“As a bug in a rug,” Cissy said, with a saccharine-sweetness to her voice that made me wince, particularly since I was fully aware of her disapproval at how close Malone and I had gotten without the benefits of holy matrimony.
Mind you, she’s the one who’d thrown us together, but now she wished she could keep us an arm’s length apart—or at least rig me up with a chastity belt—until wedding bells pealed. As soon as “I do’s” were exchanged, Brian would be one of her favorite people in the world again. But that wasn’t going to happen, not anytime soon, no matter how she looked down her nose at our “arrangement.”
My nosy neighbor Penny George—one of her church buddies—had spied Malone’s red Acura coupe parked in front of my condo overnight early on and had generously passed the news along to Cissy. If I got the “why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free” lecture one more time, I was gonna do more than moo.
“He’s in the middle of a big case”—I sent a warning look at Mother and turned the tables on Annabelle—“what about you? Did you settle down, get married?” I didn’t see a ring on her finger.
“Oh, heavens, no.” She twirled a strand of hair, an old habit she obviously hadn’t broken. “Been too busy these past years, building a company.”
“I still can’t believe it. Have you really been in town for months, AB? When did you first bump into Mother? Why didn’t you call me?”
Annabelle glanced at Cissy. “I ran into your mama a few weeks ago, actually. I’d been going back and forth a lot to Austin. Transitioning, you know. And I was usually busy in the office when she came on Wednesdays for her bridge group. But I took a breather and wandered over to the recreation room, and my eyes nearly fell out of my head when I saw her. She looked exactly as I remembered.”
“Oh, go on,” Cissy said, a glutton for flattery if ever there was one.
“It was like coming home, truly. I asked about you, Andy, and she gave me your number. But things have been crazy around here, getting everything up and running, settling the residents in, and then losing Bebe like that.” She kept twisting the hair until it tangled. She uncaught herself and dropped her hand.
“It’s all right,” I said, not wanting to make her feel worse. Besides, I’d been busy, too, designing Web sites for fun (and nonprofit) and grabbing time with Malone whenever he wasn’t buried in briefs at Abramawitz, Reynolds, Goldberg, and Hunt, better known around these parts as ARGH.
“Why don’t you show Andrea around Belle Meade, Annabelle?” my mother suggested, and I looked at my old camp comrade expectantly.
I was actually dying to get the scoop on why she’d come back to Dallas to build and run a swanky retirement facility. I recalled that her parents had lived on one of the lakes near Austin, which is why she’d gone to school at UT, to be near home after years away in boarding school and a smorgasbord of camps during summer breaks.
“Well, goodness’ sakes, I’d love to give you the grand tour, Sparky . . . in a little bit, all right? First, let’s head into the dining room, shall we? That’s where we’re holding the reception in honor of Miss Bebe. Some of the folks couldn’t make the memorial service this morning. It’s not easy for all of ’em to get around,” she remarked, herding us through the foyer, toward the sound of music. “But they surely loved Mrs. Kent, and they wanted to put together a fitting tribute for her. I’d like to think it’s just what she would’ve wanted . . . especially since she left us such detailed instructions, which we followed to the letter.”
Ah, now that sounded like something my mother would do. Leave me explicit directions on how to arrange her send-off, from start to finish, as well as how to live my life each day thereafter.
Cissy took that moment to clear her throat gently, and I braced myself. Mother’s throat clearings were often a warning sign in the vein of a tornado siren; a portent of bad things to come, like breaking a mirror or stepping on a crack.
All hands on deck! Lower the rowboats! Grab your life vests!
“Speaking of Bebe,” she began, benignly enough, “I have a few questions about what happened, if you don’t mind.”
We had passed a pair of elevators with polished gold doors and walked down a hallway lined with wrought-iron sconces that illuminated gilt-framed oils of landscapes and seascapes.
Annabelle didn’t slow down, merely inquired over her shoulder. “What kind of questions?”
“How exactly did she die?” Cissy asked without further preamble, the directness of it apparently catching Annabelle off guard. She stopped in midstep, swayed, and paused before a large painting of a shipwreck.
