Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery

by McBride, Susan

  Peggy tapped a finger to her lips. Then she dropped the hand to her side and shook her head. “I can’t discuss personnel information with you or confidential patient records for that matter,” she said firmly, so I figured she’d take a lot more convincing. “What do you want from her, anyway?”

  “I’d like to ask her some questions.”

  “About what?”

  Man, she wasn’t giving an inch.

  I held my purse tight against my belly, needing something to clutch. “About Bud Hartman,” I said. “About why Sarah left Jugs so abruptly and never returned, not even to pick up her paycheck.”

  Peggy crossed her arms over her chest and said nice as you please, “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can tell you.”

  So why didn’t I buy it?

  It had partly to do with my gut, and even more to do with a remark Julie Costello had made earlier.

  “You’re only the second waitress I’ve ever seen them come inside to grab like that.”

  “Who was the first?”

  “That nitwit Sarah who drooled all over Bud.”

  Mothers Against Porn had been awfully intent on removing Sarah from the restaurant, even against her will from the sounds of it.

  So I couldn’t help wondering why Nurse Peggy was giving me the brushoff, when there was obviously so much more to this.

  I hesitated, wetting my lips, trying to formulate what to say next to make her understand, because I knew she wasn’t getting the full picture.

  “Please, Ms. Martin, if you know where Sarah disappeared to, tell me now. I don’t want to get her in any trouble, but I have to find her. I think she might know something that may help clear an innocent woman. My friend’s future is at stake because of Bud Hartman . . . because she was arrested for killing him . . . but she didn’t do it. Someone else did.”

  She stood still, not interrupting, which I took as a good sign. At least she appeared to be listening.

  So I went on. “The waitress who was arrested is Molly O’Brien. She’s my friend and the mother of a six-year-old boy.” I thought of David and my voice softened. “He’s the light of her life, and she misses him terribly. As we speak, she’s sitting behind bars at Lew Sterrett, and she wants nothing more than to go home.”

  “I still don’t see what Sarah has to do with any of this,” Peggy muttered, but so half-heartedly that I figured she wanted to hear the rest.

  “The reason I’ve been working at Jugs,” I confessed, “is to search for the truth behind the murder. Someone has to, because the police have stopped looking. They think Molly’s the killer, but I know she couldn’t have done it. If only because she loves her son too much to let him grow up without her. Surely you can understand.”

  “You’ve been undercover? Are you a cop?” She seemed confused.

  “No,” I admitted. “I’m an artist.”

  “You’re a what?” She cocked her head, studying me, probably thinking “con artist” from the skeptical look on her face.

  “A web designer, actually. I’ll admit, what I’m doing is unorthodox, but I didn’t feel like I had a choice in the matter.”

  “You’re working at Jugs to clear your friend?”

  “Yes.”

  I sat quietly, waiting, hoping Peggy Martin would fess up to whatever she was keeping secret. And it had something to do with Sarah Carter. I was certain of it.

  With a weighty sigh, she leaned her back against the door and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m truly sorry for this girl, Molly O’Brien. It isn’t right that she’s in jail for stabbing Bud Hartman to death. He was a terrible man, a dreadful excuse for a human being. The police should be giving her a medal for fighting back. Someone should have done it a long time ago.”

  I’d heard her belittle Bud’s character on the evening news, but there was something in her tone now that I hadn’t caught before.

  There was more to Peggy Martin’s dislike for Hartman than the fact that he’d opened a restaurant where the servers wore hot pants.

  It sounded personal.

  “Did Bud ever hurt you, Ms. Martin?” I asked cautiously.

  Maybe Hartman’s bad behavior wasn’t limited to the women who worked within the restaurant walls. Men who forced themselves on others often didn’t care much about who their victims were, so long as they had the right equipment.

  “Please, talk to me,” I urged her.

  “I can’t.” She wouldn’t even look at me. She stared at the opposite wall, though there was nothing more interesting pinned up than a diagram of the digestive tract.

  It was apparent she was struggling with the decision of whether or not helping Molly was worth spilling her guts.

