Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery

by McBride, Susan

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No.” Julie took her lover’s hand and held on tightly. “Jimmy had nothing to do with that, and neither did I.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  This time, the preacher responded. “We were together the night Bud was murdered. All night,” he emphasized, not seeming embarrassed in the least at admitting the indiscretion. Well, what was the point? “Julie pretended to feel ill so she could get out of closing up with Bud. We met here, probably around the same time as tonight. Neither of us left ’til right before sun-up.”

  “Did you pay cash?”

  “The night clerk will remember me,” he said. “I registered under the name of Larry Jones, as usual. It’ll be in their records.”

  How cozy, providing each other with alibis.

  “We’re in love,” Julie declared, gazing up at Jim Bob with gooey eyes. “Sometimes it just happens, whether you want it to or not.”

  Gag me with a silver spoon.

  I squirmed on the bedspread, still hiding the pepper spray. “The police might not be so quick to buy your story. Bud’s death set Jim Bob free of his blackmailer, plus he’ll get the money from the partner’s insurance. Not to mention full ownership of the restaurant. I’d say he had more than enough reason to want Bud gone for good.”

  “No,” Julie piped up. “That’s not the whole story.”

  Oh, man, there was more?

  “So fill me in.”

  “Bud left all his worldly goods to his mama in Arkansas. Though she hasn’t been right in the head for years. Lives in a nursing home, and she couldn’t care less about a restaurant in Dallas. Probably doesn’t even know where Dallas is. Bud was her only child. He assumed her power of attorney when the Alzheimer’s got bad.” Julie paused to glance at Jim Bob, who sighed, chin sagging to his chest. She kept going. “He had his lawyer fix up a document that said I had first dibs on buying his half of Jugs from his mama if anything ever happened to him. He wanted to make sure there was money to pay for his mama’s care, and he didn’t want Jim Bob taking over. He knew Jimmy would shut the place down, and he wanted it to be a burr in Jimmy’s hide forever and ever.”

  That certainly sounded like Bud Hartman.

  Still, it didn’t add up, not enough to satisfy me.

  “How’re you paying for Bud’s half?”

  She glanced up at Jim Bob. “I’m getting some help from Jimmy, and he’s happy to do it, aren’t you, sugar? I told him it was a small thing compared to his church finding out what a bad boy he’s been.”

  Ah. So the blackmail continued.

  I almost felt sorry for the Rev.

  Almost.

  Well, I’d heard enough for one night. I wanted to call Malone and spill the beans on Jim Bob and Julie, see what he wanted to do. I’m sure the police would definitely be interested in knowing what I’d just learned.

  I wasn’t entirely certain they weren’t guilty of stabbing Bud to death, yet nothing they’d told me so far had convinced me they had.

  My only hope was that the cops would find something on the surveillance tapes from the Jugs’s locker room that would settle everything once and for all.

  Because my detective skills seemed to be sorely lacking.

  My watch showed quarter past eleven.

  I was wiped out, and I wanted to get home.

  Nancy Drew probably packed it in every night by ten.

  “Wow,” I said. “Look at the time. It’s been fun, folks, but I’ve got to run.”

  Julie stood before me, hands on hips. “Sorry, sugar, but the party’s not over till we say it’s over.”

  Sugar.

  The word set off a loud ping in my brain.

  My heart did a nosedive into my belly as my pre-dinner discussion with Brian tumbled quickly through my head.

  “He had acute hypoglycemia . . . low blood sugar . . . no prescriptions found in his belongings besides some arthritis medication . . . they also ran something called an insulin C-peptide level, which showed the combination of very low blood sugar and a normal C-peptide . . . someone likely administered insulin from an outside source, an IV or possibly a syringe . . . the police are investigating it as a suspicious death . . .Hicks didn’t have a heart attack . . . someone tried to kill him.”

  Another conversation surfaced as well, remarks Julie had made after Bud’s funeral that hadn’t seemed to matter at the time.

  “Have you ever seen Mrs. Jim Bob? She looks like somebody blew her up with a tire pump. That’s probably how she got diabetes, from eating too much sugar.”

