The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club: A Debutante Dropout Mystery

by McBride, Susan

  I looked her in the eye without flinching. “What it means, is that I think you know who is.”

  “You’re nuts,” she said and laughed. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Two words,” I told her, straightening up and holding up a pair of fingers. “Mabel Pinkston.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, wait, you’re right. That’s not it. Two more words,” I said. “Em Albright. Although it’s M, short for Mabel, not for Emma or Emily, like I originally believed. They’re the same person, Annabelle, but then you knew that, didn’t you?”

  She stared, unblinking. “You’re wrong.”

  “Am I? Then maybe you can explain why Mabel Pinkston Albright files tax returns but no one named Emma or Emily Albright does, huh?” I nodded. “Yeah, a friend of mother’s checked it out. So no more lies.”

  “Don’t do this, Andy, I beg you,” she whispered, her face pale as an eggshell. “Stop this, before you hurt someone.”

  Stop? I was just getting started.

  I went over to the bookcase with the photos of Annabelle and her so-called guardian angel. “She’s lost a bunch of weight since the fire, hasn’t she? But it’s still Mabel, isn’t it?” I faced her. “Why did you hide this, Annabelle? Is it because she’s hiding behind you?”

  “She’s a good woman, and I won’t hear you bad mouth her, okay? So don’t go dredging up things that can’t be changed.” Her eyes welled, but I felt no sympathy. “The fire scarred her forever, can’t you grasp that?”

  “When she pushed up her sleeves while we were packing, I saw those awful scars on her arms, and I told her I knew a fabulous plastic surgeon who could do wonders for her. But I think I embarrassed her.”

  “The scars, yes.” I stared at her. “From the burns that she suffered when she supposedly tried to save your parents. But that’s not really what happened, Annabelle, is it?” I was fishing here, but I had a big fat worm on my hook, and she bit.

  “It wasn’t her fault. She was tired and she was cleaning up dinner and she left a rag too near the burner. So what?” Tears streamed down Annabelle’s cheeks. “She never meant for anyone to get hurt. But the smoke alarm didn’t work, and they never woke up.”

  “Was it really an accident, AB?” My heart pounded as I said it. “Or did she do it because she loved you and hated them? Hated how they’d treated you all your life. How they’d treated her.”

  Annabelle had set the stage.

  “. . . 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. 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. The next morning, they were dead.”

  Had her guardian angel granted her wish?

  I wet my lips. “And what about Mabel’s husband? Do you really think he died a natural death, and such a convenient one, too, since he wanted to take her away from that place . . . away from you.”

  “Frank is dead. The poor man wanted to get out of Austin after everything, but he never got the chance . . . He went to bed one night and never woke up again.”

  Annabelle rose from the chair on legs so shaky I felt sure she’d fall. She felt her way around the desk, keeping one hand on the edge, then stood but a foot away. I could see the terror in her face.

  Was she so scared of what I was saying? Or of what she’d ignored for so long? Two women might be alive if she hadn’t put her blinders on.

  “Let this alone, Andy, I beg you.” Tears splashed down her cheeks, onto the silk of her blouse, leaving splotches that wouldn’t go away. “She wouldn’t hurt anyone, not even for me.”

  “She told me herself that she’d do anything for you.”

  “She wouldn’t kill for me, Andy!” She angrily swiped at damp cheeks. “She wouldn’t.”

  “But I think she did,” I said softly.

  “Who knew about their threats, Annabelle?”

  “The lawyers for the corporation, of course. Some of the staff I worked most closely with, like Patsy and Arnold Finch. I might’ve told a few others . . .”

  Mabel knew. Annabelle would never have been able to keep something like that from the woman who’d raised her.

  “She delivered the drugs to Mrs. Kent and Mrs. Sewell before they died,” I went on, because I had no doubt it was the truth. The Finches’ silence when I’d posed the question had been more telling than words.

  Had she mixed the drops in tea for Sarah and wine for Bebe, knocking them cold, once and for all? Afterward, once they were still and unbreathing, she’d even rinsed out the glasses so there’d be no trace of a crime.

