“It’s for your own good,” I told her, and I meant it. She was behaving like a sixty-year-old with adult ADD.
“My,” she drawled, “but that sounds awfully familiar.”
“I’m just concerned about you.”
“Why on earth?” Her brows arched, and she gave her hair a toss, though her blond coif barely shifted. “Darling, I’m perfectly fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well”—she tugged on the cuffs of her jacket—“maybe I’m a wee bit tired after everything. This hasn’t been easy.”
Ah, there it was. She’d admitted all wasn’t right with her world. As long as I’d known her, she’d rarely confessed to any weakness, so this was encouraging. Perhaps she even realized how paranoid she was behaving.
Still, my brain was already making plans to accompany her back to the house on Beverly, feed her a Valium (or two), and put her down for an afternoon nap, leaving her under Sandy Beck’s watchful eye thereafter. I figured it’d just take some time for her to feel like herself again and get this silly idea of murder out of her system.
Murder.
The word prickled my short hairs.
I rubbed the tight tendons at the back of my neck, telling myself the very thought was preposterous.
Bebe Kent had been a serious player on the Dallas social scene for far too many years. Surely if there’d been any sign of foul play when Annabelle had discovered the woman in bed, dead to the world, she would’ve called the police. The doctor wouldn’t have signed the death certificate if everything wasn’t kosher, would he?
Uh-uh. No way. No how.
This wasn’t a TV show for the Lifetime cable channel. No physician in his right mind, in the real world, would risk losing his license—or going to prison—by falsifying information on a legal document, I consoled myself, nor would Annabelle conspire to commit any kind of crime that would put her reputation and her business on the line. Not unless she was aiming for professional suicide.
Somehow those thoughts reassured me.
Mother cleared her throat ever so delicately, drawing me back to our conversation. “Am I allowed to go, Warden,” she asked, “or do I need a pardon from the governor?”
And she considered me the smart aleck in the family?
“Be my guest,” I said, and stepped aside so she could walk past me, through the French doors. I was right behind her as she entered the dining room.
The zippy sound of swing swept through me, something along the lines of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” with Andrews Sisters harmonies and a bopping melody that had me itching to snap my fingers and tap my toes.
Not your typical mourning music, I mused. It certainly wasn’t Mozart’s Requiem, but what did I know about postmemorial service etiquette? Considering my motto was “color outside the lines,” it was hardly my place to comment. I’d once joked to Malone that I wanted my own will to have a clause requiring that the entire song list of Def Leppard’s Hysteria be played at my send-off. But that kind of thing went right along with my debutante-dropout image, so it would hardly be shocking.
This reception was a tribute to the venerable Mrs. Beatrice Kent, so hearing swing seemed out of place. I would’ve expected something moody and baroque, like Handel or Beethoven. Maybe even Elvis singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Though Willie Nelson’s version would’ve worked, too (hey, this was Texas—country music was our blues).
“Does anyone need a refill of bubbly?” a high-pitched voice asked, rising above the music.
Champagne?
Okay, that did it. Suddenly, I was the one who felt totally discombobulated. I’d expected an air of solemnity at this reception, with lots of sober faces, like at the church, but I was way, way off.
Belle Meade’s tribute to Bebe was something else entirely.
I glanced around, having pictured black wreaths over mirrors, even black crepe paper dripping from the ceiling, sort of like Halloween without the orange.
But there was nothing somber about the dining room with its bright yellow drapes, Chinese patterned wallpaper, and blazing chandeliers that touched light upon silver place settings at the dozens of linen-clothed tables. Mirrors with carved gilded frames hung everywhere, adding the illusion of more space, so it felt as big as a ballroom. Wildflowers like the ones in the foyer, only scaled down from supersized, served as centerpieces for the tables and anchored the tremendous buffet set up smack in the midst of it all.
Color photographs of the woman I’d seen in the portrait at Highland Park Presby had been blown up and tacked to the walls, so that Beatrice Kent’s smiling countenance surrounded me, every which way I turned.
It was Bebe-palooza.
