The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club (20 page)

Definitely not where Cissy had intended.

“No, no, no!” She scowled at me, doubly menacing with her frown outlined with a brown lip pencil. Her false-lashed eyes blinked repeatedly, looking like bats trying to take flight and failing miserably. “Don’t you see? The way the pieces fit together so neatly?”

What pieces?

I shrugged, no clue what she meant. “No, I don’t.” Not even a little.

She crossed her arms, and I felt a lecture en route. “Have you ever known me to rinse out a glass in the sink?”

That was easy. “Not if your life depended on it.”

Dried her hands out, you see, plus that’s why she had something called “staff.”

“Would I ever set glasses on a dishtowel to dry?”

“God forbid.”
How gauche was that?

I liked these questions. They were easy.

“Bebe Kent and I were cut from the same cloth, Andrea,” she said. “Which tells you what?”

“That the cloth was pure Chinese silk woven by the emperor’s most prized caterpillars?” I guessed, figuring she was throwing me a curveball.

“For heaven’s sake, this is serious.” Mother blew a puff of air that ruffled the line of her fake bangs. “The fact of the matter is that Bebe Kent would no more have washed out a pair of wine glasses than I would. At most, she would’ve stuck them in the dishwasher and waited for someone from Housekeeping to run the contraption and empty it for her. Don’t you recall Annabelle sayin’ that Elvira didn’t clean last Thursday morning because she discovered Bebe in bed and got hysterical?” She tipped her head toward me. “So the dishwasher was never run, was it? And the glasses would indicate . . . what?”

Why was she doing this? Couldn’t she just stay home and bake pies like normal mothers did on TV sitcoms?

She waited for my answer, so I cleared my throat and punted one for the Gipper. “You said that you and Bebe used to come back here, sip wine and listen to golden oldies after bridge on Wednesdays. So, if those are your goblets, someone came in and cleaned up after you.”

“Wrong.”

“Why?”

“First of all, I didn’t have time for a visit with Bebe, not last Wednesday.” Cissy proceeded to explain where my theory went awry. “I had an emergency board meeting for the Battered Women’s Calf Fry, so I had to scoot. Secondly, Bebe never poured a drink for an invited guest into anything less than her Waterford crystal. Those”—a flick toward the offending objects—“were part of a set of glassware she won in a cross-town bridge tournament at the Richardson Junior League.” Mother wrinkled her nose. “She only used them for people she didn’t particularly care for.”

Ah, silly me. And I just had one set of glasses that worked for everybody.

“So Bebe shared her Merlot with someone other than you.” That seemed a no-brainer. “Maybe a lowly neighbor who dropped by and didn’t rate the Waterford. Big freaking deal.”

“I wish you wouldn’t curse like that, Andrea.”

“Sorry.”

Mother fiddled with the enormous CZ rings on her fingers. “But you’re getting warmer this time.”

“How about that Henry fellow who wears Day-Glo golf pants? I heard he’s a hot commodity around here. Could be he popped over to do a little horizontal mambo with Ms. Bea?” I offered, considering that Mabel Pinkston described him as a Viagra-fed rooster let loose in the henhouse. Perhaps Bebe didn’t mind sharing her worm with other hungry chicks.

“Henry Brooks Churchill? That old coot?” She rolled her eyes. “Sorry, darlin’, but you’re cold as ice. Beatrice had much better taste in men. Homer was in a class by himself. Come on now. Use your imagination and give it another whirl. I have faith in you.”

Another whirl?
This was worse than twenty questions.

I was starting to feel like the dumbest guy on
Jeopardy!

Plumb out of guesses, I scratched my chin. “I’ll take ‘My Mother Is Off Her Rocker’ for a thousand, Alex.”

“You’re giving up so soon?” Cissy tapped a rhinestone-studded boot on the tiled floor, itchy as a flea-bitten hound. “Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t apply to the
real
Columbia,” she murmured. “Even with your SATs, they might not’ve let you in with that dismal attitude.”

I pretended not to hear her.

“All right.” She relented. “Here’s another hint. Bebe had some kind of plans for that evening, a late supper with, to quote her, ‘someone you don’t know,’ but she wouldn’t say who.”

