“Sure, another time,” I agreed.
She began to twirl a thick strand of hair around her finger, spinning and spinning, until her digit was entirely wrapped up in the coil.
“You sure you’re all right?” I asked.
She furiously untangled finger from hair, her chin trembling so I expected the water works to start any minute. “Can’t anything go right for me?” she finally exploded, fists clenched at her sides.
Mindful of the opened archway between the kitchen and living room, I marched her quickly into the butler’s pantry and closed the door.
“Annabelle, for goodness’ sake, what’s really going on?” I thought of her remark outside: “Oh, God, it’s happening again.” Something was eating at her, and it wasn’t just Sarah Lee and Bebe’s deaths.
She jerked away from me in the narrow space and covered her face with her hands. “It’s bad mojo, Andy. It follows me wherever I go. I can’t get away from it,” she mumbled through her fingers.
“What are you talking about, bad mojo? Things have been going so well for you. You told me so yourself.”
She peeled her hands away and looked at me. Tears streaked her cheeks, coming thick and fast, taking clumps of black mascara down with them. “It started when my parents died.”
“Six years ago at their lake house,” I said. “But that wasn’t your fault any more than this is.”
“What I didn’t tell you, Andy, was that I was there the day it happened. I had dinner with them both, and it turned into a row, as usual. I can still hear the screaming in my head. God, they could be vicious.” She slumped against the slim cupboards. “The last words I uttered that night before I ran out, slamming the door, were that I hated them. Despised them to the core. ‘I wish you’d die!’ I told them both.” Tears splattered on her blue jacket. “The next morning, they were dead.”
I hardly knew what to say to that. “My gosh, Annabelle,” was all I could come up with, because I couldn’t imagine having to live with that kind of memory. That kind of guilt.
“There was a drawn-out investigation of the fire. Something about the pattern of how it spread. They thought for a while it might be arson, and they considered us all suspects.”
“Us all? Meaning you?” I stared at her, shaking my head.
“Yes, me, and Emmy and Franklin . . . the couple who cared for my parents, and the house and grounds.” She sniffled. “They raked us over the coals for months, the fire inspector, the police, and the insurance company, until they ruled it accidental. It was horrible, Andy, the worst time of my life. I barely survived.”
She didn’t elaborate, but I guessed what she meant.
“I couldn’t bear to go through anything like that again.” She wrung her hands. “I couldn’t. It would kill me.”
“Annabelle, stop, don’t think about this now,” I said quietly. “You have enough to handle without dwelling on the past.”
“You’re right,” she agreed and swallowed, hard. I could see the lump go down her throat. “I’ve got to call the funeral home and pull Sarah Lee’s file with all her postmortem instructions.” Lines of worry cut into her cheeks and brow. “Then I’ll have to inform the residents, and they haven’t even had time to get over losing Mrs. Kent. I know Sarah Lee has next of kin somewhere out of state, an older sister, I think, though I can’t remember her name. Damn it. Why can’t I ever get things right? I’m such a stupid, stupid cow!”
Before she said another word, I wrapped my arms around her, feeling her shake and hearing a low, keening sound come from somewhere deep inside. I patted her back, waiting for the tears to come; but she suddenly stiffened and stepped out of the circle of my arms. She opened the pantry door and strode into the kitchen.
I followed as she walked toward the sink, yanked a paper towel from a roll on the counter, and began to mop up her tear-streaked face.
She tossed the wadded-up towel into the sink and stood for a moment, gripping the stainless-steel lip, gazing out the window. “I have to hold myself together. There’s too much at stake. My whole life . . . Belle Meade . . . everything.”
I went over to where she stood, saw a pair of ceramic mugs drying on a dishtowel, and filled one with cold water from the tap.
“Here.” I held it out to her. “Sip on this. You’ll feel better.”
“Please, Andy,” she said, tucking her arms across her chest, pushing the glass away, “please, just leave.”
If I could’ve felt crummier, I wasn’t sure how.
