The Good Girl's Guide to Murder: A Debutante Dropout Mystery

by McBride, Susan

  “After.” So far as I knew. “Kendall brought him home a couple months ago, right? The incidents have all happened in the past six weeks, since they’ve been working in the new studio.”

  “And the plot thickens,” Janet murmured.

  “You know something about him?” I asked, because Janet always knew something about everyone. That was her gift, just as it was my mother’s.

  “I’ve been doing some digging on Justin for the book about Marilee,” Janet confessed as the Wrangler bumped over the road toward Cissy’s house. “But you have to promise not to breathe a word. I’m still double-checking facts.”

  “Didn’t I promise to keep mum about this book already?” Did she want me to swear on a stack of Bibles or something?

  “Say it.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Geez. What were we? Six?

  “All right, here’s what I’ve got on Justin so far. It looks like Marilee Mabry isn’t the only rich older woman he’s latched onto in the past few years, or so my sources tell me.”

  Her sources being other society columnists across this great state of Texas, women and men who knew more about the doings of the wealthy than the police or the FBI ever would.

  “He romanced Kathryn Bremer in Houston just last year.”

  “Bremer?” I echoed. “As in Bremer Plastics?”

  “One and the same. Kathryn’s a sixty-year-old billionaire widow, just ripe for the picking.”

  Bremer Plastics was one of the companies my trust owned stock in, and my shares had split since college more times than I could count.

  “And before that it was a divorcée named Helen Stapleton of San Antonio.”

  “Don’t tell me. Stapleton Electronics?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow.” I glanced at the stereo system in my Jeep, which had that very name stamped above the CD player.

  “Justin has a very smooth MO for slithering into the lives of these women. He apparently gets a gig as a personal trainer at the gym where these women work out. Then he weasels his way into their trust, into their homes, into their beds, and, finally, into their bank accounts.”

  “Did he steal from them?”

  “Not outright, no, which is why he’s so slippery.” She squirmed against the seat belt and reached over to flip the AC up higher. “If he had, I’m sure someone would’ve pressed charges by now. Nope, seems like our boy Justin gets these women wrapped around his little finger”—she hesitated—“or other parts that aren’t so little. My sources say he takes care of them, slowly encroaching on their entire lives, managing their lifestyles, their eating habits, until they feel like he’s essential to their well-being. He cajoles them into giving him things, cars, money, stocks, even small percentage shares in their companies.”

  “Marilee certainly acts like she depends on him,” I said, thinking of the way she’d behaved at the party and at the hospital last night. Clinging to him, freaking out when he wasn’t there, leaning on him. The same way Kendall did. “I think he’s got both mother and daughter wrapped around his little, er, finger.”

  “That’s precisely what he does.” Janet braced a palm against the dashboard. “He’ll get as much as he can out of them before he figures he’s overstayed his welcome. Justin’s no dummy. That’s why he targets widows and divorcées, preferably with no children. Still, he’s gotta be afraid that, one of these days, someone’s going to realize he’s a con man and file fraud charges or something. Until then, he’s basically no better than those gypsies you see on television, pulling roofing scams. Like Old Man River, he just keeps rolling along.”

  So Justin Gable was a con man.

  A gigolo, a liar, and a thief.

  Mother’s instincts had been dead-on. Or were they instincts?

  “Let’s just say I’ve checked up on our Mr. Gable and learned some interesting tidbits about him. And, even if I hadn’t, I’ve seen too many women of a certain age fall for younger men and end up brokenhearted, not to mention a good deal lighter in the pocketbook. He’s as smooth as they come, and I don’t trust him as far as I can spit.”

  I considered what she’d said about Justin at the hospital, and I wondered if Mother already knew what Janet’s sources had confided to her. That Justin had a way with rich older women.

  Still, it didn’t necessarily make him an attempted murderer.

  Or did it?

  He’d sure seemed nervous when Dr. Taylor had mentioned calling the cops.

  What if Kendall had found out what he was up to? Maybe she suspected a scam and had threatened to rat on him. But then why would she suggest to Carson that she had a serious boyfriend she intended to marry? Was she secretly blackmailing Justin? Did she want him badly enough to force him into a commitment? What was really going on with them?

