The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club (22 page)

“
Reese Witherspoon
,” we ended up saying in unison.

“Stop,” I groaned, “or I’ll pee in my pants.”

“Wouldn’t want that to happen.”

As I caught my breath, I realized I had something to ask her. “Um, Janet, can you help me with something?”

“Shoot.”

I scooted to the edge of the sofa, twisting the cord around my fingers. “You wrote a piece on Belle Meade when it opened, didn’t you?” I remember Mother telling me just that—actually, chastising me for not having read it.

“The swanky retirement village where Bebe Kent lived?”

“I’d like a copy, if I could.”

“Didn’t you see it when it came out six months ago?” She sounded disappointed. “It was nearly the whole front page of the Society section.”

“It’s important, Janet.”

“Oh, no!” She gasped. “Don’t tell me Cissy’s looking into the place? I can’t imagine her living anywhere but Beverly.”

“No, she’s not moving. It’s not that. I’m more interested in the staff,” I said. “I went to summer camp with Annabelle Meade.”

“Ah, good ol’ Camp Longhorn, the retreat of choice for spoiled kiddies like you, Anna la belle, George W, and every other blue-blooded brat in the state whose first words were ‘charge it.’”

“Very funny.”

“Okay, I just pulled up the piece from the archives and hit ‘send,’ so it should be in your email box pretty quick. You want to see some of the clippings I used for background? Most of ’em are from the
Austin American Statesman
, even going back six years to that terrible fire. You know about that?”

“Annabelle’s parents were killed,” I said. “Yeah, she told me.”

“Well, my Austin contacts knew the family fairly well.” Janet’s voice went down a pitch. “And I was informed, confidentially, of course, that the Meades were rather nasty people. Hard on their daughter and tight with a buck, so Annabelle didn’t come into their millions until they were ashes. They didn’t leave a penny to anyone but her and the Elk Lodge.”

“Nasty people, huh?” I cringed, not at the choice of words, but because I realized how little I really knew about Annabelle’s home life. “Her au pair used to put her on the bus for camp,” I said quietly. “I never met her mother or father.” No wonder Annabelle had always been an insecure, crying mess.

“The Meades apparently didn’t socialize much with anyone. Just stayed to themselves and occasionally wrote a check to charity, probably for the tax deduction and not because it made them feel warm and fuzzy.”

“Ouch.”

“Wish I could gab forever, dear heart, but I’ve got to hit the road and attend the grand opening of a chi-chi hair salon on Greenville.”

“Thanks, Janet, for the article, I mean.”

“Lunch next week?” she asked.

“Call me,” I told her, afraid to look too far ahead.

We said our goodbyes, and I hung up, but I didn’t move anywhere too quickly. I sat where I was for a long moment after, feeling sorry for poor Annabelle and hoping nothing Mother or I did would muck things up for her. She deserved some happiness in her life after such a crappy growing-up.

“The fire investigators ruled it was an accident. They said a burner had been left on the stove, and a potholder or dishtowel must’ve been lying too close. Their smoke alarms must not have gone off. Dad was always forgetting to replace the batteries.”

If your parents were jerks, did you miss them when they were gone? I wondered. Or were you relieved and, if so, did that make you feel guilty?

I rubbed my temples, not wanting to think about it.

My place was so quiet. I wished I could curl into a ball, right there on the sofa, and not move until Malone returned.

Instead, I dragged myself up and headed into the bedroom, removing a small nylon suitcase from my closet and layering clean clothes, a Def Leppard CD, and my headphones, toiletries, and sneakers into its zippered midsection.

What to pack for several days of sleuthing?
I mused, not wanting to forget anything important.

For an instant, I considered bringing my pepper spray, but I had a knack for self-defense backfiring on me. Clumsy should have been my middle name. Heck, I wouldn’t even allow steak knives in my house for fear I’d cut off a finger. Wisely, I decided to leave the mace in my kitchen drawer, along with the sharp objects.

I contemplated taking that danged self-help book, too, for something to read with one eye while watching Mother with the other; but the suggestions for de-tensing my life seemed not to be working. The only benefit I could imagine from bringing along
Stress and the Single Girl
would be if I needed a paperweight. And I didn’t. So I left it on the nightstand and zipped the suitcase shut. (If Malone hadn’t given it to me, it would’ve ended up in the garbage.)

