The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club: A Debutante Dropout Mystery

by McBride, Susan

  But she didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask.

  Accepting that she’d kept things from Daddy was one thing. But I sure as shooting did not want to know about her love life, if she even had one. I preferred to believe she’d stayed true to my father, particularly considering the way she got on my case about being a “good girl” with Malone. Or did the rules not apply beyond a certain age? I’d have to brush up on Amy Vanderbilt, see if she had a chapter on double standards.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her. “You’re right. Everyone’s entitled to seek a soul mate, at any stage of life.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  And, thankfully, that was that.

  “I wonder”—Mother tapped her fingers on the Two Hearts contract—“if there’s a way to find out what gentlemen they’d gone out with and when? If Bebe had a dinner engagement on Wednesday, and if Sarah Lee had dressed up for a tête-à-tête on Friday evening, then it seems likely each had plans to meet with someone the nights they died. Perhaps, whoever called on them was the last to see them alive.” She reached across the table, grabbing my hand. “What if it’s the same person, and he’s the one who killed them?”

  A heart warming thought, indeed.

  If Mother had her way, Two Hearts, Inc., might want to go with a plug from Jack the Ripper.

  “I saw a computer in Bebe’s office,” I said, recalling the PC on the desk upstairs. “She may have used some kind of calendar software for her appointments. If she doesn’t have a password, I can get in and see what’s there. I can check out the Two Hearts Web site while I’m at it.”

  “Perfect!” Mother smiled. “Annabelle has asked Housekeeping to let me into Sarah Lee’s tomorrow, so I’ll search for a schedule or day planner and any further correspondence with Two Hearts. We’ll get to the bottom of this in no time, Andrea, I know it!”

  I started to get up, but she waved me back into my seat.

  “Andrea, darlin’, where’s the fire?” she drawled, a subtle warning that I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Don’t you want me to check out Bebe’s computer files?”

  “Isn’t it a little late for that? Surely it can wait until morning.”

  Though the window to the backyard revealed a purple sky and the crescent of a rising moon, the clock on the wall showed only half-past seven. That was still plenty early in my book.

  “Sure, it can wait,” I told her. Heck, this wasn’t my Sherlock Holmes fantasy; it was hers.

  “I’m suddenly ravenous, and I imagine you are, too, aren’t you, sugar?”

  My definition of “ravenous” was entirely different from Cissy’s. To me, it meant, “I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse!” To my mother, it implied, “I’m so hungry I could eat a dinner salad with dressing on the side!”

  Actually, a salad wasn’t a bad idea.

  “I could go for something,” I admitted. It had been a while since that peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “You didn’t skip lunch did you?”

  “Heavens, no.” She scooted out of her chair and stood behind it, gripping the head-rail so that the bling on her fingers winked. “As a matter of fact, I went on over to the Manor for the tail-end of brunch, so I could practice bein’ the new me!” She let go of the chair and did a little “ta-da” pose. “I was fabulous, if I must say so myself. Academy Award performance.”

  “Great, I’ll tell Spielberg you’re free when this gig is over in a few days.” I rolled my eyes. “Did Dr. Finch and Patsy see you?”

  “I didn’t even see them.”

  “What about your bridge pals?”

  She shrugged. “I strolled right past two of them, and they didn’t bat an eyelash. Believe me, I did nothing to draw attention to myself.”

  Except donning an animal-print sweat suit, rhinestone studded boots, and a wig that could’ve belonged to Little Richard.

  “I did meet your friend Mabel Pinkston,” she said.

  “My friend?” I laughed, thinking of the lady in pink who thought she was Dr. Ruth. “I hardly know her.”

  “Well, I feel like we’re on the road to becoming best buddies,” Mother gloated. “She latched onto me the moment her radar detected fresh meat, as though she were my personal welcoming committee. She sat and talked my ear off while I ate, asking was I widowed, did I have children, and on and on.”

  “I’m afraid to hear what you told her,” I said, wondering what kind of history she’d given Miriam Ferguson.

  “I mixed truth with a few minor fibs, telling her I was widowed, though unfortunately I’d been barren and unable to conceive my own child, despite painful attempts at fertility treatments.”

  Those were minor fibs? I thought and rolled my eyes. Oh, Lordy.