  The more I tried to figure out Kendall and Justin’s relationship, the more it made my head spin.

  I couldn’t wait to get my hands on Kendall and try to find out what really happened between them last night. That is, if Justin hadn’t convinced her to keep mum about it. Damn, I wish I’d gotten to her at the hospital first.

  The Jeep jostled beneath us, as I pulled onto Beverly Drive, grateful for the huge shade tress that lined the street and draped their branches over us, reducing the sunlight to mere splotches.

  There were no orange moving vans in sight, just the usual assortment of Lexuses, Beamers, and Jags parked in front of circular drives, and yardworkers mowing lawns and clipping shrubs, sweating in the heat.

  Besides the sweaty guys with the weed eaters, not a living soul was visible, which was as it should be at midday with the temperature hovering around 100 degrees.

  “You think we beat the crowd? I’d love to get there ahead of Marilee’s crew and watch them set up,” Janet was saying as I rolled the Jeep onto Mother’s long circular drive, but a fast glimpse around the bend suggested the crowd had us beat handily.

  “My gosh,” I exclaimed as I drove nearer and saw the extent to which cars and trunks had this cobbled artery clogged.

  A veritable army of vans and SUVs jammed the curve of the drive directly in front of the mansion. Two of the vans had their rear doors opened and crew members paraded back and forth, carrying equipment and boxes of who knew what.

  I stopped the Jeep and considered running around to the rear alley behind the house and parking by the garage.

  But Janet had already unfastened her seat belt and was grabbing at the door handle, itching to get out. “Oh, wow, this is going to be great,” she gushed. “A Diet Club meeting being taped for national television. It’s like being allowed into the pope’s bedroom at the Vatican.”

  Watching a bunch of aging socialites eat desserts as rich as they were and play a few hands of bridge was like visiting the pope’s boudoir?

  Only in a parallel universe.

  And a very freaky universe, indeed.

  I put the Wrangler in Park as Janet popped her door with a creak and flew out, leaping to the ground like a gymnast. She fairly skipped across the cobbles heading toward the house in her bright pink outfit.

  In contrast, I took my time getting out. First, I rolled my window down to let in the hot air and then I slipped my Ray-Bans back into my purse, before I hopped down and followed on Janet’s fuchsia heels.

  I squinted at the mass mingling of cars on the drive, looking them over and spotting several I recognized as belonging to Mother’s friends from the Diet Club. Buffy Winspear’s recently burgled white Cadillac Escalade and Millicent Maxwell’s (also white) M-class Mercedes among them. No doubt several of the women would have had their drivers drop them off, despite living up the street.

  I circled the parked vehicles twice before it registered that Justin wasn’t here. Despite Marilee saying he was taking Kendall to the Preston Hollow mansion once they left the studio, I’d suspected he’d make an appearance.

  Yet, there was no sign of his shiny silver BMW Roadster, a gift from Marilee.

  I paused
in the shade of a catering truck with THE SWEET LIFE painted on its sides, a chill passing through me, despite the trickle of sweat that slid slowly down between my shoulder blades.

  Why did I feel that Kendall was in danger still? Instead of picturing the girl at home, safe in her bed, I imagined Justin driving her into the woods to finish her off, after his attempted snuffing last night had failed.

  Stop it, Kendricks, I told myself, wishing my mother had never uttered a word about Justin craving Marilee’s money enough to want Kendall dead.

  Wishing I hadn’t heard what Janet Graham gleaned from her sources about the Boy Wonder’s past December-May romances that were nothing but cons.

  Damn.

  Maybe I was suffering from an anxiety hangover, but I felt in my bones that the worst wasn’t over yet. My stomach churned, tying itself into a tight figure eight (the only knot I could recall from the sailing class my mother had made me take when I was eleven).

  I leaned back against the catering truck and sighed, trying to convince myself that everything would be okay, that the taping of the Dallas Diet Club would go off without a hitch, then Marilee and her crew would be on their merry way.