  I suddenly realized my mother wasn’t so crazy.

  Mabel Pinkston was.

  Crazy like a fox.

  “Were there others, Annabelle? In Austin, before you brought her here?” I asked, my voice hoarse, incredibly drained. “Is that why you wondered about connections, because you feared the worst, but you couldn’t make yourself believe it? You couldn’t believe Mabel had killed for you, because then it would be over. You’d lose her forever. You’d be all alone.”

  Annabelle shook her head violently. “No, Andy, no. You’re twisting this, seeing things that aren’t there. You’re doing this because your mother wants you to take her side. She’s out to get me, like the others.”

  “No, AB, that’s not it at all . . .”

  Then I stopped. Realized what she’d said. And raw panic struck.

  My mother.

  Oh, God.

  “I like you better as a blonde.”

  “That’s what Mabel said this morning.”

  My blood iced over.

  I grabbed her by the arms, ignoring her wince. “Did you tell Mrs. Pinkston who Cissy is and what she’s doing here? Did you tell her my mother was out to get you? Please, tell me you didn’t.”

  “She wouldn’t hurt her . . . she wouldn’t.” But there was fear in her eyes behind the tears, and I knew even she wasn’t convinced.

  “Where is she now? Where, Annabelle?” I was shouting, and I didn’t care.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know. She said she had some deliveries to make after lunch and then she was going home early. She wasn’t feeling well.”

  “You’d better hope she went home.”

  I let her go, and she hugged herself, shivering. “She wouldn’t harm Cissy. I’m sure of it.”

  “You’d better be right,” I said, backing up toward the door, watching her weep and knowing there was nothing more I could do for Annabelle Meade, not like in our camp days, where it had taken a few words of compassion or cookies from my care pack to make her smile.

  I hightailed it to my car, desperately wanting to get back to Bebe’s house, collect my things—and my mother—and get as far away from Belle Meade as possible. If I never saw the place again, it would be too soon.

  I made a left onto Magnolia and nearly passed Bebe’s townhouse altogether. I hit the brakes and did a U-turn, backtracking past the near-identical residences to find the one I’d missed, because my landmark had vanished.

  I pulled the Jeep hard against the curb.

  The Buick was gone.

  It wasn’t in the driveway. Wasn’t anywhere in sight.

  I jumped out and raced up to the house, finding the door unlocked, when I’m sure I’d set the lock when I’d left.

  Dammit.

  I’m calm, I’m calm, I’m calm as a frigging cucumber.

  This had happened before, I reminded myself. Cissy had an irritatingly independent mind of her own. Maybe she was too restless to nap and had gone back to Sarah Lee Sewell’s to finish packing.

  “Mother!”

  I ran up the steps to the guest room, ducking into the connecting bath, noting the absence of the black wig and cat’s-eye glasses.

  Okay, okay, she must’ve put them on before she went out.

  That implied free will, di
dn’t it? You couldn’t force a wig on someone, could you? Then I glanced at the floor on the other side of the bed to see the black leather handbag with the buckles and glitter.

  I snatched it up, spilling its contents on the bed. Wallet, coin purse, day planner, compact, lipstick, calling card case, and cell phone. I shook it, upside down, making sure I hadn’t missed anything.

  Where were the car keys?

  Cissy would never take off without her purse much less drive ten feet without her wallet and ID. She was such a stickler for propriety.

  Maybe she’d had to go in a hurry, I told myself, as I rushed down the stairs, through the foyer and past the living room into the kitchen, looking for a note, like she’d left that morning, checking the fridge, the table, the countertops, the sink. . . .

  Oh, no.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  There, draining atop a folded dishtowel, were two rinsed-out mugs. A teakettle sat on a back burner of the stove, still warm to the touch, so they couldn’t have been gone long.

  It was the killer’s M.O.

  And I’d bet money on Mabel Pinkston.

  Which meant the crazy bitch had come and gone . . . and she’d taken Cissy with her.