I dumped the water in the sink and set the cup back on the dishtowel. With only a glance at Annabelle’s blue back, I shuffled out of the kitchen and passed through the living room to see the police officers had gone. Someone had covered Sarah Lee Sewell with the sage blanket, though it didn’t quite reach her black shoes.
Dr. Finch and Patsy stood near the fireplace, huddled together in conversation, pausing only when they realized I was there.
Patsy nodded at me, but Finch scowled and looked out the nearest window.
I didn’t feel it was appropriate to wave, so I kept walking, to the foyer and out the door.
The Bentley purred at the end of the sidewalk.
Behind its dark windows, I knew Mother was waiting. If I could’ve walked any slower, I’d have stood still.
Fredrik appeared in a flash as I neared the car, sailing around the hood to open my door. I murmured my thanks and crawled inside.
Cissy tipped her face so I caught her expression in the glimpse of sunlight that swam inside before Fredrik shut me in.
On her Coco Red lips sat an odd little grin.
“What’s the matter with you? Just what are you up to?” I said, the first thing that popped into my mind.
“For heaven’s sake, but you’re on a tear today,” she replied, “accusing me of everything but nabbing the cat.”
“Did you take a cat?” I checked the area around me, expecting to spot something furry.
She rolled her eyes. “That was a joke, Andrea.”
Mother was joking? Since when? Did hell freeze over, and I’d missed the announcement on CNN?
I scowled, but it didn’t seem to bother her a bit.
The Bentley swayed as Fredrik pulled away from the curb and headed away from the row of townhouses, nearly sideswiping the security guard’s golf cart as it rolled up the street, too late to do anything helpful.
“Poor Annabelle,” my mother murmured. “She has no one to count on, no one to give her advice, and she could use a steady influence. She’s still such an emotionally delicate creature. I wish she’d listened to me. I was so close to Bebe and Sarah Lee. I could help her figure this out, if only she’d let me.”
“No more about your theories, please.” I pressed my fingers against my throbbing temples, on the verge of a serious headache. “You’ve done enough already.”
“Done what? I haven’t done a thing . . . yet,” she said, but her hand moved over something beside her, pulling it close to her skirt.
I lowered my hands from my head and turned deliberately toward her, edging near enough that I could reach for whatever it was she was trying to cover up—something rolled up and secured with a rubber band.
“What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
It wasn’t much of a struggle to tug it away from her. Maybe she’d wanted that all along.
She sat primly, hands in her lap, not saying a word as I unwrapped the bundle to find several catalogues, a copy of Texas Monthly, and assorted bills, letters, and junk mail addressed to one Sarah Lee Sewell.
I blinked a couple of times, rubbed my eyes to be sure I’d read right. Then I pictured the mailbox on the railing of Sarah Lee’s porch, its contents keeping the lid from closing, and I cringed when I realized what she’d done.
“You took her mail,” I blurted out.
I couldn’t believe it.
My blue-blooded, champion fundraising, card-carrying socialite mother was a thief.
Great
balls of fire, indeed! I felt like I had stolen diamonds in my lap.
“So I picked up Sarah’s mail from her box? She won’t be reading it anytime soon, will she, sugar?”
“It’s still a crime,” I reminded her.
Her eyes narrowed. “So is murder, and you don’t seem to care about that.”
I stared at her, sputtering with frustration, wondering if she’d gone completely mad, or if I was the one who’d lost her mind.
She leaned over and began plucking each piece of mail from where it spilled across my thighs and the leather bench. “Oh, don’t be so judgmental, Andrea, not when it’s all for a very good reason.”
There was a good reason for snatching a dead woman’s mail?
“If no one else intends to look for more evidence”—she sighed—“well, then, it’s up to me, isn’t it? I owe it to Bebe and to Sarah.”
“More evidence?” I peeled back my fingers to stare at her. “Evidence of what? No one suspects foul play but you. Nightgowns and lipstick,” I muttered. “Please, tell me you’re going to drop this. You’re not seriously going to push this issue, are you? You’re not going to call Anna Dean?”