Out of nowhere, I heard laughter erupt from the buzz of voices, and my antennae went up. I had flashes of that Mary Tyler Moore Show episode where Mary has a laughing jag at the funeral of Chuckles the Clown. Well, people grieved in their own fashion, I rationalized, even if that fashion seemed a mite too perky for me.
Unless the group had been reading Stress and the Single Girl and had decided to embrace their anxiety with grins and guffaws.
Still. . . .
The Big Band soundtrack. The bubbly. The laughter. The bell-like clink of crystal. The colorful décor.
If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn it was a birthday party. Only the guest of honor wasn’t around to blow out the candles on the cake.
I scanned the dozens present and realized something else: not a person, beyond Mother and myself, was actually wearing black or gray. Annabelle was in navy, but the rest of the Belle Meade folks gathered in the dining hall wore breezy outfits in summer pastels and prints—I saw plenty of Lilly Pulitzer—though no white, of course, as it was after Labor Day and this was Dallas, not Miami. Of the paltry handful of men congregating with the overwhelmingly feminine crowd, one had donned a plaid shirt and kelly-green golf pants, like he’d strolled in off the fairway.
After the solemnity of the morning’s service, that seemed . . . I don’t know, too festive. Too cheery. Where were the tears? The glum faces?
“Stop looking so disapproving, Andrea,” Cissy scolded. “Bebe wanted a bash, not a wake. So that’s what she got. She lived a wonderful life, and that’s what we promised to celebrate. Now, go on and get some food, while I look for Sarah Lee and say ‘hello’ to some of the others I know from bridge.”
“So long as you tell me where you’re going, so I can keep tabs on you.”
“Keep tabs on me? Pish!” She sniffed. “Sweetie, I ran your daddy’s company for six years after his heart attack, until I sold it to a global giant in pharmaceuticals whose annual profits are larger than most countries’ gross national products, and I still sit on the board with some very high-powered gentlemen and hold my own very well, thank you very much.”
“I realize that, but . . .”
“Andrea Blevins Kendricks, stop being so over-protective. I can manage my life perfectly well without your direction.” She tsk-tsked me. “And I certainly do not need a babysitter.”
“Can’t you please just . . . ?”
“No, I can’t. So shoo.” She waved me off and glided away to mingle.
I considered stalking, still fearful she’d do something rash before I could stop her. But before I could follow, a slender woman with short frizzled gray hair and a bright pink pantsuit sidled up and had me cornered.
“You look like you just got your teeth kicked in, sister,” she said and winked. She had a dandy set of false lashes. “You grieving over the dearly departed, or did you eat one of those raw oysters that Chef Jean’s so fond of serving, like they’re part of our essential food pyramid?” She leaned toward me, pulling a face like she’d swallowed a bad egg. “They’re supposed to aid the libido, you know, but they send me running for the Pepto-Bismol. You looking for a drink of the pink? I don’t have any on me.” She patted her pockets. “But I could make a run to the pharmacy. It’s just a few steps over that way . . .”
“No,” I said,
stopping her. “I haven’t had any oysters, and the only thing I’m looking for is my mo . . .”
“Ooh, speaking of libido”—she cut me off and gestured broadly at the silver-haired dude in the plaid pants. “Hellooo, Henry,” she cooed and primped at her wiry pin curls. “How were the greens this morning? Fast, like you, I hope.”
The fellow flashed a half-hearted grin and scurried off.
Wish I’d been as quick on my feet.
“Ah, sister.” The woman nudged me. “Now, there’s a man who still has a hot putter, if you get my drift. If you had the time, I could tell tales about Henry and all the conquests he’s made in this ritzy henhouse.” She gave a low whistle. “Oh, boy, oh, boy, how the worm has turned since the invention of Viagra and its brethren. My, my, did I say that? The worm has turned?” She chortled merrily. “Get it?”
Yo, Dr. Ruth! Too much info.
“Yeah, I get it.”
I almost lost my appetite.
I said almost.
The buffet smelled damned good, and I was ready to put on the feedbag and test Chef Jean’s prowess. If only I could get around Gladys Kravitz here. But the moment I made a move to leave, she threw a body-block, her thin pink-clad form lunging in front of me. I had to give her one thing: she was agile.