  Chapter 19

  I rushed to the Jeep and peeled out of Bebe’s street, honking at a pair of helmeted bike riders taking up the middle of the road and finally swerving around them. Going well past the posted eleven-miles-per-hour limit and tires squealing with each turn, I went by Sarah Lee’s, two streets over—my only hope—but I didn’t spot the Buick there, either.

  “Where are you, Ma?” I said out loud and smacked the steering wheel, helpless and afraid.

  No use dialing Cissy’s cell, since it was back in the bedroom with her purse. She wouldn’t have had it turned on, anyway.

  What next, what next, what next?

  Okay, okay. I retrieved Annabelle’s office number from my cell’s memory and, one hand on the wheel, used the other to dial it, running over her “hello” with a rushed, “Cissy’s gone and so’s her car . . . I think Mabel’s got her . . . hell, I think she drugged her before she stuffed her in the car . . . dammit, Annabelle, you have to tell me where she lives!”

  Click.

  She hung up.

  Aaargh!

  I hit the re-dial and got her again, “Give me her address, Annabelle, or I swear I’ll . . .”

  Click.

  She hung up again.

  Four years of sharing a bunk at Camp Longhorn, and it comes down to this? I should’ve let the mosquitoes eat her alive.

  Panic overtook me, and I shook so bad I dropped my cell to my lap. I had to stop before the guardhouse and dig it from between my thighs. I was close to hyperventilating, trying mightily to figure out what to do next and coming up empty.

  I saw Bob poke his head through the window of his tiny shack, and I bumped the Jeep forward, rolling the window down. “Did you see my moth . . . Miriam Ferguson leave the grounds in a silver Buick Century, maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago?”

  He scratched his jaw, taking his own sweet time. “Matter of fact, she went right by without a wave, but I recognized that dark hair and those glasses. Her blonde friend in the passenger seat must’ve had a Bloody Mary too many at the Early Bird Happy Hour. Couldn’t even hold up her head.”

  “You said Miriam was driving?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And a blonde was in the other seat?”

  “Potted as a plant.”

  Wait a danged minute.

  Mrs. Pinkston wasn’t blonde.

  She must’ve been wearing the wig and glasses, not my mother.

  Cissy was the blonde who couldn’t hold up her head. So Mabel had drugged her, and I had no idea how much, or how long she had until it put her to sleep permanently.

  I hauled butt out of Belle Meade, tearing past the Stonehenge posts and into Forest Lane traffic.

  How could this be happening?

  I didn’t even know where to go.

  And if I didn’t get to her soon, she might not wake up again. Like Bebe and Sarah Lee . . . or Franklin Albright, Mabel’s goner of a husband.

  What to do, what to do?

  Call the police?

  Tell them a pyromaniac serial killer with gray hair and pin curls had kidnapped my wig-wearing mother who’d been using a fake name to play Miss Marple at an old folks’ home after two ladies from her bridge group had gone boots up?

  Oh, yeah, that would go over big.

  Think, Andy, think!

  I looked up the last number to call me, and I pressed Send, murmuring, “Answer, please, answer,” before I heard the now-familiar voice on the other end say, “Andy, is something wrong?” He obviously had CallerID, too.

  “Stephen, you’ve got to help. I think my mother’s in big trouble, and I don’t know what to do.” I told him why, talking as fast as I could, and he didn’t laugh, didn’t hang up, just put me on hold for what seemed like forever while he made some calls on his landline.

  I was on the verge of a crying jag, and I would have let loose right there and then, if I didn’t have anything better to do.

  But I did.

  I had to keep it together.

  When he came back on, he gave me an address on Garland Road and added, “I’m heading out the door right now. I’ll meet you there myself. Hey, it’ll be all right, Andy. We’ll find her.”

  It’ll be all right.

  I repeated those words over and over again in my head as I made my way to Mockingbird and headed east, toward White Rock Lake and Buckner Boulevard.

  Mabel had a good head start, and I kept hitting red light after red light, until I thought my heart would burst from my chest.

  Not for the first time in the last two days, I sorely wished Cissy had a chip in her fanny so I could track her with GPS.

