Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery

by McBride, Susan

  Right, I thought, locking the door on my way out.

  As far as I could tell, Malone had no case.

  The sun was high and bright and hot. It felt at least ninety degrees. And it was only May. By June, all Dallasites who took a step out of their air conditioning could empathize with poor Humpty Dumpty when his innards hit the pavement.

  Just as soon as the motor turned over, I cranked up the cold air in the Jeep and drove east to Central Expressway, taking it south to the Knox-Henderson exit.

  Anna’s shop was on the first floor of a tangled two-storied building with a whitewashed exterior and lots of windows.

  A bell jangled overhead as I entered, and the scent of old upholstery, new varnish, and Anna’s overpowering White Diamonds hit my lungs.

  I wove through a tight path between gorgeous gilded consoles and chairs that were clearly French, a Chippendale dining set with heavy ball and claw feet, a Victorian bed with a carved six-foot headboard, and polished mahogany china cabinets and chests of drawers. Above me, chandeliers with Austrian crystals glittered amidst Art Deco fixtures with odd shapes and jewel tones. Silver tea sets and delicate pieces of Nippon and Lalique tantalized from shelves and tabletops. Beneath my comfy black espadrilles, faded Persian rugs made each step a whisper.

  “Andrea? Andrea, is that you? Right on time, as always.”

  Anna emerged from the rear of the shop in a gust of perfume. A bright green silk sheath hugged her ample body. She’d tied a colorful scarf around her neck (to hide her chins, so Mother liked to say). Her still-pretty face was painted in the Texas tradition of too much is never enough, and her shiny blond hair was upswept in an immobile ’do that had probably cost the world an additional hole in the ozone (another Texas tradition).

  “How’s my favorite web diva?” she cooed and hugged me to her bosom.

  “I’m okay,” I got out, nearly breathless from her clinch.

  She stepped back and clasped be-ringed hands together, an “I know better” look on her face. “Your mother phoned me a little while ago,” she admitted. “Cissy told me all about that girl in prison.”

  I should have known. Mother could get out a story faster than CNN. And she didn’t even have a satellite feed.

  “I don’t want to talk about that, Anna, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, honey,” she said, but looked disappointed.

  I two-stepped around her and followed the narrow path toward the rear office. I’d barely set my things down on the desk and switched on the computer when Anna appeared, studying me from above the flat screen monitor.

  “May I ask you something, Andrea?”

  I finished typing the password onto the screen and hit the enter key. Then I shrugged and glanced up at her. “Shoot.”

  She caught her hands beneath her breasts and cocked her head like a chicken. “Why does a nice girl like you . . . a well-endowed girl with no need to work”—I nearly cringed at the obvious reference to my trust fund, not my boobs—“why do you live the way you do when you could be part of the crème de la crème of Dallas society? Cissy told me you refused to debut when you were eighteen. She said it near to killed her.”

  So Mother was still getting pity with that one, I mused, frowning. My father had his fatal heart attack just months before my deb ball at the Fairmont and, somehow, without him there to make the situation bearable, I didn’t see the point of going through with the charade. Not even for Cissy.

  “And she told me that a friend of yours from Hockaday who’d chaired last year’s Fur Ball was just engaged to one of the Hunts. ‘It could have been Andrea,’ she said to me. Her very words.”

  I wanted to tell her that Mother would’ve married me off to Ted Bundy if he’d had the right pedigree, but instead I sighed softly. I’d been through this enough times to know how to deal with it.

  Folding my hands atop the desk, I looked up at her, meeting her curious eyes with my steady gaze.

  “I like my life just the way it is, Anna, but thank you for your concern.” I knew my face was probably as deep a red as the ruby glass Anna’s store had on display, but I still managed to be polite. “I’m happy the way I am, despite what Cissy would like her chums to believe. I don’t have any regrets whatsoever. And isn’t that what’s important? Living for yourself and not for other people?”

  Anna’s face crumpled slightly. There was no way for her to reply but to say, “Yes, of course, dear.”

