“It means Do Not Resuscitate,” Patsy explained, and I swallowed hard, not liking the sound of that, especially on an empty stomach. “It lets us know not to go to medical extremes to revive her, should she stop breathing.”
What a delightful thought, Dr. Kervorkian, thanks so much for sharing.
“I’ll make sure she gets the paperwork.” I uttered yet another fib. Because I knew Mother was never going to fill out any forms or provide her medical records.
“I could wait a bit, eh? I was hoping to take care of it myself,” Patsy suggested, and I busied myself, stuffing food willy-nilly in the fridge.
“No need,” I assured her, putting away a key lime pie in the freezer. Key lime pie? Was that a sugar staple in Mother’s house, like Ding-Dongs were in mine? “I don’t know when she’ll be back. It may be hours.”
“Did she go to Jazzercise? That’s a popular class at this time of the morning. Girl who teaches it, Wendi, has a big following. I could track her down there.”
“Jazzercise?” Mother working up a sweat? Not in this lifetime. “Could be, Patsy, I don’t really know. She was gone when I woke up, which wasn’t all that long ago.” I wasn’t about to tell her that “Miriam” was really at Sarah Lee Sewell’s, poking around in her drawers.
“Well, hello, boys!” I heard Patsy chirp.
Too much coffee this morning? Or did Patsy see dead people?
“Mind if I ask what these are for?” she asked, and I realized she’d spread out the photos of the three men from Two Hearts that Bebe had downloaded. “Nice-looking fellows. Are they friends of your aunt’s?”
Rats.
I’d forgotten about those, what with the delivery boys showing up. I figured it wouldn’t look good to race across the room and snatch them from under her nose, would it?
“Oh, yeah, those fellows”—I cleared my throat—“well, actually, I found the pictures in a folder for one of Bebe’s charities. They’re part of a calendar called, uh, ‘Prime Tenderloin’ that Bebe was putting together to, um, raise money for the . . . er, Cattle Ranchers for PETA fund,” I made up as I went along, finding the lies came easier the more I told them.
“I get it, like those ‘Calendar Girls’ from Britain. Even had a movie made about them.”
“Yes, just like that.” My armpits felt damp. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for deceit. Mother made it look so easy. “Um, by any chance, Patsy, do you recognize them? Ever see them around Belle Meade? I was wondering if they were residents. I’d sure like to hook one of them up with my aunty. She’s more than a wee bit lonely after all those years in the backwoods of Arkansas with only her still and a banjo.”
She studied the faces, tipping her head this way and that. “No, sorry.” She glanced up with a shrug. “I can’t say that I have, and I’d remember them, I think. Considering the dearth of eligible fellows around here, except for poor Henry.”
“Oh, I heard ‘poor Henry’ does all right for himself.”
Patsy Finch giggled, her cheeks a bright pink, so she looked positively girlish and about as guileless as a Girl Scout. Until she got up from the table and approached, slapping down her brown envelope and planting her palms flat on the granite island, looking as long-faced as Mr. Ed.
“Mind if I ask you something rather personal, Andy?” she said.
“How personal?” I flinched.
“You weren’t with your aunt at Mrs. Sewell’s yesterday, you were with your mother, right? If I’m not mistaken, she’s the pretty blonde who called the police and had such a row with Annabelle in Sarah Lee’s kitchen. Though I heard something about a family feud. So your mother and aunt aren’t speaking?”
“That’s right, which is why I volunteered to get Miriam settled and Mother wants nothing more to do with her.” I had picked up the bagel to take another bite, but quickly set it down and wiped my hands on my pants.
“I see.” Patsy stepped away from the center island and stuck her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. Small as they were, they disappeared entirely. “It’s just odd, that’s all.”
“What’s odd?” My heart skidded along my ribcage. “My relatives?” I laughed nervously. “Because I’d have to agree with you there.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that, Andy. It’s something more practical. Annabelle must have told you that we’ve got a lengthy waiting list of suitable candidates who applied months ago to live here, even before we opened this location. When a resident . . . vacates the premises,” she put it diplomatically, “whoever’s at the top of the list gets first crack at the opening. Only I looked at the database this morning and didn’t see Miriam Ferguson’s name anywhere on it.”