My luggage ready, I tackled the rest of my mental “to-do” list.

Figuring Malone might try to phone here in my absence, I rerouted calls from my home number to my cell, and I even made my bed and put my lunch dishes in the dishwasher so Charlie Tompkins wouldn’t pop in with the mail, poke his nose around, and see a mess.

I sat down at my computer long enough to read emails and notify a few clients that I had a family emergency and would be away from my desk for a few days. No one would mind, I knew, since they were getting my services for free (or close to it).

Before I shut down the hard drive, I retrieved the e-mail from Janet, downloaded the attachment and printed off a copy, putting the pages in my bag without looking at them. I’d save them for later.

Then I took a last look around—at my big, comfy sofa with its crocheted throw, the unfinished canvas that beckoned, the hand-me-down hope chest that served as my coffee table—and I breathed in the quiet, before I picked up my bags and walked out the door.

I wanted to believe this would be over with in a few days, so I’d be home again, Brian would return from Galveston, Mother would go back to her committee work, and all would be right with the world.

Couldn’t come any too soon.

On the way back to Belle Meade, I stopped for gas and a car wash, so the gunmetal gray of my Wrangler gleamed beneath the late afternoon sun, the
WASH ME
plea gone from the rear window.

When I slowed at the guardhouse on my way in, a white-topped head poked out, giving my car a cursory glance.

I could’ve waved and kept going, because he didn’t seem any too intent on having me stop. But I figured it wouldn’t hurt to see if Bebe had any noteworthy guests that stood out. So I idled the Jeep beside the guardhouse window while Bob eyed me curiously, probably wondering what the hell I was doing. Oh, and it was Bob—not Sam—because he had his name embroidered on his chest pocket.

“Hi, there,” I said, smiling brightly. “I’m Andrea Kendricks, an old friend of Annabelle Meade’s. My aunt Miriam, just moved into a house on Magnolia Court . . . Bebe Kent’s old place? What a tragedy . . . Mrs. Kent, I mean. The poor woman. Did you know her well?”

The skin around his eyes sagged, giving him a perpetual squint. “We had words now and then.”

What did that mean? They’d argued? Or they’d conversed?

“I’ll bet she had lots of friends dropping by to visit.”

He shrugged. “Some.”

“Hmm, well, she was attractive, wasn’t she? I saw her photos at the reception yesterday, in the dining room. She probably had plenty of beaus swinging by to wine and dine her.”

“Nope.” Bob scratched his bulbous nose. “Would’ve had to put those names on the visitors’ list, and she didn’t.”

Another car pulled up behind me, so I gave him my best Princess Di wave and lurched onward.

Bumping along the brick path, I backtracked the route I’d taken earlier when I’d left, winding through the streets that led to Magnolia, finding slightly more activity outdoors than when I’d left. A handful of folks were on the walking path, a few outside with brimmed hats in the gardens, and others heading toward the main building on scooters or in golf carts. The day was mid-eighties, typical almost-fall weather. Rather like Florida without the palm trees, beach, or killer hurricanes.

Entering Belle Meade was akin to driving onto a movie set, a really upscale Mayberry. The place had such a small-town atmosphere despite being tucked right in the midst of a city as big as Dallas.

I had no trouble believing the waiting list to get in was a mile long.

Annabelle mentioned plans to build her retirement villages elsewhere, with the backing of eager investors, and I figured she’d make a fortune if nothing got in her way. Like dissatisfied socialites filing lawsuits . . . or a nosy woman crying, “Murder!”

I gnawed on the inside of my cheek.

Creeping along no faster than a slug, I came around the bend by the golf course and ended up on Magnolia Court, right where I wanted to be. I was elated that I hadn’t gotten lost, and even more so to see the silver Century still sitting in the driveway, exactly where it had been when I’d left.

Mother had kept one promise, anyway.

Just to be safe, I pulled the Jeep in behind it.

Clever girl
, I told myself, as I hitched my purse around my shoulder and lugged my suitcase out, trudging toward the portico.

When I got to the door, I rang the bell, wishing I’d thought to ask for a spare key. I waited a minute, suitcase getting heavy in my hand, and pressed that sucker again.

