Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery

by McBride, Susan

  My God, that sounded awful! Minimum wage? No insurance or 401k?

  I nodded eagerly. “That seems fair.”

  “Can you start today?”

  “Today?”

  “You said you’d waited tables before, so you won’t need training, right?”

  “Uh-huh, that’s right.” I wondered if my nose was growing. “I’m great at waiting.” Hey, that wasn’t really a blooper. I was as patient as the next girl. I had never been especially skilled at skirting the truth. The flush in my cheeks and a slight stammer usually gave me away. Though Julie apparently mistook my ineptitude for anxiety.

  “Well, at Jugs, it’s not really the best servers who get the biggest tips, if you know what I mean.” Her gaze touched on my chest, and I got the point fairly quickly. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” she said, and I realized my skills weren’t nearly as big an issue as my cup size.

  “I won’t let you down . . . or Junior either,” I promised, and I settled both hands on my abdomen, because it added a nice touch.

  Julie smiled benevolently.

  “Let me give you the nickel tour before the crew starts to arrive.”

  “Sure.”

  “Just follow me. I’ll take you to the lockers first so you can change and wash your face. You can fill out your paperwork later.”

  “Great.”

  I planned to delay filling out any forms as long as I could.

  She trotted up the hallway, babbling over her shoulder about what my schedule would be for the rest of the week, but I hardly paid attention. I glanced back at the office through sticky lashes—like gazing through spider’s legs—suddenly recalling the voice of the man she’d been arguing with. I wondered who it was. Someone involved in the business? Was it Bud’s silent partner, perhaps?

  If I could just take another look at the white Lincoln and jot down the license plate, maybe Malone could have the DMV run it and solve the mystery.

  “Hey, c’mon, little mama, you’re dragging your feet,” Julie called out to me loudly enough to break my train of thought.

  Little mama?

  Lord, if my own mother ever knew what I’d just done, she’d have my hide.

  “Sorry,” I murmured and chewed my lip, tasting Paradise Plum, a flavor more akin to crayon than tropical fruit.

  “This way.” She drew me into the room I’d passed earlier. She pointed at the row of yellow lockers and instructed, “Take any empty one you want. Go ahead and put away your purse and use the sink. I’ll get you a uniform.”

  The infamous hot pants and cut-off shirt.

  I could hardly wait.

  Chapter 12

  Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the scariest chick of all?

  It looked like the Maybelline factory had exploded on my face.

  About half the liquid soap in the dispenser by the sink disappeared before I resembled a woman and not a raccoon. I didn’t do quite as good a job replacing what I’d washed off with the meager supplies in my purse, but I didn’t care.

  I was in.

  I never imagined I’d feel so giddy at the thought of waiting tables.

  Once my makeup was under control, I dressed in about five minutes flat. Heck, there wasn’t much to it. I felt naked in the skimpy outfit and grimaced as I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror behind the door. The purple hot pants barely covered my fanny, and the cropped T-shirt reached just below the line of my sports bra. Julie had advised going without underwear altogether, but I nixed the idea right off the bat. Frankly, I was more opposed to being panty-less than having panty lines.

  Tugging the lavender spandex down as far as it would go, I wondered how the waitresses could feel like anything but ponies led around the ring for show.

  Well, this pony had a strong urge to race back to the stables.

  The only thing that kept me from running was thinking of Molly and David. Otherwise, I’d be out the door faster than Seattle Slew.

  If Mother had the faintest inkling of what I was up to, she’d probably lock me up in my old room—after dressing me in flannel and scrubbing my face—and summon the pastor from Highland Park Presby to exorcise the demons from my misguided soul.

  The air conditioning blew cold against my skin, and I shivered, rubbing my arms to warm up.

  I pictured a tearful David in my mind’s eye and reminded myself he’d be without his mommy if I didn’t do my part in getting to the truth of who killed Bud Hartman.

  Somehow, the thought made wearing purple short-shorts bearable.

  Julie had vanished while I’d changed, and she hadn’t yet returned, so I took the time to poke around.