Anna Dean was the police chief of Highland Park. She and Mother were well acquainted, and not just because of Mother’s ample donations to the Widows and Orphans Fund. Cissy had once been on the receiving end of Anna Dean’s questions in a homicide investigation.
“No, I won’t get Chief Dean involved. It isn’t her jurisdiction.”
Phew. I let myself breathe again. Maybe I was a tad too hasty.
“But I’m quite serious, Andrea. Obviously, Annabelle and her staff want to whitewash what’s happened, and I can’t blame them a bit. Their license to operate could be in jeopardy, not to mention what bad publicity could do to Belle Meade, here and in Austin, as well as to any future investments.” Her eyebrows peaked. “Oh, yes, I know about her plans for expansion. But I can’t let that worry me, and I won’t stop until I know what the truth really is. So if you don’t like it, then leave me be. I’m a grown woman, and I can do as I please without my daughter telling me differently.”
Ding, ding, ding! Round One to Cissy Blevins Kendricks!
“That’s settled then.” She snapped the rubber band in its place, around her pilfered goodies. “Though you seem to have forgotten one thing”—she started, but I cut her off in a flash.
“I’ve forgotten what? That you’ve gone bonkers? The truth is that an elderly woman passed away quietly in her own home, but for some unfathomable reason you want to believe she didn’t die naturally. Instead, you’ve convinced yourself that there’s a homicidal maniac knocking off bridge players at an old folks’ home.”
“Retirement village.”
“Whatever!” The words exploded from my mouth before I could stop them. “So I’m supposed to forget that you basically insulted an old acquaintance of mine because she wouldn’t take your accusations seriously? Is that what you’re saying?”
Round Two. The challenger comes out swinging!
“No,” she said softly. “It’s not.”
“Oh, really?” I was breathing hard after my diatribe, clenching my fists against the leather seat and grinding my teeth—yes, grinding them, dammit—as I waited. “So set me straight then, Mother. What one thing have I forgotten?”
“Other than your manners?” She smoothed her gray skirt and replied quite calmly, “Your shoes, Andrea darling. You forgot your shoes . . .”
“My shoes?” I’d left them in the courtyard when Annabelle had taken off running after the sirens. I could never have chased her in slides.
“. . . and your feet are simply filthy, so keep them squarely on the mat, if you would, please.”
Ouch, that had to hurt! The Debutante Dropout takes a right jab to the kisser, and the fight goes to Her Highness of Highland Park in a unanimous decision!
I caught Fredrik’s smile in the rearview mirror.
Somehow, I refrained from banging my head against the window or throwing myself out of the Bentley into a busy lane of traffic.
Chapter 7
Fredrik dropped me off at the church overflow lot, where my Jeep baked in the sun, its dusty windows and bird-poop-ravaged body looking nearly as hot and miserable as I felt. Some helpful soul had even scrawled WASH ME in the film on the rear window. I didn’t bother to smudge it off.
Sweat turned my skin slick as I sat in the driver’s seat for a few minutes after, the side windows open wide and the warm AC blowing while I dialed Sandy Beck on my cell phone.
Mother had promised that, once snug at home, she’d get a bite to eat and have a brandy or a Valium—but not both at once—then she’d trot herself upstairs for a nap. Only I wasn’t convinced she’d made those assurances because she’d meant them, or if she were just trying to pacify me.
I also needed to fill Sandy in on the day’s events—what had really transpired, not Mother’s sure-to-be glossed-over version. Someone had to keep tabs on Cissy, and Sandy was my best bet, since she’d basically been doing that for longer than I’d been alive.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there, Andy,” she said, right off the bat, when I described the memorial service and how despondent Mother was at losing Bebe Kent. “But I’m not one for funerals, and Cissy so appreciated that you were going with her. I figured it would be good for both of you.”
Good for us? I wondered. Sort of like brussels sprouts and penicillin?
