“Not yet,” I admitted, reminded of the fib I’d told Julie. Suddenly uncomfortable, I shifted on my sneakers, sensing where this was going.
“You got a man to take care of?”
“No.” My mouth felt dry as Lubbock.
“You caught up on your rent? Is your car paid off? How about your credit cards? Got a zero balance there, too?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t find my voice with the three of them watching me so microscopically.
Rhonda pressed on, “Betcha have a mommy and daddy who’ll slip you a few bucks when things get tight, huh?”
What was the deal? Did I have a neon sign on my face that said, ASK ME ABOUT MY TRUST FUND?
“You’re wrong,” was all I could squeak out, finding it harder to lie to these three women than to Julie Costello. “I’ve got no one to help me, and I’ve got a ba . . . a barrel of trouble in my life at the moment.”
“Give the girl a break.” Christie nudged her friend, and my shoulders sagged with relief that she’d come to my rescue. “Andrea wouldn’t be here either, Ronnie, if she didn’t have bills to pay.”
Rhonda studied me, her features suddenly less fierce. “You’re right. Hey, forgive me, Andrea. Sometimes I’m a pain in the ass. I’m just jittery is all. Like we didn’t have enough to deal with before Bud got himself iced. Those Mothers Against Porn had already stepped on my last nerve. Get this. One of them tried to do another intervention with me last night in the parking lot.” She rolled her eyes. “Since when is waiting tables a crime? There’s plenty of filth on the Internet to keep ’em busy. All we do is serve burgers and beer.”
Ginger finished applying crimson gloss on her lips and chimed in, “Guys bring their kids in, for shit’s sake. It’s all in fun, ya know? They just want to get an eyeful. Maybe the wife’s not in such good shape. Maybe she’s got stretch marks. So he wants to fantasize a little. It’s not like we’re doing lap dances.”
But wasn’t dressing up like this degrading?
And how about putting up with a boss who was constantly trying to cop a feel? Or worse?
Didn’t that make their working environment less than ideal?
“There are always a few girls who can’t hack it,” Rhonda said as she ran a wide comb through her short dark curls. “Take that girl, Sarah whatever-her-name-was. She was all gung-ho for a week or two. Then she stayed to help Bud close one night and never came back.”
“Really?” The hair stood up on my nape. “No one saw her again? What happened? Was it something Bud did?”
Christie sat down on the bench and laced up her Reeboks. “All I remember is Sarah seemed to have a crush on Bud, believe it or not.” She made a face. “She followed him around like a love-struck groupie, batting her big eyes at him, which didn’t sit well with Julie. Sarah was a cute kid, too. No more than eighteen, nineteen tops.” She paused, her expression shifting, as if she was trying to fit the pieces together. “She was only around for a couple of weeks before she split, so I figured Julie had Bud fire her. But no one ever had the chance to find out. She was gone when we showed up the next day for our shift.”
“Didn’t she come back to clean out her locker?” I asked.
The women looked at one another and shook their heads.
“Far as I know, she never set foot in Jugs again. She didn’t even pick up her last paycheck,” Ginger remarked. “If she left anything behind, I’d bet Julie threw it away.”
“And no one knows where she went?” I asked, wondering what had made her vanish so abruptly.
Christie shrugged. “Probably ran home to mama. The girl still had a lot of growing up to do. She seemed really needy. Kind of lonely and pathetic.”
“Prime Bud bait,” Rhonda interjected.
“Yikes,” Christie said and checked her watch. “Let’s shake a leg, girls. Unless we want the cheerleader from hell chewing us out.”
The trio headed toward the door, but I didn’t move.
“You coming, Andrea?” Ginger asked, flipping red braids over her shoulders.
“In a minute,” I told them. “Gotta use the john. Y’all go ahead.”
Alone at last, I went into my locker and dug in my purse, retrieving my lipstick. Then I smeared some more Paradise Plum on my mouth and evened out my falsies with help from the mirror.