  “Did he harass you, too?” I pressed, not willing to let this drop. “Or is it someone else? Have you treated women who’ve been his victims? Some of the waitresses, perhaps?”

  Her eyes brimmed, her anguish painfully apparent. Whatever she knew—whatever had happened—had her pretty torn-up. “There are always going to be people in the world who prey upon the weak, upon those who don’t know any better. Bud Hartman was one of them. What else do I need to say?”

  “She seemed sad. So anxious for me to like her.”

  I recalled Molly’s comments and ventured to ask, “Weak people, like Sarah?”

  For a second, I thought I’d gotten her. That she was about to confess whatever it was she was holding back.

  She took a step away from the door, brushing her hands on the front of her scrubs, clearly agitated. “Do you want me to tell you that I’ve seen more than my share of women who’ve been taken advantage of and made to feel that they’re less than human because of men who get their ideas about relationships from dirty magazines, from strip joints, and places like Jugs, where females are dehumanized? Well, I have. Is that what you came for?”

  Not exactly, but at least she was talking.

  “You think Jugs is as bad as all that?” I asked, recalling I’d felt the same thing once, before I’d become acquainted with the women who worked there. Most of them seemed strong and fully capable of managing their own lives, ignoring what was ugly and focusing on what was important.

  “Jugs is worse than that, and I’ll tell you why.” Smudges of red stained her cheeks. “The place masquerades as a family outfit, which makes it all the more offensive, don’t you see? It’s merely another haven for males who see women as objects. Are there any men on the wait staff? Not a one. They wouldn’t suffer the indignity of wearing such skimpy outfits.”

  I couldn’t disagree with her there.

  “Bud Hartman set the tone for that place,” Ms. Martin went on. “He had no respect for us, and his customers could sense it.”

  No respect for us?

  “I went there several times to eat, to give the place a chance to prove me wrong, but my visits only confirmed everything I’d heard about it and seen on TV. It was degrading, even as a customer.” She clicked tongue against teeth. “To witness those poor half-naked women have to endure the leers and the suggestive comments.” Her nostrils flared. “It’s hard to believe such dens of iniquity exist in the twenty-first century.”

  Considering that I was one of those “poor half-naked women,” at least for the time being, I couldn’t argue with her about the leers. Still, she was avoiding my question about Sarah Carter by filling my head with her Mothers Against Porn rhetoric. Maybe I even agreed with her, but that’s not why I was here.

  “Do you know if Bud sexually assaulted any of the waitresses?” I went straight for the jugular, fairly sure at this point that’s why Peggy despised him. “If that’s the case, maybe one of them had wanted him dead . . . and went through with it. Maybe someone like Sarah.”

  Her face shut off.

  Like a bank safe locking. I swear I heard the click.

  Her eyes cooled, her expression strangely stoic as she told me, “If you’re trying to pin the blame on Sarah for Bud’s death, you’re barking up the wrong tree. She wasn’t
even in Dallas when it happened. She was long gone by then.”

  So she did know something.

  Far more than she’d told me.

  Maybe Sarah had sought refuge at the clinic after suffering at Bud’s hands. Had Peggy Martin and her staff sheltered her? Helped her move?

  So where was she now?

  And why was Peggy Martin protecting her so fiercely?

  “Please, tell me where Sarah is, and I’ll ask her myself.” I sounded desperate, but I didn’t care. Molly was counting on me, and all I kept turning up were more and more people who seemed pleased as punch that Bud was mincemeat. I could do eeny-meeny-miney-mo and land on someone who had the motive and means to have stabbed him. “Maybe Sarah could give me some answers that would lead me to the real killer.”

  Peggy shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s been taken advantage of enough already.” She sliced a hand across the air and stated emphatically, “No more.” With that, she turned away and shuffled toward the door. She grabbed the handle and jerked it open. When she looked back at me, all the fight had gone out of her face. “I think you’d better go.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was to give up and leave. I’d had every intention of leaving the Wellness Clinic with Sarah Carter’s new address, but instead I was being kicked out before Nurse Peggy had spilled the beans.