  “But,” she continued, “I did say I had a distant branch from my family tree here in Dallas, which is what lured me from the backwoods of Podunk, Arkansas, in order to live out my Golden Years in surroundings more pleasant than the tarpaper shack I used to call home.”

  “Lovely image.”

  “I aim to please.” Her drawl turned thick, in what I’d begun to think of as “the voice of Miriam.” “Oh, and I mentioned my sweet little niece who was helping me move in.”

  “That’s me!” I perked up at the mention.

  “Though a distant relation, taken to my bosom like the closest of kin, particularly since you so eerily resemble my dead baby sister, Bonita, may she rest in peace.”

  Bonita? I nearly choked. Where did that come from?

  “How did she die?” I couldn’t resist inquiring.

  “Runaway cable car in San Francisco. Lord, but it was ugly,” she said and clicked tongue against teeth, even throwing in a convincing flinch.

  “Um, Mother, I think you’ve been watching too many soaps.”

  “It’s our cover, sweetie. All good detectives have them. It’s not the same as telling real lies,” she assured me.

  I’m sure the pastor at Highland Park Presbyterian might disagree with her on that one, but I’m no expert on morality.

  “Anything else I should know?” I asked, wondering how I was going to remember all these tall tales Cissy was pulling out of her hat. Or out of her “teased to within an inch of its life” wig, as the case may be.

  “Let me think . . . well, as best I can, what with my tummy howling.” She wandered over to the refrigerator and peered in, shaking her head at the meager contents and obviously getting sidetracked. “We’re gonna have to call over to Simon David and have them deliver. Bebe must’ve never eaten in. Which reminds me.” She shut the fridge door and turned around, flattening her palm against her chest. “The fresh salmon at brunch was to die for, Andrea. As pink as a grapefruit and so tender. If I’d had a baggie, I would’ve brought some back for you.”

  “Thanks, anyway,” I said, not a big fan of salmon, thinking this persona of Miriam was starting to take over my mother’s body, as I could never imagine the Cissy who’d groomed me for deb-dom so much as contemplating bringing home a doggie bag. Not for a human being much less for Fido.

  “Oh”—she clapped—“I did ask Mabel to keep her eyes open, in case any of the residents had eligible grandsons, since my adorable citified niece was on the market.”

  For crud’s sake.

  “I have a boyfriend, Mother.” As if she’d forgotten.

  “But do you have one of these?” She pointed at her third left finger, to the emerald-cut diamond engagement ring that glittered there and nestled against her wedding band—the real stuff that Daddy had given her, not any of her borrowed pieces from QVC.

  Moo, I thought, unbought cow that I’d become.

  “No,” she said, when I didn’t respond, “I didn’t think you did.”

  Tempted as I was to stick out my tongue, I refrained.

  Here I was ditching my real-life to play sidekick to the Tacky Sleuth, and she was taking potshots at my relationship with Brian? Who could blame me if I came out swinging?

  Batter up!

  I smacked my palms on the table,
getting her full attention. “Since I have no intentions of getting myself fixed up with anyone’s grandson, I’ll just have to tell Mabel Pinkston all the sordid bits you left out, including why I’m actually unavailable.”

  She screwed up her face. “What on earth are you talkin’ about? What sordid bits?”

  “The fact that you, my wacky, backwoods, oh-so-distant Aunt Miriam, must’ve had one of your recurring blackouts, resulting from all those years of drinking booze from your homemade still, as you obviously forgot that I’m already promised to the son of an Alabama farmer to whom you traded me for a pregnant sow, not only because you have a serious sorghum craving but because you felt so guilty at pushing your baby sister onto the cable car tracks that you can hardly bear to have me around and see Bonita’s likeness in my eyes.”

  Ha! I finished, out of breath, and slightly buzzed. Maybe I should write a romance novel.

  “Well, I never!” Mother stared at me for a long moment after. “Blackouts? Homemade liquor? Traded for a sow? Sorghum craving?” She shook a finger. “You, Andrea Blevins Kendricks, are very, very naughty.”

  “I learned from the master.”

  “Ah, you must mean your father. He had a gift for gab, among other things.” She smiled, but it was a wobbly effort—heck, she pretty much wobbled all over—and I shot to my feet.