  A few of the lockers had combination locks to protect them. The rest were unlocked and easy to inspect. But if I’d hoped to find a bloodstained sock or a confession written in lipstick, I was sorely disappointed. Instead, all my nosing around uncovered were assorted photos—including groups of Jugs’s waitresses who all looked better in their tiny outfits than I ever would—boxes of tampons, sticks of deodorant, and bottles of perfume out the wazoo. Unfortunately, Bud had not been fatally doused with Calvin Klein’s Obsession.

  “You ready?”

  I jumped at the sound of Julie’s voice and slammed shut the door of the locker I’d been poking inside.

  “Don’t worry about anyone taking anything,” she said, thankfully oblivious to the fact that the locker I’d been rummaging through a minute before wasn’t mine. “Bud had a strict policy against stealing. He had ways of knowing right off the bat if anyone pinched something that wasn’t hers. And he’d send ’em packing, too, just like that.” She snapped her fingers and flipped her blond head.

  “Bud must’ve been a tough boss,” I said and casually squatted to tie my sneaker.

  “Nobody messed with him, that’s for sure. He used to play tackle for Texas Tech.” Her eyes got dreamy all of a sudden. “Had the body of a Greek god.”

  “So you must’ve had some competition.”

  “What d’ya mean?” She frowned at me.

  I shrugged. “Jugs has a reputation for its hot waitresses. How did you keep your leash on the guy?”

  Her tiny nose tipped higher. “It’s not Bud I had to worry about. The trouble was them goin’ after him. Like Molly O’Brien.”

  “She was after Bud?” I stifled the urge to shudder.

  “Like a cat in heat,” Julie hissed, acting rather feline herself. “I know they had a fling, and I can’t blame him for it, not the way she was always flaunting her goods in front of him. But then it was over as fast as it started, and Bud told me that he’d had to warn her to back off more than a few times.” Her mouth puckered. “My guess is he brushed her off again, and she went psycho.”

  I nearly choked on my disbelief. The idea of Molly putting the moves on Bud was ludicrous. Either Julie wore blinders or Bud had been telling her some tales tall even for a Texan.

  “Bud had a real power over women, you see,” Julie explained, and a glassy look filled her eyes. “The guy had animal magnetism. He knew what he wanted in life, and he grabbed it. That power is mighty attractive. It’s what made me fall for him.” She rubbed her hands together, a little girl flush with delight. “It also made him rich and that didn’t hurt, either.”

  I didn’t want to hear any more about Bud’s animal magnetism.

  From what I’d learned from Molly, only the “animal” part applied.

  “So business is good?” I asked her, changing the subject to something I understood all too well.

  Money.

  Something in her face closed off, as if she realized she’d said something she shouldn’t. She remarked simply, “Business is great.”

  “And the murder won’t hurt?”

  “Where’ve you been, Andrea?” She actually got my name right, though she stared at me as if I came from outer space. “You can’t pay for the kind of publicity we’ve been getting in the last twenty-four hours. It’s free advertising, even if it is because Bud died.”

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nbsp; She hesitated and squinted at the ceiling. For a moment, I thought she was dwelling on his untimely demise, pondering if he were in heaven.

  I wanted to tell her she was gazing in the wrong direction.

  Then she said, “Hmm, I might even have to add an extra waitress to each shift, maybe an extra bartender, too. I wonder if we should extend our hours? I should probably call our vendors and order more supplies. Definitely more booze . . .”

  “Julie?”

  Yeesh, did she have ADD?

  “Hey.” I waved a hand in front of her to remind her I was there.

  “The nickel tour?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She grabbed hold of my arm. “Lemme show you the kitchen first. That’s where it happened, you know.”

  I let her draw me along and marveled at how she’d bounced back so quickly from the death of her lover.

  And Bud not even as cold as the beer on tap.

  The deserted kitchen of a half hour ago now percolated with people and noises. A crew of men and women in aprons and hairnets buzzed about, their animated voices rising above the hiss of steaming pots and the clang of pans on the grills. It didn’t take a lip reader to realize what they were talking about.