“Well, why didn’t you mention that before?” I crabbed, because she wasn’t playing fair. “Someone you don’t know, huh? Sounds like Bebe had a date, and maybe he came by for drinks after. She was of legal age”—and then some—“so big whoop. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Ah, but what if this mystery date is the last one who saw Bebe alive?”

“Oh, no, don’t say it,” I begged, because I should’ve realized where she was headed five minutes ago.

“All right, I won’t.”

So I did. “You think he killed her.”

“It’s a definite possibility, sugar.”

“You figure he drugged her wine, then dressed her in her nightgown and put her to bed, before slinking off into the night? That he fooled Dr. Finch into thinking Bebe died a natural death?”

“By George, I think she’s got it!” She clapped as giddily as she had at my first—and last—piano recital when I was eight.

“He must be a very clever fellow to do what he did without leaving any tracks,” I added with unbridled sarcasm. “Maybe he’s invisible.”

Cissy seemed oblivious to my tone of voice. “Ah, but he did leave tracks,” she said. “They’re just very subtle.”

“The two rinsed-out goblets?”

“Elementary, my dear, Watson.”

I wanted to smack myself in the head.

Arrrgh.

Those glasses were hooey
, I sullenly mused. The folks on
CSI
would not be happy with such a pathetic offering of evidence. For crud’s sake, they’d had been washed out and wiped down, so there weren’t even any fingerprints.

“We’re not done yet. Think, Andrea.” She egged me on. “Where else did we see a similar scene? A pair of cups drying on a dishtowel.”

“In half the houses in Dallas?” I offered snippily.

“
Think
,” she repeated.

Did they let patients play bridge in the loony bin? I wondered. Because I was reconsidering paging Dr. Freud and having Mother picked up ASAP.

I resisted tearing out my hair and silently cried “uncle.”

“Yesterday,” she hinted. “In another kitchen, just a couple streets away from here.”

Ostensibly, she was pointing me toward Sarah Lee Sewell’s, so I focused on that. I’d puked in the bushes, gone back inside, grabbed the copper-bottomed pot to clang for attention. After Mother had stormed out, I’d stayed to talk to Annabelle, had gone to the sink, and offered her a glass of water.

Click.

On went the light bulb.

There’d been two mugs set upside down on a dishtowel, hadn’t there?

Drat, she was right.

My eyes widened, and I saw Cissy’s satisfied smile as she picked up on it.

“Yes, at Sarah Lee’s,” she said before I could. “You saw them, too, and it’s no coincidence. There’s only one logical explanation.”

Logical? On what planet?

I winced as Mother nattered on: “Whoever killed Bebe killed Sarah Lee, too.” She rubbed her hands together, positively gleeful, as worked up as she’d been when she returned from Paris with a trunk full of vintage Valentino. “Now it’s up to us to find out who this mystery man is, and we only have six days to do it.”

Bloody brilliant, Chief Inspector! Let’s put out an APB, send out a BOLO, slip on our regulation Manolos, and hit the pavement!

I felt a persistent throb begin at my temples.

No doubt, the cops will pin the murders on the first homicidal maniac they catch who doesn’t know enough to put his murder weapons into the dishwasher. The poor sod probably still has his hands full of Palmolive residue. Instead of a lineup, we’ll just run the old “Madge” test to see whose skin is the softest.

Insanity, thy name is Cissy.

To think I had whole days of this ahead of me.

Would anyone blame me if I ran away from the old folks’ home and never came back?

I
left Mother happily ensconced at the kitchen table with a letter opener and three days’ worth of Beatrice Kent’s unopened mail. She’d propped the Mr. Magoo glasses back on her nose, which she said was rather like reading through a magnifying lens.

Quelle
surprise!

She did promise not to leave the house until I returned, and I had to trust she hadn’t crossed her bejeweled fingers behind her back. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to implant a chip in her fanny so I could track her with a GPS.

On my way out of Belle Meade, I spotted a golf cart parked near the eighteenth hole, while three gentlemen in ultrabright clothing waited for a fourth man—in knickers—to putt. Though I was only traveling at ten miles per hour, a twinge below the posted limit, I passed a posse of residents on four-wheeled scooters, heading toward the Manor House, presumably for brunch. Which reminded me I’d only eaten a couple of breath mints for breakfast and needed real nourishment soon.

