The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club: A Debutante Dropout Mystery

by McBride, Susan

  “Maybe you need different plants.”

  “Hell, I end up killing ’em all anyway, so they get theirs,” she said and forced a smile, rocking on her tiptoes to peek past my shoulder.

  Could I have felt any guiltier for not asking her to join us? But I couldn’t, not with Mother out of disguise in the kitchen.

  “Look, Mabel, I’d invite you inside, but we’ve had such a tiring day,” I finally admitted, because I didn’t know how else to get rid of her. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing you around plenty. I’ll be working in the library a little while I’m here, big ol’ bookworm that I am.”

  “All right then, I’ll see you around, sister,” she said with a jerk of her chin. “I’m here rain or shine.” She stood on the stoop for a minute after, the moonlight deepening the lines in her face, and I wanted to reach out to her, to drag her in where she had people to talk to, not plants.

  But I didn’t move.

  She turned and stepped off the porch, though I didn’t see a car parked in front.

  “Do you need a lift home?” I shouted after her.

  “No, thanks, child,” she called over her shoulder and gave me a finger wiggle. “I take the bus. Know the routes like the back of my hand.”

  Well, okay.

  I nudged the door closed with my shoulder, shifting the food containers to slip the deadbolt and reset the lock on the knob.

  Phew. That was close.

  “Did she catch me?” Mother asked as I brought the containers into the kitchen, and I shook my head, telling her, “No.” At least, I didn’t think so.

  After Cissy’s delighted “ooh” when she glimpsed our order, we ate in relative silence. We were both too pooped and talked-out to find much more to say. Besides, the spinach salad with strawberries (and strips of Gouda, pecans, and lime juice) was beyond amazing, as was the chocolate bread pudding. If that wasn’t a well-balanced meal, I didn’t know what was.

  By the time we’d finished, Mother’s turbaned head had dropped perilously close to her plate, so I promised to take care of the trash if she’d go upstairs, dry her hair, and hit the sack.

  “Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

  “Thanks, sugar,” she said and brushed a strand of mousy-brown from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “For seeing my side of things.”

  I scrounged up a smile for her benefit, so pleased to be looking at her again and not her alter ego, Miriam. Made me forget all the times when I’d wished for another mother, someone who wasn’t so perfect and who didn’t expect so much from me, since I was decidedly imperfect (and always would be).

  “Goodnight, Andrea.”

  “ ’Night.”

  Then she was gone, the kitchen suddenly so still without her. Not even a dripping faucet or ticking clock to distract me.

  I sank back down into the chair and set my chin in my hands.

  My head ached, saturated as it was with Mother’s accusations about rinsed-out glasses, missing lipstick, frilly nightgowns, and an upscale matchmaking service that may have hooked up her friends with a killer date.

  I chewed on my lower lip, wishing Malone were there, so we could hash over things.

  This was going to be trickier than I’d imagined. Looming ahead were at least several days of pretending to be Miriam Ferguson and her distantly related niece; acting out a real-life version of Clue and trying to find out who offed Mrs. Peacock in the library with a candlestick.

  Boy, oh, boy.

  I made myself stand and gather up the remnants of our dinner, disposing of the foil containers in the trash and saving the water bottles to recycle. Before I turned out the lights, I picked up the documents relating to Two Hearts, retrieved my suitcase from the foyer, and hauled everything upstairs to Bebe’s office, where I’d be hanging my hat temporarily.

  I had a few things to do before I could rest, despite Mother’s advice to let it wait until morning. We were staying in a strange house where a woman had recently died. I figured sleep wouldn’t come easily that night.

  As exhausted as I was, I could still feel the tingle of adrenaline, the prickle of “what ifs” raising goose bumps on my arms.

  Trying to pin the tail on a possible, potential, maybe, could-be killer was a nerve-wracking business.

  Had Nancy Drew ever needed Ambien to catch a few winks when she was working on a case? I had a feeling even Miss Marple put something stronger than lemon in her chamomile tea. Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade would’ve gone for the whiskey, no question.