  They quieted instantly as Julie and I entered, their smiles replaced by taut mouths and serious expressions. A dark-skinned woman stepped away from the others and haltingly approached.

  “We’re all very sorry about Mr. Hartman,” she said, though I didn’t see a damp eye in the house. “We’re a little surprised you wanted to reopen so soon.” She paused, her brown features bemused. “Anyway, if there’s anything we can do?”

  “Thanks, Tasha, but I’m okay,” Julie replied, a vague tremor in her voice. “Bud would’ve wanted us to go on without him. Business as usual, that’s what he’d say.”

  Well, Julie was doing a fine job of that, I mused. I’d already gotten the picture she was one cool customer, though I wondered just how cool. Did she have enough ice in her veins to stab her boyfriend and then go on as if nothing had happened? And what would she have gotten out of it beyond the satisfaction of offing an unfaithful lover? Was there money involved? A piece of the restaurant?

  I’d have to keep tabs on her, that’s for sure. I’d already gotten the impression that there was more to Julie Costello than frosted blue eye shadow and Heather Locklear’s hairdo. She played the “dumb blonde” to perfection, but how much of it was an act to get what she wanted? Because I’ll wager she didn’t have much of a problem in that department.

  “Everyone, this is Andrea,” she announced. “Our new waitress.”

  My cheeks warmed as all eyes fell upon me, and I wished I’d had a towel to wrap around my half-naked self.

  I did a soggy Princess Di wave.

  But everyone was already turning away.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I muttered to their backs.

  “See the window there? That’s where you’ll pick up your orders.” Julie tapped my arm and next pointed out the refrigerator that held extra tea if they ran out at the wait station, more jugs for beer, and the storeroom with ample supplies of napkins, condiments, and more.

  I tried to focus on what she was saying but was distracted by the sight of a man busily chopping stalks of celery with a chef’s knife grasped in a plastic-gloved hand. The sound of the blade’s steady whack sent a shiver up my spine.

  “You got any questions?” Julie asked, and I managed a shake of my head. “All right, then I’ll take you to the wait station and the bar.”

  Before she dragged me out of the kitchen, I caught a glimpse through the rear door as someone took a trash bag outside.

  The white Lincoln was gone.

  I cursed myself for not having paid it more attention. I couldn’t remember a single letter or number from the license plate.

  Some spy I was.

  I also noted a panel of buttons blinking by the door. The alarm system. Something I’d have to figure a way around if I were going to do any after-hours snooping.

  The sudden reality of what I was doing hit me like a speeding Humvee.

  My heart fluttered, knowing I couldn’t afford to slip up, not when Molly’s hearing was a week away.

  Julie pulled me with her into the dining room of the restaurant. “Over here is your station,” she told me, indicating a patch of tables near the bar. “And in case you forget, there’s a map at the hostess podium. Got it?”

  I assured her I did.

  As she nattered on about putting orders into the computer, I absorbed the room around me: the hillbilly décor complete with faux squirrel skins (at least I hoped they were faux), racks of shotguns, patchwork quilts and even an autographed photo of the guy who’d played Jethro on The Beverly Hillbillies. Rows of earthenware jugs lined the bar.

  I wondered if Bud had thought himself clever when he’d named the joint. I imagined him howling with amusement as he’d come up with a list of euphemisms for “breasts”—knockers, headlights, melons—and then had crossed them off one by one until he’d found the right gimmick to hide behind. I mean, he obviously couldn’t have called the place “Tits” and pretended it was a family restaurant.

  Nope, Jugs had fit the bill. A straight-faced father could explain to his young son that a jug was used for drinking while elbowing his buddy in the ribs. If Bud had kept the secret to himself instead of putting up a billboard resembling a perfectly round pair of bosoms or dressed his waitresses more like Miss Ellie than Ellie Mae, then the Mothers Against Pornography would have stayed home.

  Still, I’ll wager Bud had seen the protestors as a perk, a way to draw extra attention to his business. The same way it pleased Julie to have more publicity even if the reason was homicide.

