The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club (25 page)

“Mind ducking into the kitchen?” I suggested, unless she wanted to pull a
Mrs. Doubtfire
and stuff her face into the meringue of a pie—if we’d had a pie with meringue, that is.

“Gotcha, partner,” she said, giving me a wink and pulling the imaginary trigger of a gun shaped like her fingers.

At least she didn’t tell me to just put my lips together and blow.

I waited until she’d slipped out of sight, all the while Mabel banged on the door with her fist, calling, “Yoo hoo? I know you’re in there.”

Drawing in a deep breath, I composed myself, before I flipped the deadbolt and swept open the door. “Hello.” I smiled with all the sincerity of a used-car salesman. “Mrs. Pinkston, right? So lovely to see you again.”

“You do look familiar, child.” She squinted at me as she held a stack of aluminum boxes in her arms.

“We spoke yesterday,” I reminded her, “at the reception for Bebe Kent. I didn’t properly introduce myself.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Andrea Kendricks. My aunt Miriam Ferguson just moved in today. Well, she’s not actually my aunt,” I babbled on. “She’s a second cousin once removed or something like that, but we’re related just the same. I’ll be visiting for a bit, until she’s settled in.”

“Miriam Ferguson, yes, of course. I had the nicest chat with her at brunch this afternoon. Snappy dresser.” Mabel made an “mmm” sound. “Ah, sure, I remember you, sister. Warned you off the oysters, didn’t I?” She looked me over quite thoroughly, penciled brows knitted. “But didn’t you say you’d come to Belle Meade with your mother? Where is she in all this?”

“My mother?”
Think, Andy, think!
“Well, you see, she felt compassionate enough about Miriam’s circumstances down in Arkansas to want to move her to Belle Meade, but she’s not exactly on good terms with the Ferguson side of the family, if you get my drift.” I leaned in conspiratorily. “A long-standing feud over my grandpappy’s will. Set everyone off like the Hat-fields and McCoys.”

“Oh, sister, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that one,” Mabel said, craning her neck to peer around me into the house, obviously waiting for an invitation to come in.

Which she was not going to get.

“Geez, what am I thinking? Let me get those,” I offered, indicating the foil containers she held. She reluctantly unloaded them into my hands. “And thanks so much for bringing them over, Mrs. Pinkston. It’s nearly eight o’clock. Isn’t that awfully late for a part-timer to be working? Annabelle . . . Ms. Meade . . . she mentioned that you lived off the grounds.”

“I do at that.” She crossed her arms and shrugged. “But it’s no problem going back and forth. I love my work. I’d do anything for Annabelle. I don’t mind sticking around after I’ve punched out on the clock. Besides, when I get home, it’s to empty rooms. And it’s not much fun talking to yourself, is it? Sometimes even the plants don’t care a fig what you have to say.”

“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.

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:

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.