The music seemed louder where we stood, and I could hear the murmur of voices, the clinking of silverware, so I figured the dining room wasn’t much farther. My stomach must’ve heard as well and started grumbling.
Annabelle hesitated, gnawing on her bottom lip a moment before she answered my mother. “When she didn’t show for her water aerobics class on Thursday morning, I called to check on her, but got her voice mail. I didn’t think too much of it, knowing what a busy woman Bebe was, until she missed lunch as well, and she never misses the Niçoise salad. It’s one of Chef Jean’s specialties.”
“Go on,” Mother prompted.
Annabelle fidgeted, fussing with the oil, straightening a corner that didn’t appear to be crooked. “Well, I tried calling again to no avail, and I got worried. I was heading over when I was paged by Elvira from Housekeeping.” The pitch of her voice fell. “Elvira was babbling that she hadn’t known Mrs. Kent was home and had let herself in, not aware that anything was wrong, until she went up to the master bedroom and found her. It must’ve happened in her sleep, because she never rang her panic button.
“Oh, dear.” She pressed fingertips to forehead, as if to clear her mind of an unpleasant image. Then she went on, more slowly. “I got over there as fast as I could. Bebe was lying in bed, neat as could be, with her eyes closed and in a lovely nightgown with lace trim on the neck and sleeves. I immediately phoned our doctor—Arnold Finch, you’ll meet him at the reception, Andy. There wasn’t a thing he could’ve done. Our Bebe had gone quietly while she dreamed.”
“You found her on Thursday, you say,” Mother repeated, shaking her head. “I don’t understand because she was absolutely fine at bridge on Wednesday. No complaints about anything except the bad cards we were dealt and needing a refill of her allergy prescription because the mold count was up.”
“That’s how it happens so often, without a warning to anyone.” Annabelle wrung her hands. “Just nature running its course and us powerless to change it.”
“But she looked well, except for the ragweed . . .”
“Looks can be deceiving, Miss Cissy,” Annabelle snapped; then seemed to realize her bad manners. She sighed. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t easy to discuss. I wish we could’ve done something for Bebe, I really do. But the Man Upstairs must’ve called her back so she could be with her beloved Homer again.”
Mother didn’t seem at all convinced, if the hard set of her jaw was any indication. “So you discovered her on Thursday, and she was buried on Friday.”
“Yes, those were her own instructions, to be interred beside Homer in a speedy fashion.”
“So speedy that no type of . . . physical examination was done,” Mother said delicately, and Annabelle shook her head. “If that’s the case, how can anyone know for sure that what happened to Bebe was entirely natural?”
“Dr. Finch made that determination, of course, and our security team found no signs of foul play, no indication of a forced entry. Nothing in the house was disturbed or appeared to be missing.”
Security team, I mused, as in the white-haired Bob and his cohort Sam? Were they certified in crime-scene investigation by AAA or the AARP? I wondered.
“What if they missed something subtle?” Mother pressed. “Were blood tests run? Did she have a fatal disease? Was it salmonella or food poisoning?”
“It was cardiac arrest, Miss Cissy. Her heart just s
topped beating, that’s what Dr. Finch said.” Annabelle reached for Mother’s hand, clasping it hard enough to make Cissy flinch. “Please, don’t do this. It doesn’t help Bebe any for us to ponder why she left us. Just accept it, and let’s move forward. She would’ve wanted that.”
Not for the first time since we’d run into her, tears sprang to Annabelle’s eyes, glistening on her lashes, and she sniffed as she let go of Cissy’s hand. “Let’s not talk about this anymore, shall we? I’m sure y’all are hungry, and Chef Jean has laid out quite a spread. Let’s go enjoy ourselves. Bebe would’ve expected it.”
With that, she pivoted and strode forward, up the hallway, not waiting to see if we followed, obviously sure that we would. Or maybe hoping we wouldn’t.
I took a couple steps forward, hesitated, and turned around.
Mother hadn’t budged an inch.
She snapped open her purse and removed her compact, popping it wide and glancing at herself in the tiny mirror, snatching out the powder puff and blotting at her cheeks a little too ferociously.
