As we stepped into the foyer, Cissy appeared. She strode toward the center of the entry and planted her hands on her hips. There was no welcome on her face. Instead, she watched us with a pinched face and tight lips.
“Look who’s here,” I said, cutting through the silence. “It’s Millie Draper.”
Since it was clear that Mother had heard about my intentions to meet with Terra Smith, I darned well knew she’d heard about Brian stashing Millie here for a while. But that didn’t mean Cissy wouldn’t veto the plan. It was her house, after all, and Sandy Beck wasn’t around to act as a buffer. I just prayed she’d be open-minded.
“What a nice surprise, eh, Mother?” I said and let go of Millie. “Brian had to go, um”—I chose my words carefully—“take care of a few things for Millie. He thought she might be better off with you for a while. Is that okay?”
My heart pounded as I awaited a reply. I guess if Mother said no, I’d take Millie to the condo with me. No harm, no foul.
But Cissy’s tough expression crumbled, and her brow tried its hardest to wrinkle as she took a step toward us and said, “Oh, Millie darlin’, you’ve had quite the morning, haven’t you?” She reached a nervous hand up to tug at her starched collar.
Millie bit her lip, nodding. “I’ve had lots better,” she replied, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Of course you can stay while Mr. Malone is helping you out. In fact, you can stay as long as you need to,” Mother added, giving me a sideways glance. “I wish I could convince Andrea to stay, too, until this whole thing’s been solved and the madman who killed Olivia is caught. I just hope they find him soon.”
“Amen to that,” Millie whispered.
If my mother had any fears about Millie—if she thought for an instant that the Cake Lady had really committed murder—she certainly didn’t show it. Heck, if I felt Millie was a homicidal maniac, I wouldn’t leave her alone with Cissy, not even for a minute. No, I knew in my heart that Millie couldn’t hurt a fly, and I could tell my mother felt the same.
“My dear Millicent, whatever I can do for you, consider it done,” my mother offered, her voice as warm as honey.
“Thank you, Mrs. Kendricks,” Millie replied and swayed on her feet. “I wasn’t sure where to go. Mr. Malone wanted me to lie low. He said the press had caught wind of the story and would be swarming my house and the store, what with how fast social media spreads information.”
“And misinformation,” I murmured.
“So true, so true,” my mother said and stepped toward us, giving the older woman a soft smile as she took her elbow and led her away. “Perhaps we can pick up some things from your place later on. But, for now, how about we get you some clothes to wear . . . I’m sure Sandy’s got somethin’ you could borrow, and she’s just about your size . . . then I’ll make you some tea and you can put up your feet. Does that sound all right? And do call me Cissy. We’ve known each other for too long to be formal.”
“Thank you, Cissy,” Millie replied meekly, “and, yes, a change of clothes and tea sounds lovely. I don’t exactly feel human wearing these.” She tugged at her scrubs.
I wondered if Mother would crush a Xanax or two into the teapot, and I figured that might not be such a bad thing.
Whatever happened, I had a feeling Millie would be in good hands, even without Sandy Beck around to do the fussing.
I shook my head, listening as my mother’s voice trailed off and thinking that maybe Stephen was good for her. Maybe he was responsible for her turning into a kinder, gentler Cissy. Or was it just that she was getting older and the tough shell she’d lived in for so long had developed cracks?
At least Millie’s presence had distracted Cissy enough that I could escape. I took the opportunity to slip out of my mother’s manse and get into my Jeep without her standing on the doorstep and watching me every step of the way.
Chapter 16
I took Preston Road north, hardly seeing anything I passed. Even though I played my favorite oldie but goodie, Def Leppard’s “Rock of Ages,” hoping to take my mind off things, hearing Pyromania didn’t loosen me up the way it usually did. Instead, I kept picturing Olivia covered in blood, lying on her office floor.
As soon as I got home, I shed my clothes and showered. For a long while I simply stood there motionless, letting the hot water rain down on my head and my body. Then I scrubbed shampoo fiercely into my hair and soaped up my limbs before rinsing off thoroughly, desperate to wash the memory of Olivia’s death from my pores and my brain.