  Holy Moly! That was it!

  Why hadn’t I thought of it before?

  Sandy’s Buick had OnStar with GPS tracking. Maybe we couldn’t train a satellite on Mother, but we could get a fix on the Century.

  I speed-dialed the house on Beverly and Sandy picked up on the first ring.

  Without preamble, I told her to use the landline, call OnStar, tell them a woman had been carjacked in her vehicle and to get in touch with the Dallas police. “Just don’t hang up!” I begged, as I wanted to hear everything, to know what was going on and where to drive, so I could get to Cissy first.

  I had trouble concentrating on the road, earning honks that barely registered, clutching my cell to my ear and steering one-handed. Telling myself just to listen and breathe and go forward.

  I want my mommy.

  A little voice cried in my head, nearly drowning out Sandy as she said, “Andy, they’ve got the car . . . it’s stopped on Garland . . . somewhere near the entrance to the Arboretum . . . they’re sending the police . . . please stay with me . . . tell me when you get there. I have to know that she’s okay.”

  I hit the accelerator, weaving around vehicles moving too slowly, rushing through a light as it flipped from yellow to red, my emotions bubbling nearer to the surface as I got closer and closer.

  From Mockingbird, I took Buckner, spotting a cop car well ahead, already turning on Garland, and I prayed they were going where I was going, that they’d reach Cissy and she’d be okay.

  A speedy two miles on Buckner, and I shot right on Garland, counting the blocks from five to four to three, two, one, until the Arboretum entrance came up on the right.

  A siren whirred behind me, and I saw an ambulance in my rearview as I pulled into the main parking lot to spot the blue-and-white stopping behind a car at the far end of the lot, about as far from the ticket booths and visitors pavilion as you could get.

  “She’s here, and so’s the ambulance,” I croaked into the cell, telling Sandy before the phone dropped from my hand. I didn’t bother to pick it up.

  I covered the space between in no time flat, threw the Jeep into Park, and flung myself out the door,
running toward the Buick as one of the uniformed officers leaned into the front seat.

  The second officer looked up and came toward me, ready to make a tackle.

  The siren on the ambulance screamed as it approached, drowning out my cries as I pushed at the cop who grabbed my arm to stop me.

  “She’s my mother, Cissy Kendricks,” I said breathlessly, because she didn’t have her purse, didn’t have her ID. “Someone gave her sedative drops back at Belle Meade and drove her here.” I gazed around us, at the half-empty parking lot. “Did you see her? Did you see someone fleeing the scene?”

  “Take it easy,” was all he said. “Take it easy.”

  The paramedics jogged past us, hauling a gurney piled with equipment, and the cop who restrained me shouted to them that he had “the daughter” and that there was a possible “drug OD of some kind.”

  I saw them lift her out of the front seat and lay her down gently.

  The harder I struggled to get away from the cop, the more tightly he held me.

  Through tears, I watched them hook up an IV, take her pulse and her BP, then they raised the gurney and ran it toward the opened doors of the ambulance, passing close enough so I could see her face.

  Her eyes were closed, skin paler than pale, but she was breathing.

  I think.

  I mean, she had to be breathing, didn’t she?

  “I want to go with her,” I cried, but the cop gave me a hard shake, silencing me, and he bent down to look in my eyes.

  “They’re taking her to the Doctor’s ER. You’re in no shape to drive. I’ll get you there, all right? That your car?”

  I nodded numbly, shivering so badly I couldn’t have gotten behind the wheel if my life had depended on it. He helped me into the Jeep, and, once inside, picked up my cell and passed it over, before he put the thing in gear and hauled ass.

  The hospital sat on Poppy Drive, literally—thankfully—around the corner, and we arrived just after the ambulance. I scrambled out, sprinting after the gurney going through the auto doors.

  “Hey, hey!” A nurse in scrubs grabbed me, asked my name and who I was chasing. I opened my mouth and it all spilled out, Cissy’s name, her age, what drug I thought she’d been given, and how long ago.