Nothing like the smell of fresh piddle in the morning.
“Oops, sorry, Andy. Guess ol’ Bubba figured he’d water ’em for ya.”
The story of my life.
“It’s okay, Charlie. They were gonna die sometime anyway.”
“Happens to all of us, sooner or later,” he remarked and pinched a kerchief from his shirt pocket to dab at his slick forehead.
“Dying?” I asked, a topic that was much on my mind of late.
“Well, that, too.” He let out a throaty chuckle. “But I meant getting pissed on.”
“Oh, yeah, of course.”
There was nothing so blunt as the straight-shooting philosophy of a native Texan.
Bubba set to sniffing my foot, so I gave Charlie a smile and a “see you later,” before I stuck my key in the lock, escaping inside before the beagle could get a leg up on me, so to speak.
The first thing I did when I got past the front door was to drop my bulging tote bag on the ground and drink in the familiar surroundings. I took a loving whiff of air, inhaling a pinch of vanilla candle, a smidge of lime from Malone’s aftershave, and the faint bouquet of burnt toast. My gaze embraced the walls that wrapped around me, wearing treasured artwork I’d rescued from flea markets and garage sales, mixed amongst my own creations: blurry watercolors mimicking Monet’s Garden in Giverny and not a few acrylic landscapes paying homage to Cezanne.
Mimicking. Homage.
I was a copycat, wasn’t I? Getting my inspiration elsewhere.
The reason I’d gone into Web design, forsaking a more Bohemian lifestyle, was because I’d known early on that my style of art was . . . well, not exactly my own. But I hadn’t given up uncovering my creative core, and my latest attempt on canvas was propped on a slim easel near the best-lit window, in the room’s far corner. A density of brooding color, heavy on texture and brushstrokes, more emotion than precision.
It was my first real attempt in a long while to put myself out there, to forget who I was supposed to be and paint like the real Andy.
“Have no fear of perfection, you’ll never reach it.”
Hello, Dali, I mused, as his quote came to mind. I’m trying, Salvador. I’m trying.
But first things first.
I blew out a rough breath—one that sorely needed a hit of Listerine—and I headed straight for the bathroom. In my haste to catch up to Mother this morning, I’d barely had time to brush my teeth.
Once I had my pearly whites polished, I stepped into the shower, scrubbing skin, shampooing hair and shaving my legs smooth as a whistle. Then I let the water pelt my shoulders as I stood there, chin down, closing my eyes and willing myself not to think of much of anything. I could’ve stayed there forever, until I’d shriveled to the size of a raisin.
Only I couldn’t. I had things to do, no matter how ambivalent I felt about doing them.
After dressing in a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I padded to the kitchen to whip up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on wheat, throwing in a few pretzel sticks and a big glass of chocolate soy milk on the side.
My definition of a gourmet meal.
I sat down on the couch to eat, pulling the envelope Annabelle had given me from my bag and laying out the papers beside my sandwich plate. Without more than a cursory glance at the slick brochures for Belle Meade—with a fold-out map where she’d highlighted the library—and a groan when I saw my “Volunteer” badge had an awful old photo laminated on it, one Mother must’ve provided to Annabelle. I looked like a full-grown chipmunk: big teeth, big cheeks.
The card key for Belle Meade slipped out as I gave the envelope a final shake to empty it, and I hesitated before I stuck it into my purse.
Anyone who volunteered or worked at the retirement village got one of those things, as did all the residents. Or anyone the residents put on their “regular visitors” list, like Cissy, who still had one of Bebe’s spares.
So how did the place keep tabs on everyone who had access? Not that security did such a swift job of monitoring those who came and went. The guardhouse had been unmanned when I’d driven past it this morning, and Sam—or Bob—had let the Bentley through yesterday with only a cursory nod.
Sure, they had cameras at the entrance and at the front door to the Manor, and I had to figure someone was watching a set of screens somewhere, or at least keeping tapes to view if and when anything unusual happened.
Annabelle had said herself:
“. . . 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.”