  I stared at the Reverend Barker.

  His wife had diabetes, which meant he had access to her medication and supplies.

  Jim Bob had killed Bud and then he’d gone after Fred Hicks, too, giving him an overdose of insulin via syringe.

  Julie was his alibi for the night of Bud’s murder. She was lying for him.

  It all fit well enough that I believed it. Which scared me silly.

  I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry.

  Julie was wrong. The party was over.

  For me, at least. I wanted out.

  “You know what? I apologize for interrupting your, uh, prayer meeting.” I couldn’t look at Jim Bob so I switched my focus to Julie, who still blocked my way to the door. “Without further ado, I’ll say goodnight and let you go back to your, um, praying.” Calmly, I slid off the bed, forgetting that I clutched the pepper spray. Without thinking, I pointed it toward Jim Bob, who still held my purse. “Would you mind giving that back, Reverend?” My voice was barely audible, even to my own ears. But apparently what I said didn’t matter.

  “Jesus, she’s got mace!” Julie cried.

  You ever see your life flash before your eyes, and it looks like an awful B-movie? In slow motion?

  Jim Bob lunged at me.

  There wasn’t time to move.

  He tackled me, throwing my body onto the bed, flat on my back, and knocking the wind from my lungs.

  I felt the mattress bounce as Julie threw herself into the mix, and four hands grabbed at mine, prying the pepper spray from my fingers. We were so tangled up, like three big kids caught in a wild game of Twister, that I didn’t even know which body parts were mine.

  “Stop struggling,” I heard Julie growl, but I wasn’t the one who struggled, pinned down as I was beneath her and Jim Bob, their combined weight making it impossible for me to draw in a deep breath, much less wrestle.

  “Help,” I gasped, which is when the blast of pepper spray hit me square in the face like a welder’s torch, burning everything it touched. I wanted to scream, but no sound emerged, my throat paralyzed. They scrambled off of me, and I doubled over, rubbing at my eyes, which only made the pain worse. I coughed and retched at once, my chest tightening horribly, so that I thought I would die then and there.

  Somebody yelped, “Now look what you’ve done,” but I was in too much discomfort to care.

  I was barely aware of being carried into the bathroom and thrown in the tub. Pipes screeched as the shower was turned on and cold water rushed at me. Voices churned around me, and hands splashed water at my face while I moaned and flopped around blindly, swallowing mucus and saliva, feeling dizziness sweep over me.

  I must’ve passed out soon after—I have a very low pain threshold—because when I came to, Julie and Jim Bob were gone.

  Chapter 24

  It took a few minutes to rouse myself to a state anywhere near awake, and a few more to unfurl my body from a fetal position. The hands of my watch were too blurry to see, so I had no idea how long I’d been curled up in the tub, soaking wet and shivering.

  The shower was no longer running, but a puddle had formed beneath me. I spit into the drain as I drew my head up from the damp plastic mat.

  Using my fingers, I pried my eyes wider and surveyed my surroundings. The white of the bathroom made me wince, and things seemed fuzzy at the edges. But at least the burning pain was go
ne. My mouth and tongue felt raw, and there was a horribly bitter aftertaste, like I’d chugged a bottle of Tabasco or swallowed fire. Which I guess I had.

  I turned on the tub and cupped my palms to catch the water. I sipped and spit each mouthful into the drain until most of the nastiness was gone. I found a damp washcloth draped over the tub’s rim and blew my nose into it none too gracefully. It took several noisy attempts before I could breathe normally.

  There. Better.

  My legs shook as I gripped the handicapped bar and drew myself up. Water dripped off my clothes, and I could still smell the spray on the fabric.

  I peeled off everything one piece at a time and turned the shower on, allowing a lukewarm drizzle to wash over me. Clumsily, I stripped off the wrapping on a tiny bar of soap and rinsed my skin thoroughly, wanting to get every bit of the chemicals off.

  By the time I’d toweled off, I nearly felt human again. I cleared a circle free of condensation on the mirror and took in my reflection.