  As for me, I tied back my hair, splashed my face with cold water, and slipped out of my jeans and into sweatpants and an oversized Tee. I propped a pillow behind my back and sat Indian-style in Bebe’s desk chair, put the keyboard in my lap, and cracked my knuckles, like a soloist preparing for a piano concerto.

  Then I booted up Bebe’s computer and tried not to feel guilty for whatever sins I was about to commit, starting with Thou shalt not hack.

  Chapter 15

  I woke up with my face in a puddle of drool.

  Something pressed into my cheek, but I was too bleary to know—or care—what it was. Groaning, I raised my head, ever so slowly, the crick in my neck making it impossible to move my chin from right to left without a lot of wincing involved. I’d fallen asleep with my contacts in, and they stuck uncomfortably to my corneas, my vision hazy until I blinked a couple dozen times and loosened things up.

  The computer tower at my feet still whirred quietly, and shooting stars zipped across the screensaver. I couldn’t remember if I’d dreamed, though I had a vague recollection of glimpsing my mother in that hideous wig and scary eyeglasses leaning over me.

  It’s a wonder I hadn’t awakened screaming.

  I wiped the slobber from my chin and glanced across the keyboard to the spot where I’d reclined my head atop a legal pad before I’d nodded off. An uncapped marker lay across my nearly illegible scribbles, and I raised a hand gingerly to my cheek, afraid of what I’d see on my skin when I made it to the bathroom mirror.

  Bugger, I thought. Please, don’t let that marker be permanent.

  I’d stayed up well into the wee hours, digging into the files on Bebe’s computer and sorting through scattered pieces of her thoroughly organized life. Skipping some much-needed shut-eye had been worth it and would save Mother a trip to the dating service (and the $20,000 membership fee).

  Once I’d unlocked the user password—kept in Bebe’s desktop Rolodex under P—I’d gone straight for the downloaded files and hit pay dirt immediately.

  Bebe had stored plenty of Two Hearts-related files on her hard drive, including several PDF newsletters touting their success rate (“Over 60 percent of Two Hearts’ matches have resulted in wedded bliss for discerning clients”), a couple of postdate surveys like the one Mother had found in Sarah Lee’s mail, and a copy of Bebe’s membership questionnaire, an encyclopedic collection of her likes and dislikes, personal history, and romantic expectations that ran on and on for twenty-one pages.

  As my neighbor Charlie would’ve said, “Woo doggie.”

  Also stored in her shared files was a letter from Two Hearts, which I’d printed out and read again for at least the tenth time.

  “Dear Mrs. Kent,

  After comparing your questionnaire with those provided by the gentlemen in our database, we have selected those whose answers most closely reflected your own. Photographs of each gentleman have been attached as JPEG files, and contact information is being given to you, so that the ultimate decision on whether or not to pursue a particular prospective match is placed squarely in your hands.

  It is our most heartfelt wish that you find someone who can fill your life with the joy and companionship you desire . . . blah blah blah.”

  My eyes skimmed down to the names of Bebe’s proposed beaus, though I pretty much had the whole thing memorized at that point:

  • Tom Walcher, 69, a retired engineering consultant and part-owner of a winery in Grapevine, Texas, who enjoyed crime fiction, liked
to travel to mystery conventions, and ultimately dreamed of taking a whale-watching cruise to Alaska with a special someone;

  • Reed Andrews, 71, Plano, TX, a former Dallas Cowboys player, retired insurance broker, and founder of a charitable organization called “Touchdowns for Teachers” that raised money for school supplies, books, and scholarships, seeking a companion who enjoyed dining out and attending sporting events;

  • Stephen Lloyd Howard, 62, an Iowa farm boy, retired Naval officer, Vietnam War veteran, and former agent for the IRS who loved fishing and hunting, had three grown children and a sister in Nebraska, and hoped to meet an old-fashioned, low-maintenance woman.

  A low-maintenance woman like Bebe Kent?

  Ha! Now that was hilarious.

  Still, they were quite an interesting trio, I thought, and fumbled beneath the legal pad to retrieve the pictures of Tom, Reed, and Stephen.