Is that all? More fibs, coming up!
“Well, Annabelle had a hand in that, you see,” I rattled off. “She did it as a favor, seeing as how we go way back.”
“To when you were campmates, right?”
“Yes.”
She drew a hand from a coat pocket to scratch her chin. “That’s what Annabelle said, more or less. Well, she claims she had some kind of pact with your family to take care of Mrs. Ferguson as long as she’s upright.”
“Annabelle’s good at keeping her word.” At least, I hoped so. My response seemed to satisfy Patsy, if the slow bob of her chin was any indication.
“Yes, she’s very loyal, isn’t she? Arnie and me . . . we’d do anything for her, for Belle Meade.” Patsy lowered her voice to a whisper, adding, “Don’t be upset with Annabelle, but she confessed to us both that Miriam has a rather spotty past in politics, and her late husband was in terrible trouble with the government, the poor dear. So it’s understandable she’s prone to acting strangely, what with all that stress she’s had to live with.”
Holy guacamole, Annabelle was at it, too, spinning tales that wove the real-life Miriam Amanda Wallace Ferguson’s background into the fake Miriam’s. Pretty soon, between, Mother, AB, and me, we’d have created enough manure to fertilize all sixty-six acres at the Dallas Arboretum.
“Miriam’s, er, problems have definitely affected her more above the neck than below,” I said, fighting to keep a straight face, because Patsy looked so earnest.
“Don’t worry, Andy. Your aunt is in good hands here.”
“What a relief.”
Another peek at her wrist and then, “Ach, look at the time! I’ve got to get back to the clinic and open up the pharmacy. Just have Miriam drop this off as soon as she’s able, then she can set up a consult with the doctor, and we’ll get everything squared away.”
“Great.”
I walked her to the door and followed her out to the porch.
She started down the steps, before hesitating. She turned around, a finger raised to the air as if testing the wind.
“Oops, one more thing, Andy, if you wouldn’t mind. Could you collect Mrs. Kent’s prescription medications for me, if they haven’t been thrown away? Just put them in a shoebox and drop them off at the clinic, or I can pick them up later.”
“Sure,” I told her. “I’ll see what I can find.”
I’d put “go through dead woman’s medicine cabinet” on my to-do list, right after “baby-sit Mother” and “stick eyes with hot pokers.”
“Thanks a bunch. We usually collect the meds ourselves and dispose of them for the family, but we’ve never had anyone move into the residence of a decedent so”—she hesitated—“well, fast.”
“I understand.” I did not want to get into another discussion with her about why the rules had been bent for Miriam.
She nodded, tipping her head and squinting at me through the brilliant morning light so I felt sure I had a hunk of bagel stuck between my teeth. “Your cheek,” she said and pointed. “Bruise?” she asked.
It took a second for my brain to register what she meant.
“Oh, this?” I lifted my fingers to the spot where I’d slept on the marker. “I fell asleep at the computer and had a run-in with a pen. Looks like a Z, doesn’t it? For Zorro.” I pantomimed carving the letter into the
air.
“Um, more like an L actually.”
For loser, I thought, dropping my sword arm to my side. How fitting.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll wash off in a few days.”
Hurrah.
“Gosh, I’d better run,” she said, and she did.
I watched as she dashed across the lawn toward a three-wheeled cycle parked at the curb, behind where the Simon David truck had stopped earlier. The thing was rigged with baskets and a bell, too, I realized, as she jangled it several times before pedaling down the street and out of my line of vision.
Nice enough lady, I thought, wondering why there was something about her I didn’t trust, much the same way I didn’t trust her husband.
“The Finches worked with you in Austin, Annabelle?”
“Yes, but they’re not the only ones. I couldn’t have opened in Dallas without their help . . .It’s not like they had anything to do with what happened.”
They knew about the threatened lawsuits, and Patsy herself brought up loyalty and how they’d “do anything for” Annabelle.
I wondered if that included murder.