I next laid out what had happened at Belle Meade, most notably Mother’s discovering the recently deceased Sarah Lee Sewell, pilfering Mrs. Sewell’s mailbox, and declaring her intention to play Hercule Poirot, intent on unmasking a killer. When I was done, there was such a delayed silence on the other end that I thought I’d lost the connection.
“You still there?” I asked.
“My word.” Sandy’s astonishment spoke volumes. “Cissy honestly believes her friends were murdered?”
“Unfortunately, she’s convinced herself of it. She figures the acts were committed by someone crazed enough to dress Bebe in her nightgown and tuck her into bed last Wednesday, then hop over to Sarah Lee’s on Friday evening and wipe off her lipstick before doing her in.”
“Should I call Dr. Cooper?”
Great minds surely do think alike.
I told her not to rule out dragging Mother to her physician for a little tête-à-tête, but advised her to wait until morning. I had a strong inkling Cissy’s grief had more to do with a need to fix blame, rather than anything physical. My hope was that, after a good night’s rest, she’d again see reality through her rose-colored couture sunglasses and would likely even be embarrassed by what she’d done and said.
Sandy soothed my fears as only she could, giving assurances that she’d take care of things as she always did. I had utter faith she would. She’d handled plenty of boo-boos and tears in my growing-up years, and she’d never let me down. Nor had she ever let down Mother.
“Call if she needs me, okay? Whatever the hour,” I said, hearing her assent before I disconnected.
Then I started the Jeep and drove back to North Dallas, shoeless as the day I was born. The first thing I did when I walked through my door was to pull the black dress over my head and toss it to the floor.
Wearing only my bra and panties, I staggered to my unmade bed and climbed in, not bothering to check my voice mail despite a blinking light on my CallerID, indicating I had messages. I did detour briefly to the bathroom to take care of urgent business. But I left my feet unwashed, partly in protest because Mother had made such a big stinking deal about them; but mostly because I had zero energy left to suds up a washcloth.
Though pangs of hunger shot through my belly, I felt too wiped out to eat. Besides, Malone wasn’t around to crack open a can of chicken noodle or whip up a grilled cheese, something he was good at doing when I needed a little TLC.
Emotional exhaustion overwhelmed me. Everything had been too much, and I was spent like a beggar’s last nickel. Cissy wasn’t
the only one who needed a siesta.
The arms of my alarm clock pointed at just past three, when I rolled over onto Malone’s side of the bed and lay my head upon his pillow. I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of him and thinking I’d drift off just long enough to wipe the earlier part of the day from my memory. Kind of like hypnosis. When I awakened, it would be like nothing had happened, and I could move on with my life. No worries about Mother, Belle Meade, or murder.
Though I tried to relax, pieces of the day flickered through my tired head: Bebe Kent’s face grinning at me from the blow-ups in the yellow dining hall, my ears filling with the howl of the police siren, seeing Sarah Lee Sewell’s lifeless legs on the floral chintz, Mother insisting that her pals had been exterminated before their expiration dates, and Annabelle’s tale of the fire that killed her parents.
Why wasn’t there a remote to switch my brain off?
Groaning, I drew a pillow atop my head and pressed down with my forearm, as if that would squash the images (as well as my hair). I concentrated on the thud of my heartbeat, like the constant, gentle pats of a palm against a drum skin.
Slowly, I began to drift in and out of a fog, shallow and dreamless.
I didn’t rouse again until the sun had withdrawn its yellow fingers from between the slats of the shutters and the purple glow of twilight had replaced the bright of day, casting shadows across my room.
The phone trilled, high-pitched and angry, refusing to be ignored.
I reached over to the bedside table and grabbed hold of the handset, saying “Hello?” as I drew myself up against the headboard, more groggy than awake.
“Andrea, I’m so glad I found you! You have to fix this mess!” Annabelle squawked in my ear at such a rapid-fire clip that I couldn’t keep up with her. All my muddled mind could catch were sporadic phrases, like, “I can’t believe it,” “gone too far,” “this is beyond crazy,” and “meeting here tomorrow.”
The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club: A Debutante Dropout Mystery Page 9