  It seemed to work with all of Mother’s friends, though, like the rest of them, Anna seemed befuddled. No doubt behind my back—and Cissy’s—they discussed what an odd bird I was, probably wondered what was wrong with me.

  Sometimes it was tricky being so different from the “village” that had raised me. It would have been so much easier if I’d fit neatly into the world in which I’d been born instead of fighting it every step of the way.

  “Now, Anna, would you like to see the new designs I’ve come up with before I update your site? Then we’ll do the photographs of your new inventory, and I’ll put them up . . .”

  The bell on the front door jangled, and her bored expression vanished, as she put her party face back on. “Do whatever needs doing, hon. I’m sure I’ll love it.”

  “Okay.”

  I didn’t realize until she’d left that I’d been holding my breath. I laced my fingers together, cracked my knuckles, and got down to business.

  Within an hour, I had updated some of the text and graphics on her home page, then spent a good twenty minutes maneuvering carefully through the shop with my digital camera in hand, taking pictures of the pieces Anna pointed out between her intense discussions with this customer or that. When I felt like I’d accomplished enough to justify my coming over, I picked up my bag from Anna’s office, palmed my key ring, and ducked my head into the store.

  Anna was tending to an expensively dressed blonde with a Louis Vuitton bag the size of a suitcase.

  She wiggled her fingers at me as I made my escape, but I didn’t slow down until I’d reached the Jeep.

  No wonder Molly O’Brien had never felt accepted at Hockaday, I thought as I climbed inside. It was hard enough to actually belong and still not fit. To be an outsider without papers and pedigrees must have been truly painful. It made me thankful that we’d found each other back then.

  Maybe Molly and I were more alike than we were different.

  I smiled at that, knowing Mother would catch the vapors if she heard me utter such blasphemy. As far as she was concerned, Molly O’Brien would forever be “that scholarship girl.” Not worthy of a deb ball, not worthy of a “good” marriage, not worthy of a house in the right zip code or a Mercedes SUV in which to carpool the kids. Not worthy of a friendship with a Blevins-Kendricks.

  My cotton T-shirt stuck to my back, and I turned up the air conditioning. I checked behind me in the rearview mirror as I shot onto the highway and headed for downtown.

  I was going to Lew Sterrett.

  I had a plan, and I needed Molly’s help.

  Chapter 7

  I sat across the Plexiglas barrier and stared at her.

  She’d tied back her dark hair in a ponytail, emphasizing the high angles of her cheekbones, the slashes of her eyebrows dark against pale skin, though I can’t say the orange jumpsuit did much for her complexion. Smudges ringed her eyes, and the whites were red-veined. She looked like a woman on the verge of losing everything, and her expression reflected her despair.

  “How are you?” I asked, but she shook her head and picked up the black receiver to her right. I followed suit and wrinkled my nose at the odor of congealed bad breath on the plastic.

  “Hi,” she said softly.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’ve been in worse places. You should’ve seen some of the dives where Seb and I lived in Paris,” she said and gave a halfhearted grin, but there was fear on her face. “I’ll survive this, too.”

  “I would’ve put up the money to get you out,” I told her, and she pressed her mouth
into a thin line. “I can’t believe the judge denied bail.”

  “Guess he was afraid I’d pack up my kid and disappear,” she murmured. “And he was right, Andy. I would have run. I would’ve done whatever it took to stay with my baby.” She bent toward the Plexiglas. “How is he?” she asked, her grim features suddenly anxious. “He’s never been away from me for more than a few days.”

  “He’s doing fine,” I said and smiled to prove it. “He’s staying at Mother’s in Highland Park.”

  “No kidding?”

  I held up my hand. “Scout’s honor. I dropped him off this morning. Last I saw him, Sandy was herding him into the kitchen for some pancakes.”

  “Oh, God.” She chuckled. “I can’t imagine Cissy Kendricks babysitting my son. I thought she ate children for breakfast.”

  “Only if she’s out of marmalade.”

  “I hope he doesn’t get too used to Buckingham Palace.”

