Tony DiFranco and Warren Evans to get around zoning laws. It’s totally about the election. The Republicans are doing whatever they can to keep Warren from winning.

Who’s Tony DiFranco? And what does a real estate developer have to do with an election? I ask.

Susan and Rachel look at me like I have three heads.

How long have you lived in Philly? Rachel asks.

I flush. A couple years.

Rachel takes another sip of her decaf. Honey, I don’t know how they run things where you’re from, but here in Philly—well, let’s just say certain connections can be very beneficial. Tony DiFranco is one of those connections. He’s the local union boss.

Philly is all about connections—especially if you grew up in South Philly, like Bob, Susan says. It’s a whole different world than where I grew up in the Bay area. In South Philly, if you’re friends, you’re friends for life. Bob loves to tell stories about growing up with Tony and Warren. They all had ridiculous names for each other like Frankie Hightops and The Brow and Chunky—and they all went to the same all-boys Catholic school. She leans closer. Warren was one of the few African Americans to go to the school, and Bob and Tony were the only ones who stuck up for him. Though I suspect Bud Turk did most of the ‘protecting.’

Who’s Bud Turk? I ask.

He’s one old friend I could do without, Susan says. He’s basically a thug who owns a bunch of strip clubs.

I can’t quite picture Susan’s husband hanging out with guys that sound like low-rent mafia. Bob is quiet and reserved, and even though I’ve known Susan for a few years I’ve had only a handful of conversations with him.

I think that guy Bud has pull with the city council, too, Rachel says. I’ve never met him, but I’ve certainly heard of him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s helping Warren with the election somehow. She places her empty cup on a small side table. I can’t wait for this stupid election to be over. Warren has Sam running everywhere to get more support. I don’t get it. Warren won the primary. This is Philadelphia. The Republican will never win.

Susan shrugs. I guess they can’t take any chances. She looks at my phone again. Maybe we can stop by the site on the way to the park, just to check in. I think Bob’s supposed to be there this morning.

Why not? I say. Since I’m supposed to be the expert I should try to find out what’s going on.

Whoever wrote that must know you hang out with me, Susan says.

I guess. I turn to Charlotte, who’s knocking Joel’s piles of blocks over as fast as he can stack them. Who wants to go to the park?

Joel and Charlotte shriek and jump up from the floor, sending a plastic block flying across the room to land on the laptop keyboard of a well-dressed businessman.

I walk over to retrieve the block from his extended hand. I’m so sorry. I smile. Never a dull moment with the kids around. I force a chuckle.

The man shrugs. No problem, he says. I’ve got two. He returns his attention to his laptop.

Sure, I think, and your wife is probably home pulling her hair out taking care of them while you get to sit here by yourself and drink your double-shot latte without a single tug on your limbs. I feel like clocking him in the head with another block.

We pack the kids back into the strollers and head down Fairmount Avenue toward the park. I can see the construction site ahead, just a few blocks from the café. The frames of these connected units cut against the city skyline, and as we draw closer I can see that one part of the site is further along in the cookie-cutter assembly process. Walls of sheetrock wrap around metal beams, interrupted by holes of different sizes for windows and doors. Even with my limited knowledge of construction I can see that the condos don’t look very well built, and I wonder if there may have been some truth to that article about Bob’s zoning connections.

We push the strollers toward the unfinished door of one of the units, but something doesn’t feel right. It’s too quiet. Angry-looking equipment sits stalled, huge teeth dangling above virgin dirt. On this beautiful, sunny weekday, there isn’t a single hard-hatted soul around.

Why isn’t anyone working today? Rachel asks.

I don’t know, Susan says. She clicks on the stroller brake with her foot and stares at the empty lot. I thought Bob said he had a meeting here today.

Charlotte tries to climb out of the stroller, fighting against the buckle that’s strapping her in.

Hold on, honey, I say. We just have to stop here for a minute.

She erupts into a blood-curdling scream and Joel turns to her, smiles, and joins in. Austin, sitting straight-backed in his stroller, watches them quietly.

Quiet! Susan yells, and the children snap their mouths shut.

I kneel down next to Charlotte’s stroller. If you’re good for five minutes, you can have a piece of cake when we get home.

Charlotte smiles triumphantly. Cake?

Five minutes, honey, I say. You can do it.

Maya, come with me, Susan says. Rachel, can you watch them a second?

Rachel rolls her eyes. Why do I always have to watch them?

Thanks, I say quickly. We owe you.

I follow Susan onto the construction site, stepping over one metal girder and ducking my head to avoid another. I squint against the reflection of the bright sun on steel as I walk behind Susan into the guts of the unfinished homes.

What are you looking for? I realize I am whispering, even though no one is around.

I don’t know, just looking. Susan stands with her hands on her hips, scanning the construction.

I look around too, still uneasy with the silent emptiness. Where is everyone? I ask.

Susan shakes her head. It makes no sense. Bob can’t afford to lose a day on this project. The open house date’s coming up soon. He’s got some finished models on the alley side of the development he can use, but there’s still a long waiting list.

Maybe they’re all at a meeting or something, I say.

Susan continues looking for whatever it is she’s looking for. I follow her around some half-finished walls, out of view of the strollers.

Dusty sunlight spills through large, windowless frames and into the shell of an area I assume will be a living room. Directly behind it is another framed square area, then another for the kitchen. The ceiling frame is also in place, leaving a rectangular hole for a staircase. Even without complete walls, the place feels cramped.

How much are they asking for these places? I ask.

They start at five-fifty, Susan says.

Damn.

There’s parking.

Well, there you go.

Susan bends over to examine a collection of abandoned toolboxes, paper bags, and miscellaneous tools. I squat next to her and begin lifting hammers and screwdrivers and wrenches. I have no clue what something shady might even