Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery

by McBride, Susan

  She dropped it into my lap. “I phoned that precious Cinda Lou Mitchell . . .”

  “Precious?” I muttered, prying the box open to reveal a cassette marked with a label that read MAP and last year’s date.

  “. . . and I asked her if she could help me with a project I was doing, researching women’s groups in the city that needed funding,” she went on, hardly slowing down. “I inquired about footage her station might have on Mothers Against Porn and their protest targets, and she had this tape ready for me first thing this mornin’.”

  I wondered exactly what was on it, and if it was even worth watching at this point, but I thanked her regardless.

  She put her hand on my shoulder as I reached for the door handle.

  “Andrea, darling, I’m not done.”

  I let go of the door and swiveled back around. “What else?” I whined, impatient to get inside.

  “You wanted the story on the Women’s Wellness Clinic and Peggy Martin, and I’ve got it, chapter and verse.” She fiddled with a faceted rock on her finger that winked in the light spilling in through the windshield. “Peggy Martin used to be married to a prominent urologist at Medical City. Buffy Winspear’s brother-in-law saw him for prostate problems, though he swears the surgery was botched because he ended up impotent.”

  I groaned. “Too much information.”

  She sniffed, ignoring me. “Peggy Martin and her husband were divorced some years ago, and she opened the clinic after she went back to school to get her nursing degree.” She touched a pinky to her mouth, fixing her lipstick in the rearview. “Apparently, the money came from her settlement with Chet.”

  “So she got divorced from a urologist named Chet Martin? So what?”

  I didn’t see how this whiff of gossip would help Molly at all.

  Mother reached for her Prada purse as she said, “No, honey, that’s her name, not his. Buffy said she went back to Martin after the split. Her married name was Carter.”

  Carter?

  My ears rang.

  “Did you ask if they had a daughter?” I couldn’t bear drawing this out any longer. “Is she named Sarah?”

  “Of course, I asked,” she snipped. “Buffy couldn’t recall the girl’s name specifically, but she did remember the Carters had tried to get the child into Hockaday. She was turned down, poor dear. You see, Donald Winspear was on the board and blamed Dr. Carter for the trouble with his, ah, equipment . . .”

  She kept on a while more, but I no longer listened.

  I’d already heard enough.

  My mother’s girl talk with her pal Buffy Winspear had proven more fruitful than my trip to the Wellness Clinic. Now I knew that Sarah Carter wasn’t just another Jugs waitress whom Bud had taken up with. She was Peggy Martin’s daughter. Which made all the sense in the world. It explained Nurse Peggy’s strong resistance to telling me where Sarah was and what had gone on between her and Hartman.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Malone.

  Though I wasn’t sure how important it was.

  With Mother not far behind, I stuffed the videotape in my purse, scrambled out of the Lexus, and strode toward the building’s entrance.

  The double doors pushed open at my touch, and I led Mother inside the hallowed walls of Jugs, only half-listening to her critique of the abominable décor as well as the dress and demeanor of the customers she’d seen when she’d barged in the other night.

  The sound of raised voices led me straight to the locker rooms. As I entered, I spotted a hysterical Julie, a brown-suited Brian Malone, and a slender, balding fellow in a dark suit congregated with two uniformed cops and a jeans-clad guy with a ponytail and orange shirt that had HI-TECH printed in black letters across his shoulder blades.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Julie was ranting. “Just what do y’all think you’re doing?”

  All eyes were on her as the dark-suited man, whom I pegged as Assistant D.A. Lindstrom, calmly held out a baby-blue legal document to her, though she kept slapping it away.

  Only Malone turned as I quietly slipped into the room with Mother on my heels. He raised his eyebrows, and I shrugged helplessly. I’d asked her to wait for me out in the dining room, but she’d politely declined. Apparently, she wanted to keep me in plain sight for the rest of my life.

  Trying to remain unobtrusive, I stuck my hands in my trouser pockets and watched from the sidelines. I prayed Mother would do the same.

  “You can’t push me around like this!” Julie wailed. “I’ll call my lawyer!”

  “You can call an attorney if you want, Ms. Costello, but that won’t change things,” Lindstrom told her.