Chapter 16
If I were writing an official report on my undercover work as Mother’s sidekick, I would have summed up the rest of the morning something like this:
9:15 a.m. Ate two bagels with raspberry cream cheese, chased down with a glass of fresh-squeezed juice from Simon David.
9:40 a.m. Brushed teeth, gathered up the bachelor photos from Two Hearts and the articles Janet had e-mailed, stuffed in purse.
9:50 a.m. Emptied the contents of Bebe’s medicine cabinet into a gallon-sized plastic baggie (don’t ask if that had felt creepy), also stuffed into purse.
10:00 a.m. Locked up the house but couldn’t deadbolt the front door (still no key) and drove over to Sarah Lee Sewell’s.
Trés exciting, no?
Well, no. In fact, it sounded positively boh-ring.
If my initial twenty-four-hours at Belle Meade had provided me with a peek into the Lifestyles of the Chic and Shamus, then I’m glad my guidance counselor at Hockaday had steered me toward art and graphics. Besides, I don’t think I had the right equipment to be a real private dick.
After only one wrong turn, my Jeep sniffed out the route to Sarah Lee Sewell’s place. The front door stood wide open, accommodating a fat black hose that emanated from the rear end of a bright yellow van marked, AAAA CARPET SERVICE, parked in the driveway. A white Ford Escort sat at the curb and had graceful curly-cued letters identifying it as BELLE MEADE HOUSEKEEPING.
I was relieved that Mother hadn’t been at Sarah Lee’s house without adult supervision. She still had me worried, and that nagging concern for her mental health wouldn’t abate until she was back home on Beverly Drive, with Sandy Beck hovering over her (the usual routine).
The powerful whir of the carpet cleaner hit my ears full blast as I stepped through the front door. A woman in a bright yellow T-shirt and cap—to match the van, of course—propelled the machine around the living room, the furniture pushed to the fringes, some pieces stacked atop others. If I had yelled bloody murder, she wouldn’t have noticed.
A glance into the kitchen revealed another woman at work in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, hair tucked under a kerchief and headphones plugged into her ears. Her compact body swayed as she mopped the tiled floor with great vigor.
Elvira, from Belle Meade’s Housekeeping department, I figured, by sheer process of elimination.
I began to tiptoe across the slick tiles, trying to get her attention, when she saw me and threw up a hand like a traffic cop.
So I stopped, where I was, but I was far enough into the room to earn a disapproving frown.
She peeled off the headphones, leaned on the mop, and shouted above the carpet machine’s din, “What d’you want? You looking for someone?”
“Woman with black hair and glasses,” I yelled back. “Her name is Miriam.”
“Who?”
“Miriam Ferguson,” I bellowed.
“Ah!” She hooked a thumb. “Upstairs!”
I nodded, started to say, “Thank you,” but she put her headphones back on and resumed attacking the floor with her O-Cedar.
The cap-wearing carpet cleaner didn’t even glance at me as I raced up the steps, eager to escape the din.
I found Cissy quite easily this time without having to stick my nose into any strange bathrooms or closets. After spotting her from the hallway, I slipped into the room she occupied and shut the door behind me, noting only the vague hum of machinery beyond. It was blissful. I could finally hear myself think.
Cissy didn’t look up as I entered, neither did she flinch as the door clicked closed. She seemed to be somewhere else entirely (as she had a lot these past few days).
She stood in the center of the master bedroom, surrounded by brown packing boxes; chin hanging down, she crushed a black dress against a garish—doubtless, borrowed—cheetah-print blouse, holding on for dear life.
“Mother,” I said, so as not to startle her. “Can I help?”
As soon as she lifted her head with that black bouffant wig and saw me through her cat’s-eye specs, she quickly composed herself and carefully folded the dress, setting it down in the nearest box.
“Good morning, sweetie. No, no, I’m making good progress. Just packing up Sarah Lee’s things for her sister. She wants them shipped to South Dakota. Annabelle said she’d send a volunteer to help. There’s so much more to do than I thought when I promised Margery.”
“So much for detecting, huh?” I teased.
“Well, I did bag up those mugs from her kitchen before Elvira could get to them,” she informed me. “So that evidence is safe in my satchel.”