Where was she?
I thought, swallowing a rising sense of worry, but figuring she couldn’t have gone far, not without the car.

For Pete’s sake
. I raised my free hand to knock on the door, quickly giving up and wrapping my fingers around the knob. A simple twist, and the door pushed inward.

Good God, hadn’t she locked herself in?

The moment I stepped inside, I dumped my bags, feeling a rerun of yesterday coming on, of calling for Mother and seeing Sarah Lee’s unmoving legs stretched out on her sofa.

I blinked, clearing the vision, reminding myself this was a different house (albeit one where a woman had croaked) and that Cissy had been in no danger when I’d taken off for home. Though that had been several long hours ago.

Why hadn’t I stayed?
I chastised myself.
What if something went wrong?

Leaving Cissy to her own devices when her emotions ran so high was a lot like tossing a lit match onto dry tinder and hoping it wouldn’t ignite. Disaster could strike in the blink of an eye.

“Mother?” I called out and hurried toward the kitchen, where I’d last seen her poring over Bebe’s mail.

Neat piles of letters, postcards, junk mail, and envelopes had been arranged on the table, but Cissy wasn’t there. Although the clunky black leather handbag with glitter and buckles had been deposited under a chair.

So she had to be around somewhere, I reassured myself, knowing that a Kendricks and her purse were seldom parted.

Maybe she went out for some fresh air.

I scrambled to the sink to peer through the window overlooking the backyard. The cedar-stained patio furniture sat empty. Even the birdbath surrounded by planted peonies supported nary a feathered friend.

“Mother, it’s Andrea! I’m baaaack!”

I jogged through the living room and past the formal dining room filled with reproduction Chippendale; ducked into a nice-sized den with a plasma screen television and leather-bound books that I figured had been bought by the yard to suit the decorator; and finally peered into a full bath downstairs that oozed black marble.

I would’ve paged her on her cell phone, but she refused to turn it on unless she needed it for “emergencies only.” Said she couldn’t stand them always going off during plays or at the symphony, and she hated drivers who yakked on them while swerving through traffic expecting everyone else to stay out of their way.

So I had to track her down on foot.

I told myself not to worry as I raced up the stairs, pausing on the second-floor landing where flattened cardboard boxes leaned, awaiting someone to pop them into three-dimension. A rolled-up woven rug, tied with string, had been pushed against the wall. Guess the cousins had separated a few more of Bebe’s personal effects from what belonged to Belle Meade.

There were two doors on the left side of the hallway and two on the right.

Three were wide open.

I tried the closed one first and found myself breathing in the odor of a cedar closet full of linens. So I turned in a half-circle.

“Cissy Blevins Kendricks? Are you up here?”

Had she fallen and couldn’t get up? Developed a debilitating attack of laryngitis so she couldn’t answer?

Or was she playing hide and seek to test my sleuthing skills (or, at least, my patience)?

I poked my head in the nearest opened door, and a rush of Laura Ashley assaulted my senses: a pattern of yellow-and-sage covered windows and walls and smothered a plump double bed with a fabric headboard. Only an oak chest of drawers and mirrored bureau had been spared the floral print, but were painted a coordinating yellow.

I thought that look had gone out with the eighties, along with Duran Duran, Ronald Reagan, and culottes.

Seeking refuge, I ducked into a connecting bath where embroidered finger towels hanging from a silver rack and untouched shell-shaped soaps sat on the rim on the sink.

The far door opened into another room, but this time I found myself surrounded by a desk with computer, fax, small-sized copier, scanner, and phones. Georgia O’Keeffe prints brightened beige walls.

This had to be Bebe’s office.

Drawers sat half-opened, most of them emptied, a clear sign that Bebe’s lawyers had already given the place a thorough once-over. I wondered if Mother had come up to poke around, too.

Out into the hallway I stepped, calling louder, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” I held still for a moment after, straining to catch the slightest whispered, “Help me,” but I didn’t pick up on anything.

The last opened door yielded another bedroom, this one taking up nearly the entire length of the house and dominated by an enormous sleigh bed, now stripped.

I edged my way around it, thinking
that’s where Bebe bit the dust.

Or at least where she’d been found.