I looked at my reflection and sighed.
I hated pretending, hated lying to seemingly nice women I barely knew.
This was going to be harder than I thought.
But I had no choice.
When I stepped into the hallway, I glanced longingly toward the door to Bud’s office. No doubt I’d find some answers there, if he had a computer. Which he must. No business these days did without one. If I could just get in and pull up his personnel files, I could track down the mysterious Sarah who’d quit so suddenly.
I wondered if the police had even attempted to interview any of the former or current waitresses at Jugs, though I doubted it strongly. Why use manpower chasing leads that could go nowhere when you had a bloody knife with fingerprints?
No, I’d have to dig up equally damning proof, evidence that pointed away from Molly and toward someone else.
I checked the hallway toward the kitchen and listened for the sound of approaching voices or footsteps. Hearing none, I crept over to the office door and put my ear against it.
Nothing.
Heart racing, I gave the knob a twist and pushed, quickly poking my head into what had once been Bud Hartman’s domain.
I spied the computer instantly, perched on an oak veneer desk scattered with papers. Nearby sat a console holding a TV, a VCR, and assorted electronics equipment that looked expensive and complicated. So many buttons, knobs, and switches made my head spin. Thank goodness his computer was a new-model Dell, one I knew had an internal zip drive. Nothing complicated there.
My fingers itched to get into his system, to see his programs and files, to poke through his books. Something told me a guy like Bud would probably have two sets of numbers.
It took real restraint to close the door and walk away.
I didn’t have time to snoop now. I’d have to figure out a way to slip into Bud’s office when Jugs had emptied out.
“Well, there you are. Did you get lost?”
Julie Costello marched toward me. Her round eyes lit up brighter than a bonfire.
“Uh, I had to use the restroom,” I stammered out an explanation.
“Oh, sugar, I understand, you being in that condition,” she said with a wink and a glance at my now mostly bared belly. “Hey, a big ol’ crowd’s already forming outside the doors,” she said, sounding breathless. “The Moms Against Porn are in full force and a few reporters are still hangin’ around, so I’ll bet we double our receipts today. Come and see for yourself.” She took my arm and propelled me forward into the dining room.
She hadn’t exaggerated about the crowd.
Beyond the locked glass doors, a gridlock of people jammed together. I could hear shouts and spotted an occasional sign that popped up above the line of mostly male heads waiting to get in.
“Can you believe it?” Julie whispered. “If Bud could see this, he’d be grinnin’ like a bull on a dairy farm.”
A cry went up, and I watched as a sturdy gray-haired woman surged to the head of the pack and planted herself flush against the glass doors.
“Oh, God,” Julie murmured. “It’s the Wicked Witch.” “Who?”
“The mother of Mothers.”
The woman in the pink scrubs looked familiar. Wasn’t she one of the protestors I’d seen on last evening’s news?
With a fist, she pounded on the glass, her voice too garbled by the glass for me to hear, and then strong hands drew her back and away.
“Thank God,” Julie said when the woman was no longer visible. “I’d hate to have to call the police to haul her off. It might scare the customers.”
And then she brushed past me toward the doors, keys jangling in her hand, preparing to l
et the lions into the Coliseum.
My chest clenched, and I tried to breathe, praying I’d make it through my serving debut without spilling beer or splitting my hot pants at the seams.
Chapter 13
At the end of my shift, I nearly collapsed on the locker room floor.
I smelled like beer and French fries, and my feet—and the rest of me—ached for a soak in the tub. I’d had enough men call me “sweetheart,” “babe,” and “honey” to last me a lifetime. Two of my customers had suggested I meet them later for drinks (I’d politely declined). Still, it hadn’t been as bad as I’d imagined, just so busy that I barely had time to breathe. I only mixed up one order and dropped an iced tea on the floor, barely a blip on the disaster meter.
My tips amounted to a hardly stellar hundred and twenty bucks, which I planned to put aside for Molly. I thought it might come in handy after she was released from jail and looking for work. Because I knew she wouldn’t come back to Jugs. And I couldn’t say that I blamed her.