  “What gives you the right to tear my place apart?”

  “If you’d read the warrant, ma’am,” he said and tried to present it again.

  She smacked it away.

  “Consider yourself served,” he barked at her and stuck the document down the front of her open-necked T-shirt, where it wedged tightly in her cleavage. Since I’d seen Julie stash her tips there, it wasn’t altogether a bad choice. “We’ve authority to search the premises for surveillance equipment that might yield evidence in the investigation of Bud Hartman’s murder.”

  As Julie argued with him, I watched Malone make his way to my side.

  He nodded at Mother before turning his attention on me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll survive.”

  If he noticed my eyes were still red behind my wirerims, he didn’t say a thing. And I liked him all the better for it.

  “I’ve got news about Sarah Carter,” I told him, and filled him in on what my mother had learned from her friend, that Sarah was Peggy Martin’s kid, which would explain why Peggy acted so overprotective about the missing waitress.

  When I’d finished, he said, “When we’re through here, I want you to tell Lindstrom everything you know that relates to this investigation. And I mean everything.”

  I nodded.

  Mother tapped my shoulder. “Is that the woman who paralyzed you with your own pepper spray?” she breathed in my ear.

  “Hush,” I warned her, turning back to Malone. He looked at me in the most extraordinary way, and I felt self-conscious and, worse, guilty. I hadn’t exactly filled him in on my theory that Jim Bob was responsible for Bud’s murder and Fred Hicks’s insulin overdose, though I promised myself I’d tell him as soon as I could do it without whispering. I figured the surveillance tapes would prove Reverend Barker was guilty anyway, and I didn’t want to distract him from the events at hand.

  Which seemed to be getting interesting. “Did I miss much?” I asked.

  “We’re just getting started. Julie Costello hasn’t exactly been cooperating.”

  Right on cue, she let out a hellacious scream.

  “Stop, right there!” Julie shrieked as the Hi-Tech guy crouched atop the lockers and began to pry the ceiling fixture from its home, sending a shower of plaster down on those below.

  “Careful, dammit! Do you have any clue what fixtures cost these days?”

  Ignoring her cries, the ponytailed fellow kept working until he’d dislodged a small camera and transmitter. He disconnected the pieces and handed them down to one of the cops, before hopping to the floor. He pointed eagerly. “The rest of the stuff’s in thirteen.”

  “Excuse me,” Malone whispered, slipping away to join the circle of bodies that formed around lucky locker number 13. From where I stood, I could see it was bolted closed with a sturdy-looking Yale lock that seemed more apropos of a storage shed.

  “Get it open,” Lindstrom snapped to no one in particular, and one of the uniforms pulled his gun from his holster and took off the safety.

  Julie flung herself in front of the locker, arms outspread. “You’re not shooting anything, you got that?”

  Lindstrom seemed to weigh his options for a moment before commanding, “Get the metal cutters from the trunk, would you? And, please, take Ms. Costello from the room, if you would. Perhaps she’d be more comfortable in the back of the s
quad car.”

  One of the boys in blue eagerly took Julie’s arm and held on despite her attempts to shake him off. She caught sight of me as he futilely attempted to usher her toward the exit door.

  “You! This is all your fault, you nosy bitch!” Julie glanced around her frantically, appealing to anyone who would listen. Her gaze stopped on Malone. She stabbed her finger at him. “Hey, I recognize you! You’re the boyfriend who dumped her when she found out she was pregnant! Except none of it was real, was it?”

  Mother’s elbow bumped my ribs, but I didn’t react.

  “And you!” she turned her tirade upon Cissy. “You’re the nutty Mother who stormed into the restaurant, aren’t you?” Julie howled, “They were all spyin’ on me, don’t you get it?” Her voice spiraled higher, like an out-of-control soprano.

  “Sweetie,” my mother called to Julie in her best-honeyed drawl and pointed at her mouth. “You’ve got lipstick on your teeth, dear.”

  Julie instantly clammed up, and the cop was able to shepherd her from the locker room without further resistance.

  “Mother,” I scolded.

  Cissy shrugged. “Well, she did.”