  Please, no more fires, I prayed. And no more water. After the drenching from the sprinklers at Marilee’s, I wanted to stay dry for a while. Spare me a plague of locusts, too, though I figured I could count that one out since Mother had the house regularly sprayed for pests.

  I pushed away from the truck and wiped the perspiration from my brow with the palm of my hand. Then I trudged through the cars toward the front door.

  Maybe nothing would happen. Maybe this afternoon would be blissfully dull. It was a typical, hot, cloudless summer day. Probably the worst that could happen would be if the air conditioner went out.

  Sure, it would suck, but it wouldn’t kill anyone, would it?

  With that pleasant thought in mind, I ascended the stone steps, past the whitewashed terra-cotta lions standing guard on either side of the opened door, and I crossed the threshold to the cool of inside.

  Though I’d expected to find some disarray, what I saw when I entered bordered on chaos.

  The marble tiles in the foyer had been covered by plastic and plywood. I poked my head into the living room to see furniture rearranged and most of the rugs rolled up, priceless antique knickknacks removed from fireplace mantels and tabletops, replaced by fresh flowers in vases used as props on Marilee’s set.

  Atop more plywood sat what looked like small transformers or large battery packs sprouting snakelike cables connecting umbrella lights, more lights on tripods, and microphones on metal arms reaching up toward the ten-foot ceilings.

  Crew members purposefully moved about, having taken over Mother’s house like an occupying force.

  I spotted Cissy, Buffy, Millicent, Beth Taylor, and the other members of the Diet Club being primped and powdered by several of Marilee’s makeup artists.

  My mother turned her head, sensing my presence, and gave me her “what have I gotten myself into” look: wrinkled brow, down-turned mouth, and eyes that rolled heavenward.

  I felt a sudden urge to laugh, but stifled the impulse behind a tight-lipped grin. It wasn’t fair to wallow in her regret, was it?

  She crooked a finger at me, beckoning, but I shook my head, surveying the treacherous path I’d have to take to reach her.

  I didn’t see how I could cross the living room without risking life and limb, so I followed the plastic matting from the foyer through a hallway that led past the main staircase and into the kitchen.

  Before I’d even passed the butler’s pantry, I heard the chalkboard-scratch howl of Marilee’s drawl, raised in heated argument with the hard-edged Brooklynese of Carson Caruthers.

  Despite my misgivings, I made my way into the one room in the mansion that Mother rarely visited, finding Sandy Beck standing on the sidelines in a navy cardigan, keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings. I put a hand on her shoulder, and she started, turning quickly to see who it was. She relaxed when she realized it was moi.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered.

  “World War Three.” She jerked her chin toward the clutter to our left. “They’re setting up to shoot here in the kitchen, and Marilee’s not happy about something.”

  “Ah,” I murmured and looked over at the white cardboard boxes covering the countertop near the double sinks, the chocolate creations that had once filled them—obviously the desserts Carson had cooked up in Marilee’s studio kitchen—now sat upon various tiered plate stands, dressed up in chocolate shavings, fresh fruit, artistic glazes, and powdered-sugar designs resembling lacy doilies. They looked prettier than some people I knew and all too ready for their close-ups, more so than the ash-blond woman with the makeup bib around her collar, a frown on her blood-red lips, and a serving knife in hand, poised to carve what appeared to be a fancy pie.

  “I told you I wanted to feature all chocolate, so what the hell is this doing here?” Marilee snarled at Carson, his smooth pate sweating under the ceiling lights.

  “It’s a Brandy Pecan Pie, and I’ll drizzle it with dark chocolate. So it’s close enough to qualify,” he explained, barely raising his voice. “We’ve got a Dark Chocolate Mousse Pie, a Chocolate Almond Torte, a Raspberry Fudge Trifle, and the Death by Chocolate, so I don’t think one pecan pie is going to ruin the segment.”

  “Are you saying you know what’s better for my show than I do?” Marilee squawked, waving the serving knife. “How dare you!”

  “I’m the food editor, capisce? Give me some credit, lady, would you?” A red flush spread up the back of Carson’s neck. “Now put the knife down and step away from the pie. Don’t make me have to hurt you.”