So if no one had noticed anything or anyone out of the ordinary on the grounds of Belle Meade the nights Bebe and Sarah Lee had died, did that mean nothing had happened? Or had the killer flown under the radar, as Mother suggested, which would point to an inside job, wouldn’t it? Someone who knew the territory and the daily patterns of the residents, then had carefully zeroed in on particular, vulnerable targets.
Like one of the staff members who’d been with Annabelle “from the beginning” and who knew about Bebe and Sarah Lee threatening to sue.
Listen to you, Kendricks. Can you hear yourself?
Oh, Lord, I was channeling Cissy.
I swallowed a thick lump of bread and peanut butter, finished off my pretzels and soymilk, and left the dishes in the sink.
Time to rock and roll.
The clock was ticking, and this sidekick was on duty.
Chapter 13
After I’d emptied my tote bag, put away my black slides, and tossed the dirty clothes into the hamper, I caught the phone as it was ringing.
“Andy!”
The voice that squawked my name belonged to none other than Janet Graham, my redheaded pal who knew enough about my youthful indiscretions to write a book called, When Good Debs Go Bad. Though she preferred to pen stories about the snooty social set for the Park Cities Press. Lucky for me.
“You never returned my call,” she reprimanded. “I even left my cell on vibrate during the Kappa Kappa Gamma Tablescapes benefit at the country club in case you buzzed back.”
“Oh, poo, I’m sorry. It completely slipped my mind. I was actually at my mother’s last night.” I slid onto the sofa with my old Princess phone. “It’s just been a maddening couple of days.”
“How is Cissy? I know she and Bebe were tight as ticks, and she looked less than her usual über-composed self at the service yesterday morning. Don’t tell me she’s questioning the meaning of life and has shucked her Chanel for a potato sack?”
For an instant, I panicked, thinking she knew something about Cissy’s crazy crusade at Belle Meade, because Janet had a way of finding out about everything—or nearly—if it involved the Dallas elite.
“She’s coping in her own unique fashion,” I said carefully. “But, you’re right, it’s been tough for her to lose two friends like that.”
“Two friends?” Janet echoed, and I winced. Guess she hadn’t heard about Sarah Lee Sewell yet, and I wasn’t about to fill her in. “Someone else from Cissy’s circle passed?”
“Um, maybe I misspoke”—there went my foot-in-mouth disease again—“How’s your tribute to Mrs. Kent going?” I tried to steer the subject away from serial dead blue bloods as fast as I could.
“I just sent that sucker to my editor, as a matter of fact. It’ll go in Tuesday’s edition, along with a profile of Bethany Entwhistle. Do you know her, Andy? She’s a former Symphony Deb taking over the reigns of the Art for AIDS Foundation.”
“Little blonde who sounds like she swallowed helium?” I’d met her at a fundraiser for local children’s charities that Mother had dragged me to last year.”
“That’s the one,” Janet drawled. “Get this”—she cleared her throat—“when I asked what three historical figures she’d like most to have dinner with, she answered, ‘Jesus Christ, Mother Teresa, and Britney Spears.’”
“No way!”
“It’s true, I swear.” I coul
d imagine Janet, sitting at her cubicle in the Press offices, her orange-red hair stuck up with chopsticks or butterfly clips, trying hard not to giggle as she interviewed the simpleminded Ms. Entwhistle. “And how about this, Andy. Her favorite animals are her Chihuahuas, Neiman and Marcus, whom she apparently loves to dress up in tailor-made outfits. We got a shot of them wearing black leather Gucci jackets and matching biker caps.”
I couldn’t speak; I was guffawing so loudly.
“I thought you’d appreciate that one.”
I wiped tears from my eyes. “Oh, God, and that’s the kind of girl my mother always dreamed I’d become.”
“Wait, sweetie, I didn’t even tell you the best part. Guess who she’d want to play her if a movie was ever made of her life?” To which Janet added the aside, “As if.”
“If it’s not Julia Roberts then it’s gotta be . . .”
“Reese Witherspoon,” we ended up saying in unison.
“Stop,” I groaned, “or I’ll pee in my pants.”