  I’d seriously flunked the Jessica Fletcher test. My questions hadn’t elicited any gut-spilling confession. Why wasn’t real life ever like television?

  Peggy Martin cleared her throat and tapped the watch at her wrist. “I have patients to see, Ms. Kendricks. I’m asking you to leave so I can do my job.”

  “Only if you’ll think about what I’ve said.”

  She sighed. “If it will make you go away.”

  Well, that was good enough for me.

  I got up from the stool, hiked my purse over my shoulder, and aimed for the door.

  Our eyes met as I passed her on my way out, and I realized I’d gotten from her all I was going to get, at least for now.

  Still, I wasn’t backing down.

  I couldn’t.

  As I crawled into my steamy Jeep, I told myself to think like a detective.

  What would Nancy do? I asked, not for the first time. If Bess and Ned were busy, no doubt she’d talk to her dad.

  But since my father wasn’t around, that left only one option.

  Cissy.

  An involuntary groan escaped my lips.

  What could I possibly say to my mother after the show she’d put on last night? I had half a mind to critique her performance, and the rest of me figured I owed her an apology for embarrassing the Blevins and Kendricks alike by wearing lavender hot pants.

  I cringed as I imagined the story she’d tell her socialite chums at her next bridge game at the Junior League. . . .

  Hold on a dad-gummed minute.

  Cissy’s chums.

  Mother and her cronies helped to organize charity events to raise money for women’s health issues ranging from breast cancer to varicose veins, dealing with muckety-mucks at hospitals and clinics across the metroplex.

  If anyone could dig up the dirt on Peggy Martin, R.N., and the Wellness Clinic, she could. It could be her encore performance. Lady Snoop’s Grand Finale.

  I checked my watch and realized I had more than an hour before I had to show up at Jugs for my shift, so I put the Jeep into drive, cranked up the AC and cruised toward Buckingham Palace.

  Chapter 21

  After a slight change in plans, I ended up in Highland Park Village, near the intersection of Mockingbird and Douglas.

  I’d called Mother’s on my cell to warn Sandy I was on my way, only to be told that Cissy had buckled David into the leather passenger seat of her Lexus and had taken him to Paciugo Gelato for ice cream.

  Stop the presses!

  Can you blame me for dropping the phone in sheer astonishment and nearly running a stop sign while reaching down for it between my feet?

  Cissy Blevins Kendricks buying David a gelato?

  The woman didn’t know a Popsicle from a drumstick.

  Andy, Andy, Andy.

  Okay, I was a wee bit jealous, I’ll admit. When I was a girl, I would’ve killed to have Cissy whisk me off for an ice cream. But she’d always been too busy with her garden clubs, church meetings, and charity events. If it hadn’t been for Sandy, I never would’ve seen the inside of a Baskin-Robbins.

  Still, it didn’t take long for the envy to ebb and for real pleasure to set in. The more I thought about what my mother had done, the wider I grinned.

  Maybe Cissy was truly getting into the swing of things, even feeling charitable toward Molly. Despite all the fuss she’d put up in the beginning.

  I parked in the shadows of the Regent Highland Park Theater, perspiration dampening my skin despite the short walk into the air-conditioned building. Paciugo Gelato was in the downstairs foyer of the theater, and, judging by the number of people milling about, fiercely studying the selection of thirty-two rotating flavors, it was probably the most popular place in town on this hot, humid day.

  I spotted Mother and David easily enough.

  As odd a couple as Felix and Oscar.

  Cissy had on bright yellow, one of her new Ralph Lauren ensembles, her pale hair perfectly brushed off her face and enormous pearl clips at her ears. Her young male companion wore a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, one of the spares Maria had stuffed into his knapsack. It’s a wonder Mother had let him out of the house in it.

  I found an empty chair and dragged it over.

  Cissy glanced up, plucked brows arching deliberately as she remarked, “Well, look who’s here. And she’s got all her clothes on.”

  I gave her the evil eye and turned to David. “Whatcha eating, buddy?”