  “This is my show, I can do whatever I want, and you’d better get that through your shiny skull if you want to stick around, capisce?” Marilee thrust the utensil deep into the heart of the Brandy Pecan Pie. “Now get this thing out of here before we shoot!”

  Carson winced and clutched his fists over his apron-covered heart, as if feeling the pie’s pain. With a sigh, he removed the offending dessert with the serving knife sticking out of it and took it over to the sink.

  Marilee busied herself rearranging the desserts set in front of her. When she’d finished, she whipped the makeup bib from her throat and yelled, “Renée, Renée! Where are you, damn it?”

  “I’m right here, Mrs. Mabry.” A breathy voice piped up, and I saw Renata warily approach her boss. “What do you need?”

  “Throw this away”—Marilee pushed the paper bib into Renata’s hands—“and get me some dental floss, would you? If I’m going to chat with the Diet Club ladies while I sample dessert, I’ll need backup in case anything gets stuck in my teeth. That’s your job, Renée, to make sure my teeth are clean.”

  “It’s Renata,” the young woman enunciated, her smile fading as she crumpled the bib in her fist.

  “Whatever,” Marilee brushed her off with a flick of her wrist. “What are you standing there for? Go fetch my floss!”

  Carson stepped up and stood in front of Renata protectively. “Hey, don’t talk to her like that. She’s not your flunky.”

  “Really?” Marilee laughed.

  Renata opened her mouth, but no words emerged. She turned on her heel and dashed off through the butler’s pantry toward the foyer. I wondered if she wouldn’t keep going right out the front door.

  I noticed that Carson was watching her exit as well.

  “Lovely woman,” Sandy muttered under her breath. “I don’t know how your mother stands her. Or how anyone else puts up with her, for that matter.”

  I thought of the six webmasters who’d worked for Marilee before me, and I said, “Most of her employees seem to last about a week.”

  “That long?”

  Several members of the crew made adjustments to the umbrella lights beaming down on the desserts and on Marilee, who stood behind the counter, waiting until they were satisfied with the setup.

  “Quiet on t
he set!” someone shouted, making me jump, and then two men armed with shoulder-held cameras rolled tape. One seemed to be focused on Marilee while the other zoomed in on the pies and cakes. A woman crouched on the floor held handwritten cue cards, though Marilee didn’t appear to need them.

  “I’ve got a very tasty show planned for y’all,” Marilee said, beaming into the camera. “Yes, it’s your good pal Marilee Mabry again, and today I’ll be visitin’ with a group of ladies who call themselves the Dallas Diet Club. I’m gonna share some of their wonderful chocolate dessert recipes with you, so you can truly live the sweet life without a lot of muss and fuss. In fact, our featured recipe for Death by Chocolate cake even uses ready-made mixes to minimize your time and effort. After all, that’s what the Sweet Life is about. Making your busy lives easier without breakin’ your back or breaking the bank.”

  Next, they shot Marilee putting together the ingredients for the Death by Chocolate cake, all the bowls already filled with precisely measured ingredients. They even had a bundt pan greased and filled with batter for her to slip into Mother’s stainless-steel oven—despite never turning the appliance on—and, voilà! out came a perfectly baked cake, cooled and easily removed from the pan. The only thing Marilee actually did herself was to shake the sifted powdered sugar onto the finished cake.

  “Cut!” the director yelled, his shoulder still in a sling from the boom mike accident. “Let’s move it to the living room, ladies and gentleman.”

  I saw Carson and his food crew begin unpacking Tupperware containers from large coolers. They removed already-sliced pieces of Death by Chocolate and positioned each one on a china plate. After carefully topping each slice with perfect chocolate curls and a drizzle of raspberry glaze, they set them all on a tray to take into the living room for the segment to be taped with my mother, Millicent, Buffy, Beth, and the rest of the Diet Club. Several of his crew gathered teacups and saucers and filled a china coffee pot from the percolator that had been brewing on the counter.

  “You need any help?” I asked Carson, and he looked at me blankly, though I couldn’t blame him for forgetting my name, what with all the Marilee-inspired chaos.