“Good thinking.” Though I wondered how she thought anyone would get prints or residue off them when they’d been washed already.
“I just never imagined how large Sarah Lee’s wardrobe would be, when she donated a truckload to the Welfare to Work program before she moved into Belle Meade. I wonder what her sister will do with it all.”
I watched her lift a shimmering beaded gown on its hanger from atop a pile on the bed. “Oh, how she loved this Bob Mackie”—Mother smiled, as if remembering a private moment—“said it made her feel like a showgirl.”
“Can’t imagine Mrs. Fleck will have much cause to wear Bob Mackie in Sioux Falls.”
“It’s Flax, sweetie, and she lives in Bison, not Sioux Falls.”
“My point exactly.”
“It’s just a shame. It really is.” She sighed, adding the gown to the box she’d been working on. Then she put her hands on hips wrapped snug inside a pair of black jeans. The denim cuffs were tucked into those awful lizard boots littered with rhinestones. Had my old drama teacher Mrs. Coogan found those at Tammy Faye Bakker’s yard sale?
Egads.
Stranger still, was seeing my mother in denim. I can’t remember her ever donning a pair before, and I had a feeling I wouldn’t ever again after this. I wish I’d brought my camera. I could always use the photos as leverage the next time she tried to twist my arm into doing something I didn’t want to do.
“Did you find anything else about Mrs. Sewell’s involvement with Two Hearts?” I asked to distract her.
“I’m sorry, Andrea,” she apologized, “but I haven’t yet had a moment to look for any papers. I’ve been so preoccupied with this.” She indicated the mess around her. It did look as though a bomb filled with couture had exploded. “Thank heavens Sarah’s good jewelry and her best silver were stored in a safe deposit box at the bank. I’d hate to be responsible for that, too.”
“Don’t worry about Sarah Lee’s papers from the matchmaker,” I told her. “I don’t think it matters.”
“How do you mean?”
“Because of what I found on Bebe’s hard drive”—I drew my bag off my shoulder and sifted through the contents to find what I needed—“check out this.” Once I dislodged the photos and letter I’d printed off Beb
e’s computer, I wove through the maze of boxes to hand them over.
The closer I got, the more she tipped her head and got squinty. “Darling, what’s that on your face?” She actually wet her thumb and reached out to rub my cheek.
Gross, a spit bath!
Did she think I was three years old or something?
“It’s ink, geez! It’ll come off in a few days.” I brushed away her touch, pushing the papers at her. “There were only three matches for Mrs. Kent that I could find. It should be easy enough to figure out if any one of them saw Mrs. Sewell as well. Their phone numbers are right on that letter. See?”
“Brilliant!” she said, forgetting about the smudge on my face as she took the pages and went back to the bed, sitting down amidst the contents of Sarah Lee’s emptied closet. “Oh, my, oh, my,” she murmured, and I watched the expressions shift on her face as she read the men’s biographies. She chuckled softly when she got to the photographs. “I can’t believe Bebe dated this one”—she pointed to the bald Mr. Andrews who used to play football—“he looks like her old butler, Nigel, who eloped to Vegas with the cook not long after Homer died. Bebe wanted to strangle him for stealing away the best personal chef she’d ever had.”
“Ah, a case where the butler did do it,” I said to myself.
Mother blinked. “What’s that, sweetie?”
“Nothing.” I felt like Mrs. Pinkston talking to her plants. “Look, I’ll leave the tres hombres to you, all right? I’ve got a few things to look into this afternoon.”
“You do?” She blinked her magnified eyes, seeming pleased by my statement. “Well, that’s wonderful, darling. Yes, I’ll take charge of investigating our suspects, once I’ve gotten help sorting through the rest of Sarah Lee’s closet.”
Our suspects, huh?
Whatever made her happy.
I wasn’t about to admit that I didn’t think any of the Three Hearts bachelors had a fig to do with her friends’ deaths and send her high hopes crashing like the Hindenberg. It was good to see her smile, so what did it hurt?
The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club: A Debutante Dropout Mystery Page 21