  My eyes were puffy and red. My nose a shade closer to pink. My skin had a faint sunburned appearance, though basically it looked like I’d spent the night crying over a boyfriend who’d dumped me.

  How the heck had this happened?

  It all came back to me in a rush. My stupid attempt to confront Jim Bob and Julie, capped by a tussle on the bed and the blast of chemicals to my face.

  My head hammered with a hangover I hadn’t earned. When I’d bought the pepper spray, I’d never imagined being on the wrong end of the nozzle. The instructions said it would floor an assailant for a couple hours, but they’d mentioned nothing about knocking someone unconscious. Maybe I was more susceptible than most. Then again, as a kid, the mere sight of blood could make me pass out.

  Still, it was good to know the stuff worked. I’d just have to be more careful who it was pointed at the next time.

  I’d set my wristwatch on the counter while I’d showered. I picked it up and studied the face carefully, able to read the hands well enough.

  Eight-thirty.

  That couldn’t be right, could it?

  Had Jim Bob and Julie left me there overnight? In a pool of water in the bathtub, all by my lonesome? What if I’d croaked?

  Or was that their intention?

  Did they think I knew too much? Is that what had happened with Fred Hicks?

  What if they came back for me?

  I had to make like a banana and split.

  But I didn’t want to put back on my wet, pepper-sprayed clothes. Would I have to sneak out of the Motel 6 wearing only a towel?

  Oh, God. I was going to have to call Mother, wasn’t I? Then I’d have to tell her what had happened, how I’d put myself in grave danger by getting myself locked in a motel room with a couple of killers, or a killer and his mistress, anyway.

  Another shot of pepper spray was almost more appealing, but there was no way around it.

  I reached for the knob and turned. Pushed harder, finally getting my shoulder into the act, but the door wouldn’t budge.

  No, no, no!

  They’d wedged something against the knob on the other side. Probably the desk chair.

  If I were at the Ritz-Carlton, I could use the phone beside the toilet, an amenity that Motel 6 obviously didn’t offer.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  My voice didn’t sound like much, more like a rasp than a howl, but I yelled as fervently as my lungs could bear and pounded on the door with my fists. When no one came to my aid, I began to bang on the walls. Surely someone would hear and call the front desk.

  “Help, please . . . help!”

  It was another fifteen minutes before I heard noises on the other side, and the door popped open to reveal a redheaded girl with a ponytail in a starched white shirt with a nametag that identified her as NANCY AMES, ASST. MANAGER. Alongside her stood a bemused older woman in a maid’s uniform.

  “Good Lord, chil’,” the latter said, her drawl pure East Texas, “how in hell did ya get yourself stuck like this?”

  “Bless you,” I croaked and planted a kiss on her gray-frizzed head. Then I gripped the hand of the assistant manager and nearly pumped her arm off. “I was getting claustrophobic.”

  “Should we call someone for you? Maybe the police?” Ms. Ames tentatively asked. “Were you shut in on purpose? This room was registered to one of our regulars, Mr. Larry Jones, so if he did anything . . .”

  Maybe I should’ve told her to ring up the police, but instead, “It’s just a small misunderstanding,” came out raggedly through my lips. An understatement of the year if ever there was one.

  She looked skeptical. “If you say so.”

  “I do.” I would talk to the cops about Jim Bob myself.

  “All right, we’ll leave you alone then.”

  She shooed the housekeeper from the room, the older woman muttering again about “these crazy kids.” I walked to the door, blinking at the piercing sunlight. I shielded my eyes with my hand and glanced across the parking lot to see my Jeep sitting a bit lower than it should have.

  My gaze dropped to the tires, and I realized they were flat on the ground.

  Son of a gun.

  Someone—and I knew damned well who—had let the air out.

  Did they think stranding me at the Motel 6 would keep me silent until they could get their stories straight for the police? Or worse, run off to Belize?

  I bit my lip to keep from sobbing.

  Slowly, I closed the door and retrieved my cell from the dresser where Jim Bob had flung it. I sighed with sheer joy when I heard the dial tone. Then I hit the button to speed-call Mother on her private line.