When I turned off the shower, my fingers were as wrinkled as raisins. While I watched the suds disappear, gurgling down the pipes, I found myself wishing it was as easy to send the whole ugly morning down the drain like dirty water. Unfortunately, I figured it would be a long, long time before what I’d seen was forgotten.
While I toweled myself dry, I heard the faint strains of “Animal” and realized my phone was ringing. Holding the towel on, I raced into the living room to answer.
“Andy?”
“What’s going on?”
“I should be back soon,” Malone said. “The cops didn’t take much from Millie’s house or her shop. It seems they were mostly interested in her computers.”
“All right,” I replied, not sure if that was a good or bad thing.
After I hung up, I got dressed. Then I started looking around the room for Terra’s business card. I had tucked it into my bra at the wedding yesterday after the rescue of Penny from the toilet. But I’d forgotten about it. There was no sign of it in the bedroom so I wandered into the living room. If it wasn’t there, I’d probably lost it, since that was about the only other usable space besides the galley kitchen and the bathroom in my tiny place.
Ah, there it was! I struck gold on the floor near the sofa where I’d removed my bra the night before when Malone and I had— Well, anyway, I hadn’t lost it. I smoothed it out, reading her handwritten number on the back.
Then I located my cell and dialed, once I’d figured out what to say. I was going to stick with simple. I didn’t even want to mention Olivia at all.
Luckily, Terra’s voice mail picked up, and I managed not to ramble too much in the message I left her: “Hey, Terra, it’s Andy Kendricks. I’m the one who helped you get Penny unstuck yesterday. Maybe this isn’t the best time to call . . . things are probably crazy for you right now . . . but I need to start thinking about my own wedding plans, and I was hoping we could talk.”
If I didn’t hear back from Terra, I wasn’t sure how else I’d learn more about Olivia’s business from the inside. Terra was my best bet at finding out who might have had it in for her boss, though I figured that list might include Terra herself.
After I’d grabbed a glass of water and my laptop, I settled down on the couch. It struck me that there was a way I could find out about Olivia that didn’t involve anyone else. I went to iTunes and proceeded to download Season One of The Wedding Belle for $9.99. Luckily, that was as long as the show had been airing. Thank God there weren’t nine seasons. I don’t know if I would have survived watching that much of Olivia La Belle.
I sat cross-legged with my laptop on a pillow and leaned back as I played the first episode. I had to fight not to roll my eyes through the zippy musical prelude that included plenty of church bells ringing and a slow shot of Olivia’s long legs as she exited the back of a chauffeur-driven Escalade with her phone at her ear and a big white Hermès bag in hand while her voice-over drawled, “I’m Olivia La Belle, the premier event planner in Texas, where everything’s bigger: the hair, the ball gowns, the jewels, the egos, and especially the bank accounts of my brides’ dear old daddies.”
Good God, I found myself groaning as the images flashed by: a bride with her blond hair bumped-up to high heaven, a glittery white gown with a train at least twenty feet long, an engagement ring with a brilliant-cut diamond as big as
a quarter, a face-lifted mother-of-the-bride in a sparkly dress, and a good ol’ boy in a Stetson hat with a bolo ’round his neck flashing a fat money clip.
Way to reinforce tired old stereotypes, Olivia, I thought.
Then again, what had I expected? Particularly since Olivia had been a stereotype herself: the pretty, leggy blond trust fund baby who acted like she owned the world and everyone in it.
Sometime deep into Episode Three, Malone came in, and I put Olivia on pause.
He looked like he’d been through the wringer. After a lingering hug where he pressed his face into my hair, he whispered, “I’m so glad you’re all right. We need to talk, okay? But first, I need a long hot shower.” Then he disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the door half open so I could hear the fan go on and the water start falling.
I pushed play again and sat there like a zombie, eating up every melodramatic moment of the reality show like it was a never-ending bowl full of Cookie Dough Häagen-Dazs. It was tacky and show-offy, and, in parts, mean-spirited, but I couldn’t get enough.