  The second cop returned with a tool that resembled oversized wire clippers. In the blink of an eye, he snapped the lock apart.

  Lindstrom opened the locker to reveal what appeared to be a compact-sized VCR, even a tiny black-and-white monitor.

  “It’s got infrared digital surveillance capabilities with as high-powered a receiver as you can get anywhere,” the Hi-Tech guy explained as he poked and prodded the thing until it spit out a videocassette, which he held out like a trophy. “Looks like this has the most recent images. It can print them out as individual frames, or you can view it like a video.”

  Malone’s sideways glance met mine.

  “The machine time and date stamps everything, so you’ll know exactly when all the images were shot,” the Hi-Techie went on.

  “Thanks for your cooperation.” Lindstrom took the cassette from him. “I’ll copy the thing for you, Malone, after I’ve had a chance to look it over downtown.”

  I tugged on Brian’s sleeve. “There’s a VCR and TV in the office,” I told him.

  He turned to Lindstrom. “If you don’t mind, Jed, I’d like to take a peek at the video now. Its contents could potentially vindicate my client, and I’d hate for her to stay locked up a minute longer than necessary. I’d also like for Ms. Kendricks here to take a look.” The faint stammer kicked into gear, “S-she might be able to help us identify people on the tape. She has, er, an inside knowledge of the restaurant.”

  Lindstrom eyed me skeptically.

  “C’mon, Jed,” Malone turned persuasive. “Don’t you want to make sure you’ve got the right person in jail?”

  Lindstrom softened. “Okay, I’ll give you this one, but you owe me.”

  “Lead the way, Andy,” Malone said.

  After begging my mother to wait for me in the dining room, I left the yellow lockers behind and marched up the hallway to Bud’s office.

  Malone and the assistant D.A. entered after me. Lindstrom closed the door.

  It wasn’t difficult for them to spot the electronics equipment behind Bud’s desk. They made a beeline to it and switched on the TV so that a blue screen popped up. Then Lindstrom pushed the cassette in the VCR and pressed “play.”

  The television went from blue to fuzzy for a minute before the locker room came into focus from a bird’s-eye view. The wide-angled image was a crisp black and white. For several long moments, the room stood empty, the time ticking off the seconds at half-past six in the morning. Lindstrom fast-forwarded it until people came into view.

  The lunch shift, I realized, recognizing Rhonda, Christie, and Ginger, feeling almost queasy peering down at them while they undressed to don their uniforms.

  I closed my eyes.

  “Move it ahead, would you,” Malone asked.

  After forwarding and pausing half a dozen more times, Lindstrom finally paused the tape when the date stamp showed midnight on the eve of Bud’s murder.

  Girls went in and out, touching up makeup, fixing a ponytail, shedding clothing. I knew most of the names and reeled them off when I could. Then, at around eight o’clock, there was Julie, dragging Molly into the changing room, holding her by the arm as they had what appeared to be a heated conversation.

  “Julie Costello and Molly O’Brien,” I said, my mouth dry. “I’ll bet that’s when Julie asked Molly to close for her. I know Molly didn’t want to. She never liked to be alone with Bud after that one . . . mistake.”

  “Thanks for the running commentary, Ms. Kendricks,” Lindstrom remarked.

  Malone squeezed my hand.

  But I paid no attention to either of them. My eyes were glued to the screen.

  Lindstrom forwarded the tape carefully, through long periods of nothing, stopping every now and again when someone came into view.

  And then it was midnight, and the lights went out in the locker room, allowing the invisible infrared beams from the camera to take over. No wonder Bud had paid through the nose for the equipment. The images stayed crisp, the details virtually as vivid as before. There was Molly, tugging off her uniform and pulling on her street clothes. As she did, Bud appeared on the edge of the screen, lingering near the doorway and then moving closer.

  I felt afraid, even then. The hair bristled on my arms. Because I knew what was coming, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

  Molly pulled her shirt over her head, leaving the hem outside her blue jeans, and turned around, coming face to face with Hartman, his broad form blocking her escape.

  She did a little two-step and slipped past him, though his hand reached for her as she went by, before he followed her and disappeared from the frame.