  Tom, the wine-loving mystery fan, had a full head of dark hair, aviator glasses, a square jaw, and a warmhearted grin that revealed a slight gap between his front teeth, à la David Letterman. He wore a jacket, crisp-collared shirt and tie, looking every bit the retired engineer (minus the pocket protector). Hey, some women liked the button-down type, though I’d bet Tom donned his jeans when he was out and about his vineyard, inspecting his harvest.

  Bachelor Number Two, aka Reed, sported sideburns straight out of the sixties, maybe to make up for the lack of hair on his cue-ball-smooth crown. He had puppy-dog eyes, a wide nose, and the thickest neck I’d seen this side of Warren Sapp. He balanced a meerschaum pipe on calloused fingertips, as if he were about to shove it between his sulky lips. Ah, this guy would make a worthy opponent to James Bond. We could call him R.

  The third of Bebe’s matches, Stephen, had a sun-kissed, outdoorsy appearance, with faded ginger-colored hair, a solid jaw, and broad grin that set his blue eyes atwinkle. He had his arms crossed in a way that said, “I’m dependable as a Chevy,” and I noticed a wedding band on his left hand. This was surely a man with a great love in his past that he wasn’t quite willing to give up just yet. Maybe not until he met that easy-to-maintain gal worthy of sharing his heart again.

  I only had one major problem with the fellas.

  A vintner with dreams of watching whales frolic in Alaska? An ex-pigskin pro who bought school supplies for classrooms? A Navy veteran cum farmboy who still wore his wedding band?

  Come on. Really.

  Not a Charlie Manson among them, so far as I could tell, which meant no carvings on their foreheads or visible tattoos of demons. None of them looked remotely like a killer. Okay, except the football player, a little.

  Which actually put my mind at ease. If my mother were going to pursue these bachelors on her wild goose chase, I figured she’d be safe enough as any single woman in Big D. As long as she armed herself with Altoids and a good excuse for leaving early, she’d be prepared for anything.

  I yawned, glancing at my terrible penmanship on the legal pad. I’d jotted down a few dates from Bebe’s online calendar marked “Dinner” with a time and restaurant but no name, the most recent on Wednesday evening.

  While Mother occupied herself with the riddle of “who was with Bebe last,” I wanted to do a little fishing of my own. I hadn’t yet gotten to the articles Janet had emailed about Belle Meade and the fire at the Meades’ lake house. I figured I’d take them with me to the library in the afternoon, where I’d have some peace.

  Jiggling the mouse, I brought up the desktop on the computer and checked the clock: twenty past eight.

  Geez, I felt positively slothful.

  I shuffled together the photos and the copy of the Two Hearts letter, ready to share them with Cissy. The door to the connecting bath was closed on my end, so I knocked and leaned an ear against it, twisting the knob when I heard zilch.

  I went straight ahead, passing through a lingering cloud of Joy, but saw no sign of her when I stuck my head into the room where she’d slept.

  The bed was neatly made, and Mother’s borrowed black wig was no longer draped over a lampshade, where I’d seen it the night before.

  This time, I didn’t panic. My Jeep boxed in the Buick, so she couldn’t have gone far on foot, not in those ugly rhinestone boots.

  I put aside the photographs and letter, and I gave myself permission to take a long, hot shower in Bebe’s guest bath. When I finally emerged from the steam and cleared a spot on the mirror, I could only make out a vague squiggle of black on my cheek from sleeping on the marker. It looked a little like the mark of Zorro.

  Great.

  After I’d dried and dressed in jeans and a clean T-shirt, I headed down to the kitchen and dropped the photographs on the table. The place echoed like a tomb. It didn’t take a huge leap to realize Cissy had skipped out, and I found the answer as to where when I saw a note stuck to the refrigerator:

  “Got up early and went over to Sarah Lee’s so Elvira could let me in while they cleaned. I called Sandy and asked her to have Simon David deliver whatever she usually orders and to put it on my tab. They’ll deliver this morning so don’t move! See you soon. Love, M.”

  Stick around. Poo.

  I crumpled the paper in my fist as I considered walking to Sarah Lee Sewell’s instead of waiting for the danged groceries. With my luck, they wouldn’t arrive for hours, like the AC guy who always promised to come sometime between eight and five and showed up at 4:40.