  “Mother?” I caught her arm to steady her, and she sighed.

  “Must be a dip in my blood sugar,” she told me.

  All right. Playtime was over.

  “What say we order in something to eat and then get to bed early? It’s been a long day for us both.” She poked at her wig, making a face. “My head’s hurtin’ from the bobby pins besides, and I’d sure love to wash my face and get out of this outfit. I do believe I’m getting a rash from all this nylon.”

  Beneath the layers of Mary Kay, she looked plumb tuckered out, and I wasn’t feeling very chipper either.

  “Food, then rest,” I agreed, knowing we would live to sleuth another day, God willing.

  I followed her upstairs, lugging her suitcase, to get her settled in the guest room with the double bed. It was a no-brainer that I’d take the foldout sofa in Bebe’s office, which meant we’d share the connecting bath.

  Oh, goody, I’d get to experience a glimpse of the sorority life I’d missed by going to art school in Chicago.

  Not surprisingly, neither of us wanted to sleep in Bebe’s gargantuan sleigh bed, even with clean linens.

  As I headed back downstairs to order salads from Chef Jean’s kitchen—one of the perks of living at Belle Meade was twenty-four-hour “room” service—I heard the rush of water as Mother hit the shower. By the time she had scrubbed the coats of paint off her God-given face and had her salon-given blond hair wrapped in a towel, I’d have arranged for something to eat.

  Using instructions tacked to the refrigerator with a magnet, I phoned the dining hall at the Manor House and placed an order with a woman who carefully asked about food allergies before she suggested the spinach salad with strawberries. Sounded good to me. She mentioned a chocolate bread pudding that was the featured dessert of the day, and I figured Mother and I could both use a shot of sugar in our systems. After repeating the address on Magnolia Court, she told me to expect the food in about fifteen minutes.

  No wonder there was a waiting list to move in here. I couldn’t even get Pizza Hut to deliver that quickly.

  While I waited, I scrounged around Bebe’s kitchen, retrieving a couple place mats and enough flatware to set the table. Though the fridge didn’t have much in it, there was bottled water, half a gallon of fortified orange juice, and a nearly dry carton of soymilk with an expiration date of last week (sort of like Bebe).

  For some reason, I’d expected to find the remains of a bottle of wine, though perhaps I was looking in the wrong place.

  If Mother was right about a mysterious visitor showing up at Bebe’s house on Wednesday evening and sharing a glass of wine, then where was that particular bottle o’ vino? I didn’t see anything open in the fridge.

  Pulling wide the cabinet underneath the sink, I slid out the wastebasket, gingerly probing past an empty cereal box, wadded paper towels, and assorted discards. But no bottle.

  I trekked outside, located Bebe’s garbage-canon-wheels, and plucked off the lid. Trash pickup must’ve been recent, maybe in the days before she’d died, because there was nothing in it except something sticky glued to the bottom. I couldn’t find a recycle bin.

  If I put any stock in Mother’s theory—and that was debatable—then the missing bottle fit. Perhaps Bebe hadn’t lived long enough to toss it, which meant someone else had disposed of it, which implied there was something fishy, some reason not to leave it behind.

  Like traces of a poison, I mused. But what? Something that couldn’t be easily detected, or Dr. Finch would’ve seen the effects on the corpse and would never have declared Bebe’s death to be natural. Ditto Sarah Lee’s.

  Or would he?

  I thought of Arnold Finch and his pompous demeanor, his dark but chilly good looks, and the way he’d avoided shaking my hand. He’d rubbed me wrong from the start, but Annabelle swore he had the Belle Meade ladies swooning over his bedside manner. Still, he’d be in the perfect position to cover up a murder, wouldn’t he?

  Muhaha! Only the Shadow knows!

  Mother was right. It was late, and my mind was spinning into overdrive.

  Whistling to ward off the evil spirits, I meandered back into the kitchen, dead-bolting the door behind me. My pulse slowed down as I washed my hands, though I had to hurriedly wipe them dry on my jeans at the chime of the doorbell, knowing it wasn’t the Avon lady.

  Food, glorious food!

  As I started for the door, I heard Mother call out, “I’ll get it, sugar.”

  My initial reaction: be my guest.