“So you were about to say why your pretty puss is looking so sour.” She bent closer, and her powdery scent settled over me. “C’mon, you can share it with ol’ Mabel Pinkston. I’ve spent my whole life taking care of people, so it’s what I’m good at.” The lines in her heavily rouged face deepened, and her eyes rounded with sympathy. “Anything I can help you with?”
“It’s my mother,” I blurted out, before my better judgment could halt the flow of words. “I’ve lost her . . .”
“Lost her? Bless your heart”—once again, Mabel jumped in before I’d finished—“Beatrice Kent?” Thinly penciled brows arched, and her mouth puckered with distress. She looked me up and down, disconcerted. “And there I was joking around. Forgive me, child, I didn’t realize that the woman had a daughter. I didn’t think she had anybody left in the world besides her hot-shot lawyers and a couple of long-lost cousins from across the pond who didn’t give a hoot or holler about her until she dropped dead.”
“Oh, no, Mabel, my mother wasn’t Bebe,” I assured her and gestured toward the throngs of elegant older folks milling around the vast room. “She’s alive and well, though I’m not sure where. But she’s definitely not gone for good.”
“She isn’t?”
“No.”
The woman stared at me, momentarily silent, before her pink-glossed lips parted. She threw back her head and laughed soundly, and when she was done, she patted my back with a blue-veined hand.
“My, my, sister, but you had me going there for a minute. So she ditched you, did she? You’re visiting, is that it? Does she live here? What’s her name?”
“No, she doesn’t live here,” I said, answering part of her question. “Not yet. But I’m seriously thinking of having her committed somewhere.”
Mabel tapped her sagging cheek, clearly pondering my comment. “Getting fruity as a cantaloupe, is she?”
“I’m hoping it’s temporary insanity.”
She nodded sympathetically. “Tell me about it, sister. Seems some women go through the change and get nutty or, worse, turn mean as a snake. Doesn’t take much to get some of ’em riled as a polecat. But, then again, could be what happens when you stick a hundred hungry hens in a closed pen with far too few roosters . . .”
“Got it,” I butted in. No more barnyard sex talk, please.
The scent of pork tenderloin called my name.
“Excuse me, Mabel,” I said and hoped I was convincing, “but I’ve really got to find my mum. Sometimes she wanders off where she shouldn’t, and she can be a real danger to others, if I’m not around to keep her in line.”
Her pink lips puckered. “Is it the Alzheimer’s? We don’t usually see those kind here. Once the senses start to go, the doctor ships ’em off to skilled nursing. So your mama must be a special case.”
“Oh, she’s a case, all right,” I agreed.
Mabel glanced away, losing interest in me, probably scouting for that hot Henry in his bright green pants.
So I made my escape.
I did a quick check for Cissy, but didn’t see hide nor hair of her, so I pushed aside any rising panic—I mean, how far could she get in a gated retirement village—and listened to the pangs of hunger waging war in my stomach.
First things first.
With a smile pasted on my kisser, I maneuvered my way around and through the clusters of merry mourners, not slowing down until I’d reached the elaborate buffet and picked up a plate to fill. Chef Jean had indeed laid out quite a spread, and it was an effort to keep from drooling as I made my way around, taking a little bit of everything: meats, fruits, pasta salads, and tiny cheesecakes and tortes for dessert. The raw oysters, I bypassed.
Plate stacked, I found a table to myself in the far corner, and I took it, afraid of having to make polite conversation with another living soul before I was so full I couldn’t eat another bite.
Only after I’d inhaled every morsel—after I’d pushed away my plate and belched oh-so-discreetly behind my napkin—did I figure it was time to track down Cissy. She’d already been out of my sight for half an hour, and, since pandemonium hadn’t struck (that I was aware of), I had to believe she’d kept her promise to ixnay the “Bebe was murdered” nonsense.
The distinct sounds of B.B. King and his guitar Lucille bounced through the air as I left my napkin on the table and wove my way through the happy mourners. Blues, I mused and nodded approvingly. That seemed far more appropriate for après-funeral than the Andrews Sisters.
“Andrea! Yoo-hoo!”