I was starting the fourth installment of The Wedding Belle when Malone emerged from the bedroom in clean clothes, wet hair, and slightly foggy glasses. He sat down beside me and didn’t say a word, just leaned in to watch as Olivia turned from sweet drawling Southern girl into a raging bull, verbally attacking various vendors, claiming late delivery, wrinkled linen, or in the case of Jasper Pippin, wilted flowers. She routinely snipped at her then-assistant, Debbie, for all sorts of minute blunders. It was no wonder the girl looked terrified every moment she was on camera. By the end of the show Olivia pulled a Donald Trump and told Debbie she was fired. Debbie cried but I was guessing those were tears of relief and not sorrow.
“Andy, what the hell are you doing?” Malone asked when the show ended, and I queued up the next episode.
“I’m catching up with Olivia,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to tell him about my plans to do a bit of digging into the life of my old nemesis, but maybe I didn’t have to.
“Why? You didn’t even like her,” he reminded me.
“That was when she was living and breathing,” I said, “but now she isn’t.”
“Let me get this straight.” He cleared his throat. “You were just not that into her when she was alive but now that she’s dead, you’re suddenly a fan?”
“I wouldn’t call myself a fan exactly,” I tried to explain and looked into his skeptical blue eyes. “I’m more like a rubbernecker watching a train wreck while it’s still smoldering. I want to find out how it all came to pass.”
He pushed at the bridge of his glasses and shook his head. “Andy, c’mon, you can’t get involved in this any more than you already are. You’ll likely be a key witness for the prosecution, albeit a bit of a hostile one.”
“That’s why I can’t sit still,” I informed him because, well, I was responsible. Not for Olivia’s murder. But I was the one placing Millie squarely at the scene of the crime. “I can’t just stay on the sidelines while Millie takes the heat for something she didn’t do. I have to do something.”
“So what does that make me? Chopped liver?” Malone made an unhappy noise and got up off the sofa. “I’ll do my damnedest to get Millie out of this.”
“Of course, you’re not chopped liver! If anyone can get her off, you can,” I called after him, because he was taking this the wrong way. He was an amazing lawyer. There was no doubt about that. He wouldn’t be working at Abramawitz, Reynolds, Goldberg, and Hunt if he wasn’t. “It’s not you,” I said, setting the laptop aside and dumping the pillow to the floor as I followed. “It’s me. I feel guilty about Millie. I can’t help it.”
He had his briefcase open and shoved some paperwork inside it. “You have no reason to feel guilty.”
“Really?” I said and came around the kitchen table. “I’m the one who puts Millie at the scene with the cake knife in her hand. I’m the one who made her stay put and wait for the police.”
Brian’s wide eyes blinked behind his glasses. “No,” he said pointedly. “Millie puts Millie at the scene. She knows now that should have called 911 when she saw Olivia on the floor with the knife in her neck. But she did what she thought was right at the time, and she’s too nice a woman to lie.”
“So the police are pinning this case on her because she tried to help a dying woman?” I said, because that was how it felt.
“No, Andy,” Brian said in an exasperated tone. “They’re making a case against her because that’s where the evidence is pointing.” He paused before adding, “At least so far. But Millie’s got the best team in town on her side so that’s going to change. We’ll get our own investigator on it and review whatever evidence the prosecution drums up. We’ll catch their mistakes, find the holes. You have to trust me.”
“I do,” I said. I trusted Brian more than anyone on the planet. “I’m just scared for her,” I admitted. “It’s like someone’s trying to toss my own grandma in jail.”
“They’re doing the autopsy now,” he said, “so we’ll have some preliminary findings by tomorrow. That could help Millie’s case.”
“Or hurt it,” I remarked, being realistic.
“The more information we have, the better for Millie,” he replied. “Then we’ll know better how to attack the prosecution’s case.”