“Wouldn’t want that to happen.”
As I caught my breath, I realized I had something to ask her. “Um, Janet, can you help me with something?”
“Shoot.”
I scooted to the edge of the sofa, twisting the cord around my fingers. “You wrote a piece on Belle Meade when it opened, didn’t you?” I remember Mother telling me just that—actually, chastising me for not having read it.
“The swanky retirement village where Bebe Kent lived?”
“I’d like a copy, if I could.”
“Didn’t you see it when it came out six months ago?” She sounded disappointed. “It was nearly the whole front page of the Society section.”
“It’s important, Janet.”
“Oh, no!” She gasped. “Don’t tell me Cissy’s looking into the place? I can’t imagine her living anywhere but Beverly.”
“No, she’s not moving. It’s not that. I’m more interested in the staff,” I said. “I went to summer camp with Annabelle Meade.”
“Ah, good ol’ Camp Longhorn, the retreat of choice for spoiled kiddies like you, Anna la belle, George W, and every other blue-blooded brat in the state whose first words were ‘charge it.’”
“Very funny.”
“Okay, I just pulled up the piece from the archives and hit ‘send,’ so it should be in your email box pretty quick. You want to see some of the clippings I used for background? Most of ’em are from the Austin American Statesman, even going back six years to that terrible fire. You know about that?”
“Annabelle’s parents were killed,” I said. “Yeah, she told me.”
“Well, my Austin contacts knew the family fairly well.” Janet’s voice went down a pitch. “And I was informed, confidentially, of course, that the Meades were rather nasty people. Hard on their daughter and tight with a buck, so Annabelle didn’t come into their millions until they were ashes. They didn’t leave a penny to anyone but her and the Elk Lodge.”
“Nasty people, huh?” I cringed, not at the choice of words, but because I realized how little I really knew about Annabelle’s home life. “Her au pair used to put her on the bus for camp,” I said quietly. “I never met her mother or father.” No wonder Annabelle had always been an insecure, crying mess.
“The Meades apparently didn’t socialize much with anyone. Just stayed to themselves and occasionally wrote a check to charity, probably for the tax deduction and not because it made them feel warm and fuzzy.”
“Ouch.”
“Wish I could gab forever, dear heart, but I’ve got to hit the road and attend the grand opening of a chi-chi hair salon on Greenville.”
“Thanks, Janet, for the article, I mean.”
“Lunch next week?” she asked.
“Call me,” I told her, afraid to look too far ahead.
We said our goodbyes, and I hung up, but I didn’t move anywhere too quickly. I sat where I was for a long moment after, feeling sorry for poor Annabelle and hoping nothing Mother or I did would muck things up for her. She deserved some happiness in her life after such a crappy growing-up.
“The fire investigators ruled it was an accident. They said a burner had been left on the stove, and a potholder or dishtowel must’ve been lying too close. Their smoke alarms must not have gone off. Dad was always forgetting to replace the batteries.”
If your parents were jerks, did you miss them when they were gone? I wondered. Or were you relieved and, if so, did that make you feel guilty?
I rubbed my temples, not wanting to think about it.
My place was so quiet. I wished I could curl into a ball, right there on the sofa, and not move until Malone returned.
Instead, I dragged myself up and headed into the bedroom, removing a small nylon suitcase from my closet and layering clean clothes, a Def Leppard CD, and my headphones, toiletries, and sneakers into its zippered midsection.
What to pack for several days of sleuthing? I mused, not wanting to forget anything important.
For an instant, I considered bringing my pepper spray, but I had a knack for self-defense backfiring on me. Clumsy should have been my middle name. Heck, I wouldn’t even allow steak knives in my house for fear I’d cut off a finger. Wisely, I decided to leave the mace in my kitchen drawer, along with the sharp objects.
I contemplated taking that danged self-help book, too, for something to read with one eye while watching Mother with the other; but the suggestions for de-tensing my life seemed not to be working. The only benefit I could imagine from bringing along Stress and the Single Girl would be if I needed a paperweight. And I didn’t. So I left it on the nightstand and zipped the suitcase shut. (If Malone hadn’t given it to me, it would’ve ended up in the garbage.)