I walked back to her.
“It can’t be,” she murmured. “It’s absurd, really. I heard what Annabelle said, but I’m not at all convinced.”
“What’s wrong?” A knot of worry gripped my chest. Cissy was taking Bebe Kent’s death awfully hard, it seemed, as if she were looking for someone to blame or a way to find fault. Like she needed to point the finger at something or someone before she could put her grief to rest.
She clamped the compact shut and shoved it back inside her tiny bag. Her jaw betrayed a vague tremor as she looked me squarely in the eye and proclaimed, “Beatrice Kent was one of my dearest friends for thirty years, and I knew things about her that even her doctor didn’t.”
Oh, boy. I crossed my arms. “Like what, Mother?”
“If Annabelle found Bebe lying in her bed, neatly tucked in and wearing a frothy nightgown, then something funny’s afoot.”
Something funny’s afoot?
Are you kidding me? She sounded like Angela Lansbury in an old episode of Murder, She Wrote, and I would’ve laughed except she looked so dad-blamed serious.
“What’s so strange about that?”
Didn’t lots of older folks pass away peacefully in their sleep? It sounded pretty reasonable and not a bad way to go if the Big Guy was pushing your punch card.
A spark lit her eyes, and she raised her chin, the very image of defiant. “Bebe never wore a nightgown to bed, not unless she was visitin’ friends or had overnight guests. She once told me that she’d slept in the buff for as long as she’d been alive. Naked as the day she was born. Homer used to joke that he made her keep a robe at the foot of the bed just in case there was a fire and she had to jump out a window. Don’t you get it?”
Get it? I was trying hard to erase the mental image of a bare-nekked Bebe dangling from a windowsill.
“Someone must’ve done this to her, don’t you see?” Cissy insisted and tugged at my sleeve. “It’s like someone’s sending me a sign, and I’ve got to follow the arrow, sugar, wherever it takes me.”
“What arrow?” Oh, man, I wasn’t in the mood for one of her conspiracy theories. Not even close. “See what?”
She blinked, bemused by my lack of empathy. So she slowed her drawl to halftime, as if I were a dimwit with an IQ to match my hardly significant bra size. “It couldn’t have happened the way Annabelle said it did. Bebe wouldn’t have gone to bed in anything but her birthday suit, not in her own home. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?” I asked, on cue, fighting the urge to groan.
“Someone else must’ve been there, and whoever it was must’ve wanted it to look like she’d gone peacefully, only she was pushed.” As if I didn’t get what she meant, she drew a finger across her throat.
Her words made me dizzy. What was she saying? That someone shut off Bebe’s lights—permanently—dressed her in a pretty nightgown, then covered up by neatly tucking her into bed?
Ah, geez.
If only Mother were a drinker, I could write this one off.
Instead, I took a deep breath, wishing I’d gone to Bubba’s for fried chicken.
Here Cissy was, talking murder, and we hadn’t even had lunch yet.
Chapter 5
“Mother, promise you won’t mention this to anyone else, okay? Let’s keep it between us for now, our little secret, please?”
Oliver Stone had nothing on Cissy.
She and her clubby compadres had a fondness for coming up with flaky conspiracy theories to pass the time between bridge hands, cake and coffee. Though usually silly beyond belief, once in a while they’d concoct a real doozy that had a pinch of merit. Like the idea that e-mails were a plot to eliminate the writing of proper thank-you notes. I’ll bet the Cranes—that’s the stationery Cranes—wouldn’t disagree.
“But, Andrea, how can we keep such a thing secret if there’s a killer on the lam?” she said matter-of-factly. “Shouldn’t people know so they can protect themselves? What if he should strike again?”
Protect themselves?
I figured the folks who lived here had more protection than some mob families. There were cameras at the end of the drive, at the front door of the “manor house,” as it was apparently called, and probably elsewhere on the grounds. They had Bob and Sam on patrol, and magnetic key cards to gain admittance to the main building. Did Mother want the residents to take up arms, like aging Rambos jacked-up on Centrum Silver?