  On second thought: what if someone from the Belle Meade staff should see her looking like Cissy and not Miriam? It could send Mother’s plans up in flames right from the get-go.

  What to do, what to do?

  Only one thing came to mind fast enough.

  I pulled an Annabelle.

  “Nooo,” I cried and raced from the kitchen, jetting through the living room and into the foyer, catching Mother just as she twisted the doorknob and pulled.

  I threw myself between her and the door in a body block, shutting it hard with my booty before any damage was done.

  Cissy jumped back and tugged at the lapels of her pale pink bathrobe, matching slippers on her feet, and a towel fastened turban-like around her head. Devoid of the thick layers of makeup, her skin had a pearly sheen, her puzzled blue eyes blinking at me below perfectly arched brows.

  “Andrea, my word, are you on drugs?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Mother,” I snapped and turned to peer out the peephole, spotting Mabel Pinkston standing on the porch with several foil containers in hand. I swung around, pressing my back against the door panels, as Mabel punched the bell again, trilling, “Hello? Is everything all right in there? I’ve brought your dinner!”

  Cissy stood scowling at me, her hands on her hips. “She has food, Andrea. Aren’t you going to let her in?”

  “Do you realize how you look, Miriam?” I hissed, drawing out the name like an accusation.

  “Well, forgive me for not donning something more formal . . . wait a second. Miriam, did you say? Oh . . . ah . . . oops.” She put her hands up to the twist of towel on her head, felt for the missing glasses on her nose.

  “Mind ducking into the kitchen?” I suggested, unless she wanted to pull a Mrs. Doubtfire and stuff her face into the meringue of a pie—if we’d had a pie with meringue, that is.

  “Gotcha, partner,” she said, giving me a wink and pulling the imaginary trigger of a gun shaped like her fingers.

  At least she didn’t tell me to just put my lips together and blow.

  I waited until she’d slipped out of sight, all the while Mabel banged on the door with her fist, calling,
“Yoo hoo? I know you’re in there.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, I composed myself, before I flipped the deadbolt and swept open the door. “Hello.” I smiled with all the sincerity of a used-car salesman. “Mrs. Pinkston, right? So lovely to see you again.”

  “You do look familiar, child.” She squinted at me as she held a stack of aluminum boxes in her arms.

  “We spoke yesterday,” I reminded her, “at the reception for Bebe Kent. I didn’t properly introduce myself.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Andrea Kendricks. My aunt Miriam Ferguson just moved in today. Well, she’s not actually my aunt,” I babbled on. “She’s a second cousin once removed or something like that, but we’re related just the same. I’ll be visiting for a bit, until she’s settled in.”

  “Miriam Ferguson, yes, of course. I had the nicest chat with her at brunch this afternoon. Snappy dresser.” Mabel made an “mmm” sound. “Ah, sure, I remember you, sister. Warned you off the oysters, didn’t I?” She looked me over quite thoroughly, penciled brows knitted. “But didn’t you say you’d come to Belle Meade with your mother? Where is she in all this?”

  “My mother?” Think, Andy, think! “Well, you see, she felt compassionate enough about Miriam’s circumstances down in Arkansas to want to move her to Belle Meade, but she’s not exactly on good terms with the Ferguson side of the family, if you get my drift.” I leaned in conspiratorily. “A long-standing feud over my grandpappy’s will. Set everyone off like the Hat-fields and McCoys.”

  “Oh, sister, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that one,” Mabel said, craning her neck to peer around me into the house, obviously waiting for an invitation to come in.

  Which she was not going to get.

  “Geez, what am I thinking? Let me get those,” I offered, indicating the foil containers she held. She reluctantly unloaded them into my hands. “And thanks so much for bringing them over, Mrs. Pinkston. It’s nearly eight o’clock. Isn’t that awfully late for a part-timer to be working? Annabelle . . . Ms. Meade . . . she mentioned that you lived off the grounds.”

  “I do at that.” She crossed her arms and shrugged. “But it’s no problem going back and forth. I love my work. I’d do anything for Annabelle. I don’t mind sticking around after I’ve punched out on the clock. Besides, when I get home, it’s to empty rooms. And it’s not much fun talking to yourself, is it? Sometimes even the plants don’t care a fig what you have to say.”