Turning toward the voice, I spotted Annabelle madly gesticulating, urging me to hurry over, halfway across the room. She stood beside a tall man and a tiny woman, both staring in my direction.
I swallowed, praying they weren’t part of Belle Meade’s security team, come to tell me that Cissy had scrawled REDRUM on the door of Bebe’s town-house in Coco Red lipstick.
As I sidestepped my way through tables and people, I craned my neck, trying to locate my mother, but I didn’t see Chanel hide nor salon-blond hair. Where had she disappeared? I tried not to think of it as I continued my progress toward Annabelle and her companions.
No one smiled as I approached—further assuring me that this had something to do with Mother and it wasn’t good—which led to an attack of nerves that triggered a round of babbling.
“Well, hey, y’all, I just sampled Chef Jean’s wares, and I’d give him a big thumbs-up. Though I was warned to skip his raw oysters. I heard they can clean out your pipes, if you’re not careful.” I attempted a guffaw, but it emerged as a nervous snort.
Oh, boy, I sounded like Sister Mabel of the Pink Pantsuit.
“Well, goodness, I’ll keep that in mind, about the oysters, I mean.” Annabelle gazed at me, a funny look on her face. “Um, Andrea Kendricks, I’d like you to meet our staff physician, Dr. Arnold Finch.”
She inclined her head toward the tall man with the brooding good looks—I say, “brooding,” because he stood frowning at me, dark brows sitting caterpillar-like above mud-brown eyes. I’d guess he was in his forties, with just enough creases in his face to qualify him for middle age, a trace of salt in his pepper hair, which lent a sort of Mr. Rochester quality to him. He had the same disapproving air. Though maybe his tie was too tight, or else he’d had the oysters for lunch and wasn’t feeling too cheery at the moment. I liked to give folks the benefit of the doubt when I could.
“Andy’s a friend of mine from summer camp,” Annabelle went on, by way of introduction.
“A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Finch,” I said and stuck out my hand, which he made no attempt to grasp. He kept his own paws clasped behind his back. Could be he had one of those germ fetishes and only liked to touch other people when
he was wearing latex.
“I’m sure the pleasure is mine, Miss Kendricks,” he uttered without an ounce of sincerity.
All rightee then.
Annabelle nodded at the petite blonde to Finch’s left, who didn’t appear any more enthusiastic than the good doctor to be making my acquaintance.
“This is Arnie’s wife, Patsy. She’s our in-house pharmacist and works alongside her hubby. Isn’t that just the coziest arrangement?”
Cozy as a pair of possums, cornered and hissing.
“Nice to meet you, Patsy,” I said, offering my hand once again—I’m a glutton for punishment—surprised when it wasn’t rejected. She grasped it lightly before letting go. Her milquetoast features suddenly bordered on pretty as she gave a slim smile.
“Hello, Andrea. So you know our Annabelle from camp? You’ll have to tell us all about that,” she chirped. “I’d love to get the dirt on our beloved boss woman.”
“The dirt, huh?” I repeated and shook my head at Annabelle, hoping she wouldn’t share my long-buried nickname or the sordid “Kumbaya” campfire story with them, much less the made-up bloodletting. “Suffice it to say, neither of us was much of a nature girl. I remember one time when we sat in the same patch of poison ivy on a hike and ended up splitting a bottle of calamine to cover our . . .”
“Assets,” Annabelle jumped in, her cheeks flaming to fuchsia.
“Ticks and mosquitoes liked us, too. Guess we were just special.” I grinned, and Annabelle gave a shy smile back.
“I’d have to disagree, Miss Kendricks.” Dr. Finch hooked his thumbs into his trouser pockets, rocking on his heels in the way that some men did when they were about to pontificate. “When you consider that over 90 percent of people on the planet are allergic to the urushiol oil in poison ivy and sumac plants, it doesn’t make you special at all. Just very ordinary.”
Well, thank you, Dr. Know-It-All.
I glanced at Annabelle, my tongue itching to retort something about 90 percent of the world population being allergic to pompous jackasses, but her eyes went wide, and she shook her head, warning me off.
“So you’re an expert on poisonous flora, Dr. Finch?” I asked, an innocent enough question.
The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club: A Debutante Dropout Mystery Page 6