  “. . . push the bartender’s specials, okay? Drinks add up, ya see? So do the jugs of beer at fifteen dollars a pop.”

  I blinked away my mental meanderings and focused on the tap Julie used to fill a jug with beer and neatly top it off.

  “You’ve gotta be careful to avoid too much head,” she warned, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from snorting. “Or the foam makes a really big mess.”

  “Got it.”

  “Usually the bartender will do this for you, but, if he’s busy, you’ve gotta know the ropes.”

  I assured her I could manage.

  She patted my arm and said, “Good girl.” Which was better than “little mama” in a pinch.

  By the time Julie had wrapped up my orientation and given me a laundry list of responsibilities, I’d picked out plenty of places where Bud’s killer could have remained hidden until Molly had run out and Bud was left alone in the kitchen.

  The only trouble was my suppositions were just suppositions. As Malone had so carefully pointed out, my imagination was not admissible in court. If I couldn’t come up with anything more solid than “what if,” how would I ever convince the Dallas P.D. that Bud’s assailant was someone other than Molly?

  I headed back to the locker room to realign the padding in my bra and to reapply my Paradise Plum lipstick. What I walked into was a scene straight out of Hugh Hefner’s daydreams.

  Three women disrobed in a flash of toned limbs, breasts, and rear ends. Memories of adolescent girls changing after gym class flickered through my mind, and I felt my cheeks warm. Modest as I was, I nearly raised my hand to my face to cover my eyes with my fingers until the coast was clear.

  “Hey, you must be new.” The tall brunette spotted me as she wiggled into her skimpy shorts. “Guess you’ll be filling in for Molly, right? No offense, honey, but I do hope it’s only temporary.”

  I suppressed the urge to grin. It was good to know that Molly at least had someone on her side.

  “I’m Andrea,” I said.

  “Christie,” she replied then gestured to the tiny redhead on her left. “This here’s Ginger and this is Rhonda”—she hooked a thumb in the other direction, toward a dark-skinned woman with cropped black hair. All three had the rock-hard bodies of aerobics instructors.

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nbsp; Instinctively, I sucked in my belly. “Nice to meet you,” I replied, quickly adding, “Though I’m sorry about the circumstances. What a terrible thing, your boss getting killed.” I wondered if that was the reason for their somber expressions. “It must be hard on everyone to deal with.”

  Tall Christie glanced sideways at flame-haired Ginger, who in turn looked at Rhonda.

  “Yeah, we’re sorry, too,” Rhonda spoke up in a raspy voice. “Sorry that Molly’s the one who got arrested. She’s a cool girl. A real hard worker.”

  “I can’t believe she stabbed Bud,” Ginger said as she fashioned her locks into braids that looked not unlike Pippi Longstocking. “He must’ve really put the heat on her. The guy could come on real strong sometimes, and maybe Molly couldn’t find a graceful way out.”

  “They’ll get her off on self-defense, don’t ya think?” Christie asked her comrades, and their heads bobbed agreeably. “Bud could be so aggressive. Especially if he’d been drinking.”

  “Tell me about it,” Ginger remarked and rolled her eyes. “Molly used to call him the octopus.”

  “He was trouble,” Rhonda added.

  Had they all endured Bud Hartman’s come-ons? Because that’s the picture I was getting. If so, it’s likely that Molly wasn’t the only waitress he’d tried to force himself on. What if someone else hadn’t been able to get away? What if she’d come back and sought revenge after Molly had escaped?

  I couldn’t count out that scenario.

  Crossing my arms, I leaned against a row of lockers and asked them, “If Bud was as bad as all that, why didn’t anyone press charges?”

  I’d posed the same questions to Molly and, though I understood her answer, it didn’t make sense to me that seemingly intelligent women would routinely have subjected themselves to Bud Hartman’s unwanted advances without doing anything about it.

  “There are laws against sexual harassment,” I said, and they all stared.

  Rhonda jerked her chin, her expression strained so that pale creases stood out against her dark skin. “You got kids?” she asked.