I gratefully turned over my station to a woman on the dinner shift who introduced herself as Tiffany. With even less regret, I changed out of the tiny shorts and into my blue jeans. Tight as they were, at least they covered my skin.
Julie caught me on my way out the door.
“Bud’s memorial service is tomorrow morning at ten,” she said and grasped my arm so that I could go nowhere until she’d finished. “It’s at the Church of Perpetual Hope in Plano. It’d mean a lot to me if you could come.”
“Julie, I . . .”
I hardly know you and mercifully never knew Bud, I wanted to say, but she wasn’t about to take “no” for an answer.
“I felt this instant connection with you, Andrea,” she insisted, though I was skeptical about that since it took her a while to get my name straight.
“Uh, I’m not sure I can . . .”
“Great!” she cut off my stammering too fast for me to finish. “So I’ll see you at ten sharp? And you, too, Junior,” she added, leaning over to address my belly button.
Ugh.
“See you in the morning.” She smiled and gave me an offhanded wave as she headed toward the dining room.
I stood and watched her as she sashayed toward a group of men in soccer shirts obviously high on hops.
Why me?
The last place I wanted to be the next morning was at a memorial service for Bud Hartman at the Church of Perpetual Hope, which didn’t sound like any church I’d ever heard of before anyway.
Wait a minute.
I did know of the place.
Well, I’d seen the name, along with the number for the prayer hotline. On the local religious channel with Reverend Jim Bob and Violet Hair, the pair that begged me to send money to save my soul (which might not have been a bad idea). I always wondered if those who did cut a check were sent bumper stickers that declared, WHO SAYS YOU CAN’T BUY YOUR WAY INTO HEAVEN?
It made me glad to be Presbyterian.
I headed out of Jugs and into twilight. A host of macho cars, mostly SUVs and pickup trucks, filled the parking slots around the restaurant. Across the shopping center, the Zuma Beach Club had switched on its bright pink and blue neon sign. A dozen cars lined up out front, though the place wouldn’t be swinging for another couple of hours.
My Jeep sat around the corner, and I sighed happily when I reached it.
As I unlocked the door and yanked it wide, a hand clamped down on my shoulder from behind.
I spun around, my heart thumping.
It was the woman in pink from Mothers Against Pornography. The one Julie had called the Wicked Witch.
“Geez, Louise!” I exhaled sharply. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, “but if I don’t catch you girls with a surprise attack, you’ll break out into a run.”
“I see what you mean.”
Even with the falling light, there was sadness in her face that the dusk couldn’t hide. With her close-cut gray hair and deeply shadowed eyes, she looked to be in her fifties. Though she may have been younger, and a hard life had left its mark on her features like water carving stone.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked. Nothing about her threatened me in the least, and I wondered why Julie seemed fearful of her.
“I was hoping I could help you,” she said and touched my arm gently. “There are other places to work, you know. Places that don’t exploit women and treat them as objects. I could steer you in another direction.”
Steer me in another direction?
Oh, dear. Part of me wanted to laugh, wanted to tell her that she’d cornered the wrong person. I wondered what she might say if she heard the truth, that I was merely a mild-mannered web designer playing a role in order to bail out a friend.
“Honestly, I don’t think . . .”
“You seem like a bright girl,” she cut me off and leaned nearer. “I could get you a job in an office where you didn’t have to wear a skimpy outfit or get pawed by the wolves. It might not pay as much, but it would be honest work.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t have much choice at the moment,” I told her, feeling too pooped to hang around in the parking lot being lectured by a stranger, no matter how well intentioned. Inching my way into the driver’s seat, I told her, “Don’t worry about me, this is only temporary.”
“That’s what you say now.” Her voice softened in the fading light. “But even one night of degradation is too much. I’m sure your own mother would agree with me, wouldn’t she? Does she even know where you are?”
Perish the thought.