That sounded logical. But what if the evidence had already been manipulated to make Millie look guilty? What if she’d been set up? I didn’t often believe in conspiracy theories, but I’d begun to wonder if one might actually apply here.
“So if they’re not arresting Millie yet, are you off the hook until tomorrow? I mean, it is still Sunday,” I said. “I’ll make chocolate chip pancakes, and we can save part of the day.”
I didn’t mean to sound cold or uncaring. I just desperately wanted to—needed to—salvage some normalcy after a horrible morning.
“Sorry, Andy,” he said, as I knew he would. He ran a hand over his hair, which had been damp a minute ago but had air-dried in record speed. “I wish I could hang around,” he added, closing the buckles on his briefcase, “but I’ve got to head into the office.”
“You can’t go in, say, an hour?” I asked, hating that I sounded whiny.
“I’m meeting Allie so we can get started preparing motions to file on Millie’s behalf. We need to be ready for anything, particularly now that the cops have possession of Millie’s hard drives. Who knows what they’ll dig up that looks incriminating,” he was saying, “emails, something from Instagram, or a Facebook post—”
“Wait, what?” I cut him off. “You’re working with Allie Price?” I said, because she was Brian’s old girlfriend. The last serious girlfriend he’d had before he started dating me. I didn’t hate her anymore—though I didn’t really like her either—but that couldn’t stop a spark of jealousy from igniting.
“Yes, Allie,” Brian replied matter-of-factly and came around the table to kiss me. “If I’m lucky, I’ll be home in time for dinner.”
He’d be spending all afternoon with Allie working on Millie’s case? This whole mess was getting worse by the moment.
“You’re okay with it, right?” he asked, as if my saying, No, you can’t work with her, I won’t allow it, would make any difference.
“Huh? Oh, sure, I’m fine,” I murmured as my vivid imagination pictured him sitting side by side with pretty blond Allie, their heads bent together, an undercurrent of electricity crackling between them as Allie said something like, Remember when we used to team up on cases and then go home and have wild monkey sex?
“Love you,” Brian called over his shoulder and gave me a wave as he headed out the front door.
“I love you, too,” I replied feebly as the door shut with a thunk behind him.
I knew then and there that Olivia was screwing with my life even in death. And somewhere—from the
depths of hell, I figured—she was smirking.
Chapter 17
It was pathetic how quickly I got hooked on Olivia’s show. Though I had pangs of guilt for enjoying it so much, I told myself I was viewing it all in the name of research. My butt didn’t shift so much as a hair for a solid hour after Brian left, not until my stomach growled in protest.
Reluctantly, between the fifth and sixth episodes of The Wedding Belle, I put the thing on pause and grabbed a banana and tub of yogurt for sustenance. Olivia had already fired five assistants—one per episode—and I’d lost count of how many other folks she’d dressed down behind the scenes. It was a wonder anyone kept working with her at all . . . except out of fear. It confirmed my suspicions that she hadn’t changed an iota from the girl she’d been at Hockaday. Even as an adult, she’d still bullied her way through life. I can’t imagine how such behavior could have ended anything but badly.
When my phone rang, playing a burst of AC/DC’s Highway to Hell, I knew it wasn’t Brian. So I let out an annoyed sigh and put the show on pause. My mouth full of banana, I picked up.
“Hello?” I said, though it sounded like, “Uh-oh.”
“Andy Kendricks? It’s Terra Smith.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Oh, hey,” I replied, swallowing down the mush in my mouth. “Thanks for calling me back so fast.”
“I was pretty surprised to hear from you,” she admitted. “You must know about Olivia by now.”
I guess she hadn’t heard that I’d been at Olivia’s office that morning and was the one who’d called 911. Maybe it was better not to bring it up.
“Yeah, I know. It’s all over the news,” I told her, because it was. A local celebrity being murdered in Highland Park was a big flipping deal. Heck, a missing dog in Highland Park made headlines. It was one of the richest zip codes in the country. Not exactly a cesspool of crime. I tried to choose my words carefully. “What happened to Olivia was awful.”
Say Yes to the Death Page 13