  That’s what she’d called it when we were in school. The first time Molly had ever visited the house on Beverly Drive, she’d been afraid to touch anything. Just to show her it was okay, I’d picked up one of Mother’s crystal ashtrays and pretended to juggle it, only to toss it so high I missed the catch and sent it shattering at my feet. Cissy had assumed Molly had broken it and that I’d covered up for her by taking the blame.

  “I’ll tell Sandy not to spoil him too much,” I promised.

  “Sandy’s a good lady.”

  “The best.”

  The brightness faded from her eyes. Her chin quivered. “I blew it, didn’t I? If I’d had any sense, I would’ve stayed in Chicago and finished school instead of leaving everything I’d worked so hard for to be with Seb.” She didn’t look at me when she continued. “He totally freaked when I told him I was pregnant. He wasn’t ready to be anybody’s daddy.” She pressed her lips together so hard they disappeared into a thin white line. Then she lifted her eyes again. “But I’m glad I made the choice I did. Because it gave me David.”

  So it was true. The poetic Sebastian was David’s father. Or at least the sperm donor. I couldn’t imagine how hard that decision had been on Molly. Keep her baby or lose the man she loved. If I’d had Sebastian in the room with me, I’d have wrung his scrawny neck.

  I wanted to ask her more, but figured she’d tell me in her own time. Catching up while she sat on the other side of the Plexiglas probably wasn’t the best place for that. I held my curiosity in check, for now.

  “I was so stupid back then, such a damn romantic fool.” She puffed her cheeks and blew the air out. “If I’d had any sense, I would’ve kept in touch with you, Andy. But, once I was back and had David to look out for, I was so busy trying to stay afloat that I let everything else slide. I did learn you were back from Chicago, and I meant to connect with you, but”—she shrugged—“something always came up.”

  I was as responsible for letting our friendship go by the wayside as she was, but I didn’t want to argue. Instead, I told her, “You don’t have to apologize.”

  She poked a finger at me, tapping the barrier between us. “You’re the same person you always were, you know? I figured maybe you’d changed in the years I was gone, but you didn’t. I still can’t believe you came to my rescue, getting me a lawyer and taking care of my son, without asking anything of me. Andrea Kendricks. Patron Saint of Lost Causes.” Tears glistened on her lashes, and my heart ached.

  I wanted to reach for her hand, but the glass stopped my fingers. “Hey, that’s what friends are for.”

  “Except for you, I wouldn’t know.”

  The metal door behind her swung open, and Molly visibly tensed. Her shoulders squared, and her chin went up. A prison matron in blue blouse and pants led a jumpsuited woman into the room.

  Molly exhaled, slumping down in her chair. Her skin turned ashen. “I thought they were taking me back already.”

  I leaned nearer the clear partition as if I could whisper to her without anyone overhearing. If I was going to put my scheme into action, I needed her help. And there wasn’t any time to waste. “Can you answer some questions for me, Molly? About the restaurant and the people you worked with?”

  She wrinkled her forehead. “Like what?”

  “Did Bud have a partner, for one? Or was he sole proprietor?”

  “I heard he had a silent partner, but I don’t know who.”

  “Did he keep his own books?”

  “I guess so.”

  I was on a roll. “And what about his relationship with that ex-cheerleader, Julie Costello? Was she the jealous type? Were there any other waitresses he was boinking? And do you know if he gambled or if he owed money . . . ?”

  “Hold on a minute,” Molly stopped me, her voice low and suspicious. “What are you up to?” She was clearly worried. “Don’t get yourself involved in this mess any more than you are right now.”

  “I just want to be prepared.”

  “For what?”

  Without further ado, I blurted out: “I thought I’d apply for your job.”

  There, I’d said it.

  Molly blinked. “What?”

  I shifted in the plastic chair, saying aloud what I’d been dreaming up in my head. “Well, they’ve got to be short a waitress, right? And I’ll bet they don’t stay closed any longer than it takes the police to blow through the place. They’ll probably be open again by morning.”