  “Please, please, don’t ask,” I said the instant my mother picked up on her end. “Just grab some clothes and shoes I can borrow, and come get me.” To her credit, she made only a small noise of surprise when I told her my location. “Oh, and would you call AAA and tell them I have four flats?”

  She didn’t say a word other than to assure me she was on her way.

  Not even to chastise me, and the mess I’d found myself mired in, or to bemoan how my life would have been so much easier if I’d gone to SMU and pledged Pi Phi.

  Under any other circumstance, I would’ve assumed Cissy’d been lobotomized.

  But, for now, I was grateful.

  Mother wasn’t nearly so quiet on the drive to the restaurant. I filled her in on the bare essentials of what I’d done: tracking down Julie and Jim Bob to the Motel 6 and accidentally getting doused with my own pepper spray. She didn’t need to know that I thought Jim Bob was a cold-blooded killer. Since she saw for herself that I was shaken up, but alive, it opened the door for a genteel drubbing.

  “You should’ve had Mr. Malone accompany you, at the very least. What in heaven’s name were you thinking, going after those two alone?”

  “Mo-ther.” I dragged the word out into two long syllables.

  “You must take after your uncle Darwin on your father’s side, because the Blevins certainly don’t have any crazy people in our attics.”

  Ouch.

  “You should’ve known better,” she clucked. “I should ground you for a month.”

  “You can’t ground me. I don’t even live at home.”

  “Watch me.”

  I sighed and stared out the window of the Lexus, wishing she would cease and desist, but there was little hope of that.

  Whatever she doled out, I had to take. She’d ridden to my rescue again, extricating me from a bind tighter than Grandmother’s girdle. Not only had she taken care of my Jeep with a phone call to the mechanic who babied her Lexus—rather than AAA—but she’d brought me clothes from her own closet. The very back of her closet, I should say. I had on the navy blue short-sleeved silk sweat suit that I’d given her last Christmas, one she’d never worn. On my feet, a pair of her Ralph Lauren sneakers that were also brand new and half a size too small.

  But I was hardly in a position to gripe. My wet clothes and shoes were rolled up and stowed i
n a plastic Motel 6 laundry bag in the trunk. My mother insisted on taking them to the dry cleaners for decontamination once I’d mentioned the pepper spray.

  Before she’d let me into her car, she’d made me call Brian and relay the story to him via my cell phone. I felt like I’d been punished twice already.

  “I told you to stay out of this from the beginning, didn’t I?” She rubbed it in, her usually smooth drawl crisp around the edges. “Instead, you had to stick your nose where it didn’t belong, and you nearly got yourself killed because of it.”

  “It was only pepper spray, Mother.”

  “Well, it didn’t do a thing for your appearance. You look like something that Houston dentist ran over three times in her Mercedes.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.”

  I’d removed my contacts and added some eye drops before I’d donned my glasses, and my skin wasn’t so red anymore. Whatever adverse effects I’d had from the chemicals had worn off, although the bad taste in my mouth remained. But it had little to do with the spray I’d swallowed.

  Much as I hated to admit it, Cissy was right.

  I’d screwed up.

  I only hoped I hadn’t done too much damage. I knew Jim Bob had enough money to disappear for parts unknown with his paramour, never to be heard from again. Was it too late to call his prayer line and put in a bid against that happening?

  I guess I’d know soon enough if Julie had fled Dallas with him, since Jugs was fast approaching. I could already spot the huge billboard that towered over the Villa Mesa parking lot.

  It wasn’t yet ten o’clock, but at least one blue-and-white was already parked at the front of the building. Malone’s blood-red Acura was there, too, and a dark sedan I didn’t recognize.

  Since it looked like the gang was all there, I asked Mother to slip the Lexus into a spot near the entrance.

  She made a noise as she turned off the ignition. “Oh, pish, I nearly forgot.”

  “Forgot what?” I’d unhooked my seatbelt but remained in the seat.

  “You asked me to dig into the Mothers Against Pornography, so that’s what I did.”

  I sighed, about to tell her it didn’t matter anymore, when she reached across me for the glove box, popped it open, and retrieved a black plastic box.