  I could imagine the next few minutes as the time stamp slowly ticked them off on the screen.

  Bud catching up to Molly and pushing her against the counter in the kitchen. Pinning her beneath him, giving her no choice but to reach behind her for the knife and to strike out at him.

  I stared at the colorless locker room on the monitor.

  It was deserted.

  I ached for someone else to show up, to prove Molly wasn’t the last one who’d seen Bud alive, but there was nothing there.

  Nothing.

  My heart sank.

  “Well, looks like the show’s over, folks,” Lindstrom declared, and he moseyed over to the VCR.

  “Wait,” I said, seeing something in the corner of the screen.

  Lindstrom hesitated.

  The locker room was no longer empty.

  A figure appeared, lurking at the edge of the room, keeping against the wall and inching toward the doorway. I squinted, as if that might help me detect a gait pattern, a distinct feature, anything more than a sturdy backside and the top of a baseball hat.

  “Someone else was there,” I said, though Malone and Lindstrom saw it, too. I felt Malone’s fingers settle over mine.

  Was it Jim Bob?

  Or Sarah?

  “Freeze it, Jed!” he hissed, and the assistant D.A. caught the VCR in time to pause the frame as the figure stepped into the doorway.

  It was hard to make out much beyond a body clothed in dark-hued top and pants, maybe a sweat suit. The bill of the baseball cap hid the face so all I could delineate was a vague curve of a chin.

  I couldn’t tell who it was, but I knew what it meant.

  Fresh hope bubbled inside me. I could hardly breathe; the realization was so overwhelming.

  “This changes everything,” Malone announced, voicing my thoughts exactly. “It proves Molly O’Brien was not alone with Hartman the night he was killed.”

  “Let’s not be hasty, my friend. But it does bear looking into,” Lindstrom agreed, albeit reluctantly. “Do you recognize our mystery man?”

  “I can’t see squat.” Malone shook his head. “What about you, Andy?”

  I took a step closer to the television screen, as
if that would help my vision. The odd upper-deck view didn’t help. Neither did my recent pepper-spray episode, which made things blur the more I stared. Something did strike me as odd, but it was hard to put into words. Maybe it was the shoes. I couldn’t visualize them, couldn’t see if they had laces or stripes. It was almost as if the person wore slippers. But I kept that to myself, preferring not to be laughed out of the room by a sarcastic assistant D.A.

  Sighing, I gave up. “I can’t tell anything from this.”

  Malone gently patted my back. “The police can analyze the tape, digitally enhance it. Maybe that’ll make whoever it is more identifiable.”

  “I hope so.”

  Because it was the best shot Molly had.

  After the viewing, I talked to Lindstrom for nearly forty-five minutes while one of the officers took notes. I didn’t leave anything out, and my detailed description of the night before had Malone turning purple. I couldn’t look at him without my voice cracking.

  When I was done, Lindstrom told me they were taking Julie down to the station house for questioning. He also was sending a squad car to bring in Jim Bob Barker. Lindstrom seemed particularly interested in grilling the preacher after hearing about the man’s diabetic wife, his affair with Julie Costello, and Bud’s blackmailing him. The Reverend Barker certainly had some “’splaining to do,” as Desi used to say to Lucy.

  The surveillance equipment and tapes from the restaurant were packed up for review downtown along with what they’d recovered from Bud’s condominium. I suggested they have a chat with Peggy Martin at some point to find out where her daughter went and if she was okay.

  Something about the elusive Sarah Carter still rattled me.

  Malone volunteered to take me home after a cell phone call confirmed that Mother’s mechanic had returned my Jeep to my condo, all four tires full of air. Cissy only let me go after fussing over me for a few long minutes, tucking my hair behind my ears, and adjusting the collar on the sweat-top. If it had been anyone but Brian, I doubt she would’ve let me go.

  On the way to my place, Brian let me have it. He ranted on about my ill-advised involvement in the case and how I should never have trailed Jim Bob to the motel alone. I sat there and took it until he parked in front of my unit—right beside my resurrected Jeep—when he finally stopped to draw a breath.