  Well, I had nothing better to do, did I?

  The doorbell took that instant to chime, putting a quick end to my internal grumbling.

  When I opened up, I saw the Simon David truck parked at the curb. On the stoop stood two pimple-faced young men, balancing carton stacked upon carton so they had to peek around the cardboard corners to see ahead of them.

  “Order for, um, Mrs. Ferguson?” one asked, his voice strained, and I hoped he wouldn’t get a hernia.

  “Come on in,” I said and waved them in. “Follow me.”

  I led the way into the kitchen so they could deposit their loads on the center island. Geez, Louise, but Sandy’s order would feed a family of five for a month! I wasn’t even sure the fridge would hold everything.

  The delivery boys began unpacking, but I put a halt to that, telling them I’d do it myself, thank you very much. When I herded them to the front door, they lingered on the stoop, hanging back with expectant smiles, and I realized they wanted a tip. If Mother had been around, she could’ve peeled a Benjamin off the stack in her wallet. I, on the other hand, rarely had more than a few bucks to spare.

  I muttered an apology and gave them the last three dollar bills from my purse, which had them glancing at each other and frowning. I could almost read their minds: “She expects us to split this? Cheap frickin’ chick.”

  I’d barely shut the door on them, when the bell rang again.

  “Guys, that’s all there is”—I started off, only to clamp my mouth shut when I saw who it was. Patsy Finch.

  The doctor’s wife had her fair hair pulled back with a blue headband to match the blue shirt beneath her white lab coat.

  What the heck was she doing here? Was it a professional visit?

  I didn’t see a welcome basket loaded with prescriptions in her hand, just a large manila envelope.

  “Good morning . . . Andrea, isn’t it?” she said, watching me carefully (or maybe I was paranoid). “Is Mrs. Ferguson in?”

  “Well, hi, Patsy. Call me Andy, and, no, my aunt Miriam has gone out for a bit.” I ushered her in. “If you wouldn’t mind coming into the kitchen, I’ve got a mess of groceries to unload. I think my dear aunt aimed to feed everyone on the block, or she’s hoarding in case we’re quarantined with the bird flu.”

  “Some people are like squirrels storing nuts for the winter, eh? Arnold finds that often in children of parents who lived through the Great Depression.”

  “Right, like squirrels,” I said, though it was more like a Highland Park matron used to having someone else keep the pantry stocked and panicking when
she found it lacking. “What, no water crackers? No Brie? How am I supposed to live in such deprivation?”

  “Go ahead and have a seat,” I instructed, gesturing in the general direction of the table and chairs. “Would you like something to drink? There’s bottled water and orange juice, at least.”

  “I’m fine.” She glanced at the watch on her wrist. “I need to get to the clinic in a few minutes besides so I can open up the pharmacy at nine.”

  “Was there a particular reason you wanted to see Miriam?” I asked and began to rummage through the contents of the boxes, withdrawing plastic bags containing fruits and vegetables in every color of the rainbow. Bread, bagels, cheeses, and eggs soon followed. I pulled a bagel from its wrapping and took as big a bite as I could fit in my mouth. Didn’t offer one to Patsy, though. Rude of me, wasn’t it?

  “As a matter of fact,” Patsy lectured, “your aunt never filled out the medical questionnaire that Annabelle always requires of our residents before they move in. We like to have copies of physicians’ records, and a list of medications and allergies for any newcomers, as well as their health insurance information so we can get them into the system right away. We have a centralized database for all that. As I’m in charge of the pharmacy, I’ll coordinate their prescriptions to make sure everything’s proper and all refills are promptly dispensed.”

  She waved the manila envelope at me until I looked over. “I’ve brought the standard packet, including a release to send her primary care doctor so that we can get her record up-to-date as soon as possible. Arnold will want to set up an appointment, too, for an initial consultation since he’ll be assuming her basic care, and he’ll want to ask her if she has a DNR order on the books, just in case.”

  “DNR?” Was that like a DUI? Which Mother most certainly did not have on or off the books. Or maybe it was like the DAR, of which she was a proud member.