  “Oh, Andy.”

  “It’s the only way,” I insisted, having tried to come up with another solution and finding no alternatives. “The police have set their sights on you, Molly. They’re out to convict you of murder,” I reminded her, though I doubt she’d forgotten. “They figure you did it, so they’re not wasting any time looking for another suspect. They’re busy piling up evidence against you for the prosecution to hammer you with. Once this gets to court, there’s no turning back. This is the best chance we’ve got . . .”

  “All right, all right, you had me with ‘convict.’ ” She leaned against the ledge on her side of the window, shoulders concave, head bowed, seeming suddenly smaller and more vulnerable. She transferred the receiver from her right ear to her left. “As much as I want to tell you to go home and forget about this, I can’t. There’s no way in hell I want to take the rap for something I didn’t do.”

  I felt victorious despite the flutter in my belly. It was all I could do not to rub my hands together. “Now about those questions,” I said into the receiver and started over, finding more to ask each time Molly responded to one.

  When she’d told me all she knew about the general operations, I got down to the trickier stuff. “So how does a girl go about getting hired at a place like Jugs? Do I wear a G-string or spandex?”

  A tiny smile played on her lips. “Jeans and a T-shirt should do just fine.”

  “Tight?”

  “Right.”

  “Should I shovel on the eyeliner and lipstick?”

  She laughed. “What do you think?”

  “Hair up or down?”

  “The bigger, the better.”

  “Maybe I should invest in a Wonderbra,” I suggested, glancing down at my barely there chest.

  “The bigger, the better,” she said again.

  We both started to giggle, but the levity didn’t last.

  The matron came up behind her, hands on her hips. “Time’s up,” she must’ve said, though I could only see her mouth move and hear the vague crackle of her voice through the line.

  “I gotta go,” Molly whispered, adding, “Tell David I love him,” before she quickly hung up.

  She looked like a skinny kid in oversized orange pajamas, I thought as I watched her being led through the door and away.

  It hit me hard that this was for real, and I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. This wasn’t the Game of Life that she and I used to play. It wasn’t even Monopoly.

  Her future was at stake. The whole rest of her flipping life, no chance to “Get Out of Jail Free” with a roll of the dice.

  And wha
t about David? What would be his fate if his mother were condemned to hard time?

  I got out of there as fast as I could, ignoring the air so warm and thick it nearly mugged me, trying not to notice the stink of urine that clung to every downtown building I passed on my way to the seven-dollar-an-hour Car Park.

  Funny how easy it is to take things for granted when you have no fear of losing them.

  Chapter 8

  The offices of Abramawitz, Reynolds, Goldberg, and Hunt were located on the tenth floor of a modern high-rise a couple blocks from Lew Sterrett.

  I decided it couldn’t hurt to drop in on Brian Malone and see what information he’d managed to dig up so far. Maybe he’d seen the final version of the police report or heard something from the medical examiner’s office.

  My espadrilles shuffled over pink marble tiles as I crossed the foyer toward the elevators. A crowd of business-suited men and women waited quietly beside me until a light blinked above one of the four sets of doors. A gentle ping sounded as the doors slid open to disgorge a horde of people who looked not unlike the ones who pressed inside the mirrored space alongside me.

  “Ten, please,” I said, because I’d been pushed into the far corner and couldn’t have reached the buttons unless I’d had the wingspan of Shaquille O’Neal.

  A few cleared their throats, but no one said a word as we rose upward. The blend of colognes and perfumes in the cramped space made me dizzy so I breathed through my mouth instead of my nose.

  The elevator stopped on practically every floor, and I felt more than a tad claustrophobic by the time it reached level ten.

  A glossy plaque on a pair of glass doors identified the offices of Abramawitz, Reynolds, Goldberg, and Hunt, and I slipped in and headed toward a kidney-shaped reception desk in a lobby that was dimly lit with mauve walls, leather sofas, and area rugs. I heard the faint strains of a Mozart piano concerto being piped into the room.