  David poked his plastic spoon into his cup and brought up a dripping mess for me to see. “It’s Cookies ’n Milk. That’s the kind of ice cream.”

  “No, honey, it’s gelato,” Cissy corrected, brushing his bangs from his forehead and ignoring my surprised look. “That’s Italian for ‘better than ice cream.’ ”

  “Yeah, better,” he echoed and stuck the loaded spoon in his mouth.

  “You doing okay?” I asked him, and his head bobbed up and down. I glanced at my mother, who nodded as well.

  “David’s been a very brave boy,” she said. “Haven’t you, sweetie?”

  He beamed at her, then turned his head to say excitedly, “Cissy’s takin’ me to a movie.”

  I set my purse in my lap and propped my chin up with a fist. Otherwise, my jaw would’ve dropped to the ground “You’re kidding. Which one?”

  “Something about a yo-yo and LifeSavers,” Mother drawled.

  Which set David to giggling. “Yoda, not yo-yo!”

  “And I think you mean light sabers,” I teased her.

  “Of course.” A smile twitched on her perfectly painted lips.

  “You’re seeing the latest Star Wars?” I could hardly believe it myself. “I practically have to call a tow to drag you with me to the Magnolia for an art film.”

  “The child wanted to go, and Sandy had some work to do for me.” She shrugged casually, toying with the remains of her lemon gelato that, not surprisingly, matched her suit.

  I squinted my eyes and peered at her closely. “So who are you and what’ve you done with my mother?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Are you channeling Mary Poppins?”

  “Hush, Andrea, you’re setting a bad example for the boy.” Mother stole a glance at David, who alternated between slurping down gelato and coloring on a tablet with a set of brand-new crayons. “After the show, I thought I’d take him to Harold’s to get a few things.”

  “How about Baby Gap,” I suggested. Did Harold’s even have stuff for kids? Mother was a tad out of her element where children’s clothing was concerned. When I was little, I’d been dressed strictly in Florence Eiseman from Marsha
ll Field’s.

  “Baby Gap? They don’t have Harley shirts, do they?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Good.” She put a little spit on a napkin and worked some gelato off David’s chin.

  I watched, amazed.

  If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.

  The six-year-old son of “that scholarship girl” had wrapped Cissy Blevins Kendricks, queen of Dallas Society, snugly around his little finger.

  I was tempted to phone “Ripley’s.”

  I couldn’t wait to tell Molly.

  “Why don’t you join us for the picture show, Andrea?”

  David looked up at me eagerly.

  “I wish I could, but I’ve got an early shift . . .”—oh, hell. I cut myself off cold.

  “An early shift?” Cissy stared. I could see what was coming, but I just couldn’t stop it. “At Jugs?”

  I placed a hand over hers, checking to make sure David had gone back to his drawing. I lowered my voice. “I’m begging you. Stay out of this.”

  With her free hand, she patted mine, and it scared me, the way she smiled. “Why should you have all the fun, darling? You’re not the only Kendricks who can be rebellious now and then.”

  “Mother,” I groaned. Rebellious to Cissy meant carrying a handbag from last season.

  “I’m concerned about you, Andrea, that’s all.” She let go of my hand. “Mr. Malone understands that, the nice man. Which reminds me, I hear you’re going to dinner with him tonight, yes?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am”—How did she know? I hadn’t let it slip, not even to Sandy—“but that has nothing to do with the case.”

  “Doesn’t it?” She touched a pearl earring, a smug little gesture that told me plenty.

  My spine went rigid. “Mother, you didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what, sweetie?”

  “You did,” I hissed under my breath, glancing over to make sure David had lost interest. His crayons were in motion, thank goodness.

  “You called Brian.”

  “He’s with the firm, darling. I often have occasion to discuss legal matters with my attorneys.”

  “With Malone?”

  “Settle down, for heaven’s sake. Don’t make a fuss. Yes, I’ve spoken with Mr. Malone now and then. He has a fine legal mind,” she drawled. “J.D. has great faith in him, and he’s often remarked about his potential in criminal defense.”