After waving at Bob—or maybe was it Sam—in place at the guardhouse, I headed off the grounds and onto the traffic of Forest Lane, feeling a weight leave my chest as I pointed the Jeep toward home.

My cell phone rang opportunistically as I stopped at a red light, and I stabbed my hand into my overstuffed bag to find it.

“Yo,” I answered, knowing it was Sandy by the digits on the screen.

“How is Cissy?
Where
is she?”

“She’s at Belle Meade, and she’s, um, her usual spunky self,” I said, deliberating on whether or not to spill all the beans. If I told her about Mother’s alter ego Miriam Amanda Wallace Ferguson and her plan to smoke out a phantom killer, it would only worry her to distraction, maybe more than it worried me. Because I’m not sure she’d comprehend
why
, not the way I was beginning to, having done something awfully similar (and equally foolish).

“When’s she coming home?”

The light turned green, so I tucked the phone under my chin to free both hands, though I had to be careful not to move my jaw much when I spoke.

“Um, it might be a few days, Sandy. She promised Bebe Kent’s cousins she’d stick around and pack up the clothing to donate to charity, make sure they hadn’t left any personal effects behind, things they can’t do because they live so far away.” Well, it was the truth, just not the
whole
truth so help me God.

“And that’s all it is? You’re not hiding anything from me?”

Geez, and I thought I’d sounded convincing. “Would I keep secrets from you, Sandy?” No better way to avoid a question than with another question. “Look, I’m going home now to get some things, then I’ll be moving into Bebe’s with her.”

“Why on earth are you doing that?”

“Because she asked me.” No lie either. It was the prototypical KISS answer learned by every teenager who’d ever missed a curfew (keep it simple, stupid).

“Oh, well . . . hmm, I imagine that’s a good thing, Andy. Real good. You just stay in close touch. Promise me?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” Well, the first part, anyway.

“And if she could use another hand, I could go on over . . .”

“No, no, not necessary,” I cut her off, before that idea could take root in her head. “Four hands are plenty, actually more than enough.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

Good God, I couldn’t imagine what would transpire if Sandy were to see Mother all dudded up in animal prints and faux glitter. It might change her mind about whether or not Cissy had come unhinged.

Something I still wasn’t so all-fired sure about myself.

“Talk to you soon,” I said, snapping the phone closed and letting it fall to my lap, thankful when it didn’t ring again the rest of the way to my condo. I didn’t need the added distraction.

Besides, the only other person whose voice I wanted to hear at that moment was Malone’s, and yet I knew I couldn’t share the latest developments with him, either, for fear that he’d cut his business trip short and hurry back; despite the fact that he couldn’t do anything except fret unnecessarily and lecture me about how unhealthy it was to support my mother’s grief-borne delusions.

So, much as I was tempted to ring his Galveston hotel room and describe Cissy’s new getup and my gig as her wingman, I couldn’t do it.

I’d call that a Catch-22. (In other words, I was screwed.)

I was going to have to keep Brian in the dark, as well as Sandy. I’d appointed myself Mother’s keeper for the next few days. She was my responsibility, and I was in charge of making sure this vaudeville act didn’t go any farther than it should.

I just had to figure out exactly where “too far” was located. (How about north of nutty and south of woo-woo?)

One last stoplight and then the Jeep bumped around a corner, rolling onto familiar turf. I let out a huge breath, and my heart fairly sang with relief.

My
home, sweet home.

Though I’d just been away a night, when I finally pulled into the parking lot at my North Dallas complex, it seemed like I’d been gone forever. I didn’t even mind that my next-door neighbor’s daughter had bedded down her shiny Z3 convertible in the spot that was usually mine.

As I parked the Jeep in an empty slot farther down, I sat for a moment and gazed ahead at the two-story building where I’d lived for the past eight years, since I’d come back after art school in Chicago. Cut into four units, two upstairs and two down, the whitewashed brick sported black shutters and dark green doors, each with a tiny portico and wooden railings. Prickly holly bushes sprouted beneath the windows to keep away the peeping Toms. (That had actually been a selling point when the realtor showed me the unit.) Someone’s wind chimes tinkled in the soft breeze, and, in the distance, I heard the squawk of geese from a nearby pond.

Hello, pad o’mine
, I thought, tempted to blow it a kiss. It was the first place that had ever belonged to me . . . and me alone.