“I’m sorry.” I was too tired for this. It was like an argument with Cissy that I was never going to win. “Excuse me, please, but I have to go.”
I tried to close the car door, but she had her hand on it, holding it open.
She stuck her hand into a pocket of her smock. “Please consider what I’ve said.”
“I will.”
But before I could shut myself in, she reached inside and pushed a bit of paper at me. Then she hurried away, across the parking lot.
I locked the door and flipped on the overhead light to find a business card in my lap. THE WOMEN’S WELLNESS CLINIC, it read in discreet black script, listing an address and phone number. At the bottom, there was the name, PEGGY MARTIN, R.N.
The ringleader of the Mothers Against Pornography was a nurse at a clinic?
For an instant I panicked, thinking Julie had let it slip that I’d said I was pregnant, and somehow this Peggy Martin had gotten wind of it. Was that why she’d singled me out tonight? To rescue me and my make-believe baby? Or was it just that I was fresh meat?
I glanced out the window, but she was gone already.
Fresh meat, I decided.
I took a deep breath and settled down, stabbing the key into the ignition.
As Malone said, I had a vivid imagination.
I started the car, shifted into reverse, and maneuvered out of the increasingly crowded parking lot. I aimed the Jeep toward home, determined to wash up and change before I headed down to Mother’s to see David.
The light on my Caller ID blinked incessantly as I walked through the door. I dialed my voice mail and listened as the messages played, wedging the handset against my collarbone as I loosened the laces on my high-tops and struggled out of my jeans.
Brian Malone rattled on about the final autopsy report being filed and Bud’s body being released for cremation.
“Old news,” I said aloud and smirked at the telephone, feeling smug that I knew where and when Bud’s memorial service would be held, wondering what Malone would think if he learned I’d actually been invited to attend by the deceased’s girlfriend.
“. . . I don’t trust you, Andy. You’re up to something, though I’m not sure what,” he said before he ran over the limit and cut himself off.
I pulled off my T-shirt and plucked the shoulder pads from my running bra, a little disappointed to see the c
otton cups deflate so quickly.
A couple messages from clients followed Brian’s. After that, two hang ups and then a strained voice with a crisp accent.
Hurriedly tucking a clean shirt into a pair of striped sweatpants, I held the receiver nearer to hear whatever sounded so urgent.
“. . . it’s Maria Rameriz calling for Andrea . . . a social worker was at the apartment today asking about el niño . . .”
My limbs went numb.
“. . . I told her I didn’t know anything about where the boy was taken and that probably someone from Molly’s familia had picked him up . . .”
Dear God.
“. . . maybe that will be that.”
I dropped into the nearest chair, weak at the knees.
If I had left David with Maria, would he have been taken away to a foster home? Would Molly’s worst fears have come true? What would I have told her then? She would have come apart at the seams.
I exhaled slowly, silently thanking my lucky stars that David was safely at Mother’s. If, by chance, that social worker tracked down the boy’s whereabouts, I knew Cissy would wave her magic wand and take care of things as she always did.
Though, as it stood, I already owed her.
Big.
I headed to the bathroom to wash off the mask of makeup from my skin, turning my white washcloth muddy in the process. After I’d scrunched my hair into a ponytail, I studied my face in the mirror and smiled as I recognized the girl who stared back. I felt like Dorothy returning to Kansas.
It took nearly twenty minutes to reach Mother’s house on Beverly Drive. By then, the sky had lost all traces of pink and had settled into a deep navy sprinkled liberally with stars.
The lights glowed cheerfully in the windows as I pulled into the curving drive and parked in front of the door with its guardian lions.
When I entered the house, I pricked my ears at a noise I hadn’t heard within these walls in quite a while. Not since Daddy died.
Laughter.
A boy’s high-pitched squeal and a woman’s throaty chuckle.
Dropping my purse on the bench by the stairwell, I gravitated toward the pleasant sounds and ended up in the kitchen.
Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery Page 10