“Andrea, are you listenin’ to me? Don’t I have a responsibility to share what I know is the truth?”
I gnawed on my bottom lip, wanting to choose my words carefully. There were plenty of times when Mother and I debated politics or fashion, but wrangling over a touchy subject like murder left me feeling terribly ill equipped.
“Consider this, okay?” Oh, my, where to begin? “If there was any proof at all that an actual psycho attacked Beatrice Kent, I’m sure Annabelle would have been the first to inform all the residents.” And call in the National Guard. “But there isn’t any evidence, you see? If there were signs of an intruder, the security people would’ve summoned the police. If Bebe hadn’t gone naturally, the staff doctor would’ve flagged it. So if you go around insinuating that a homicidal maniac dressed Bebe in her nightgown and tucked her into bed after doing away with her, you’ll totally freak everyone out, particularly Annabelle, who’s clearly still shaken.”
Mother seemed to be paying attention, so I pressed on. “You’re grieving for your friend, I know, and it’s hard to think straight when your heart is broken. But, you have to accept that Bebe’s gone, and you can’t bring her back. You need to let go. Don’t read more into things and make it worse. It’s not good for you. You’ll make yourself sick. So, pretty please, drop it,” I begged, all but down on my knees.
Besides, if Cissy ran around the reception, crying “murder,” one of the white coats might decide to zip her up in an unfashionable wraparound jacket with extralong sleeves, tossing in a free trip to the local hospital psych ward as a bonus gift, which might interfere with the busy fundraising season ahead.
“Are you finished?” she asked.
“Are you?”
“For the moment,” she said, hardly reassuring me, and resumed walking, past the shipwreck painting and toward the door that Annabelle had slipped through a moment before.
“Hey, hold on!” I had to do a little jig around her, stopping her just before the entrance to the dining hall. I held out my arms like a traffic cop, blocking her way, unwilling to go any farther unless she agreed. It had been a trying enough day already, and it wasn’t quite noon.
I hadn’t exactly gotten the go-sign from her that I’d needed, and I certainly didn’t want her to cause a scene at the reception, simply because she was on serious emotional overload and her mind was playing games with her common sense. Even in lesser moments, Mother tended toward the dramatic, making molehills into Greek tragedies; this morning, she’d cranked her paranoia into high gea
r.
And people told me that I had a vivid imagination.
Clearly, it was inherited.
“Promise me you’ll behave?” I asked again when she didn’t respond, merely skewered me with a piercing stare, her lips pulled taut. “Did you hear me, Mother? If you don’t swear you’ll put the kibosh on your Twilight Zone scenario about how Bebe died, I’ll march you out the front door and have Fredrik drive you home right this minute.”
“And will you count to ten in French and give me a time-out?”
“Mu-ther. Stop kidding around.”
“Don’t worry, Sparky, I’ll play nice,” she said dryly, shifting her gaze toward the dining room doors.
I was tempted to check her hands to see if she were crossing her fingers.
Why didn’t I believe her?
“All right.” I let out a breath, still uneasy, because my instincts were screaming that I should march her back out the front door and get her home pronto.
Bebe’s death had obviously discombobulated Cissy more than I’d imagined, and it troubled me, even scared me a little. She’d lost lifelong friends before, and it had knocked her for a loop each time; but she had never reacted like this. Never insisted one of them was liquidated.
If she didn’t regroup in a couple days, I might have to call Dr. Cooper and make an appointment for a physical. I didn’t want her making herself sick.
“Stick with me, will you, please?” I implored and caught her elbow as she brushed past me, heading toward the French doors. I wanted to keep her within shouting distance until we could leave. “We’ll only stay long enough for you to see the rest of your bridge buddies and get something to eat”—at least, I was getting something to eat—“then we’re out of here. Annabelle can give me a tour some other day.”
“For heaven’s sake, Andrea, I’ll stay as long as I want to stay. I’m not a child, I’m your mother.”
As if I could ever forget.
She brushed off my grasp. “And would you please stop talking to me this way. It’s condescending.”
The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club: A Debutante Dropout Mystery Page 5