My luggage ready, I tackled the rest of my mental “to-do” list.
Figuring Malone might try to phone here in my absence, I rerouted calls from my home number to my cell, and I even made my bed and put my lunch dishes in the dishwasher so Charlie Tompkins wouldn’t pop in with the mail, poke his nose around, and see a mess.
I sat down at my computer long enough to read emails and notify a few clients that I had a family emergency and would be away from my desk for a few days. No one would mind, I knew, since they were getting my services for free (or close to it).
Before I shut down the hard drive, I retrieved the e-mail from Janet, downloaded the attachment and printed off a copy, putting the pages in my bag without looking at them. I’d save them for later.
Then I took a last look around—at my big, comfy sofa with its crocheted throw, the unfinished canvas that beckoned, the hand-me-down hope chest that served as my coffee table—and I breathed in the quiet, before I picked up my bags and walked out the door.
I wanted to believe this would be over with in a few days, so I’d be home again, Brian would return from Galveston, Mother would go back to her committee work, and all would be right with the world.
Couldn’t come any too soon.
On the way back to Belle Meade, I stopped for gas and a car wash, so the gunmetal gray of my Wrangler gleamed beneath the late afternoon sun, the WASH ME plea gone from the rear window.
When I slowed at the guardhouse on my way in, a white-topped head poked out, giving my car a cursory glance.
I could’ve waved and kept going, because he didn’t seem any too intent on having me stop. But I figured it wouldn’t hurt to see if Bebe had any noteworthy guests that stood out. So I idled the Jeep beside the guardhouse window while Bob eyed me curiously, probably wondering what the hell I was doing. Oh, and it was Bob—not Sam—because he had his name embroidered on his chest pocket.
“Hi, there,” I said, smiling brightly. “I’m Andrea Kendricks, an old friend of Annabelle Meade’s. My aunt Miriam, just moved into a house on Magnolia Court . . . Bebe Kent’s old place? What a tragedy . . . Mrs. Kent, I mean. The poor woman. Did you know her well?”
The skin around his eyes sagged, giving him a perpetual squint. “We had words now and then.”
/> What did that mean? They’d argued? Or they’d conversed?
“I’ll bet she had lots of friends dropping by to visit.”
He shrugged. “Some.”
“Hmm, well, she was attractive, wasn’t she? I saw her photos at the reception yesterday, in the dining room. She probably had plenty of beaus swinging by to wine and dine her.”
“Nope.” Bob scratched his bulbous nose. “Would’ve had to put those names on the visitors’ list, and she didn’t.”
Another car pulled up behind me, so I gave him my best Princess Di wave and lurched onward.
Bumping along the brick path, I backtracked the route I’d taken earlier when I’d left, winding through the streets that led to Magnolia, finding slightly more activity outdoors than when I’d left. A handful of folks were on the walking path, a few outside with brimmed hats in the gardens, and others heading toward the main building on scooters or in golf carts. The day was mid-eighties, typical almost-fall weather. Rather like Florida without the palm trees, beach, or killer hurricanes.
Entering Belle Meade was akin to driving onto a movie set, a really upscale Mayberry. The place had such a small-town atmosphere despite being tucked right in the midst of a city as big as Dallas.
I had no trouble believing the waiting list to get in was a mile long.
Annabelle mentioned plans to build her retirement villages elsewhere, with the backing of eager investors, and I figured she’d make a fortune if nothing got in her way. Like dissatisfied socialites filing lawsuits . . . or a nosy woman crying, “Murder!”
I gnawed on the inside of my cheek.
Creeping along no faster than a slug, I came around the bend by the golf course and ended up on Magnolia Court, right where I wanted to be. I was elated that I hadn’t gotten lost, and even more so to see the silver Century still sitting in the driveway, exactly where it had been when I’d left.
Mother had kept one promise, anyway.
Just to be safe, I pulled the Jeep in behind it.
The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club: A Debutante Dropout Mystery Page 17