The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club (26 page)

While Mother occupied herself with the riddle of “who was with Bebe last,” I wanted to do a little fishing of my own. I hadn’t yet gotten to the articles Janet had emailed about Belle Meade and the fire at the Meades’ lake house. I figured I’d take them with me to the library in the afternoon, where I’d have some peace.

Jiggling the mouse, I brought up the desktop on the computer and checked the clock: twenty past eight.

Geez, I felt positively slothful.

I shuffled together the photos and the copy of the Two Hearts letter, ready to share them with Cissy. The door to the connecting bath was closed on my end, so I knocked and leaned an ear against it, twisting the knob when I heard zilch.

I went straight ahead, passing through a lingering cloud of Joy, but saw no sign of her when I stuck my head into the room where she’d slept.

The bed was neatly made, and Mother’s borrowed black wig was no longer draped over a lampshade, where I’d seen it the night before.

This time, I didn’t panic. My Jeep boxed in the Buick, so she couldn’t have gone far on foot, not in those ugly rhinestone boots.

I put aside the photographs and letter, and I gave myself permission to take a long, hot shower in Bebe’s guest bath. When I finally emerged from the steam and cleared a spot on the mirror, I could only make out a vague squiggle of black on my cheek from sleeping on the marker. It looked a little like the mark of Zorro.

Great.

After I’d dried and dressed in jeans and a clean T-shirt, I headed down to the kitchen and dropped the photographs on the table. The place echoed like a tomb. It didn’t take a huge leap to realize Cissy had skipped out, and I found the answer as to where when I saw a note stuck to the refrigerator:

“
Got up early and went over to Sarah Lee’s so Elvira could let me in while they cleaned. I called Sandy and asked her to have Simon David deliver whatever she usually orders and to put it on my tab. They’ll deliver this morning so don’t move! See you soon. Love, M.
”

Stick around. Poo.

I crumpled the paper in my fist as I considered walking to Sarah Lee Sewell’s instead of waiting for the danged groceries. With my luck, they wouldn’t arrive for hours, like the AC guy who always promised to come sometime between eight and five and showed up at 4:40.

Well, I had nothing better to do, did I?

The doorbell took that instant to chime, putting a quick end to my internal grumbling.

When I opened up, I saw the Simon David truck parked at the curb. On the stoop stood two pimple-faced young men, balancing carton stacked upon carton so they had to peek around the cardboard corners to see ahead of them.

“Order for, um, Mrs. Ferguson?” one asked, his voice strained, and I hoped he wouldn’t get a hernia.

“Come on in,” I said and waved them in. “Follow me.”

I led the way into the kitchen so they could deposit their loads on the center island.
Geez, Louise, but Sandy’s order would feed a family of five for a month!
I wasn’t even sure the fridge would hold everything.

The delivery boys began unpacking, but I put a halt to that, telling them I’d do it myself, thank you very much. When I herded them to the front door, they lingered on the stoop, hanging back with expectant smiles, and I realized they wanted a tip. If Mother had been around, she could’ve peeled a Benjamin off the stack in her wallet. I, on the other hand, rarely had more than a few bucks to spare.

I muttered an apology and gave them the last three dollar bills from my purse, which had them glancing at each other and frowning. I could almost read their minds: “She expects us to split this? Cheap frickin’ chick.”

I’d barely shut the door on them, when the bell rang again.

“Guys, that’s all there is”—I started off, only to clamp my mouth shut when I saw who it was. Patsy Finch.

The doctor’s wife had her fair hair pulled back with a blue headband to match the blue shirt beneath her white lab coat.

What the heck was she doing here? Was it a professional visit
?

I didn’t see a welcome basket loaded with prescriptions in her hand, just a large manila envelope.

“Good morning . . . Andrea, isn’t it?” she said, watching me carefully (or maybe I was paranoid). “Is Mrs. Ferguson in?”

“Well, hi, Patsy. Call me Andy, and, no, my aunt Miriam has gone out for a bit.” I ushered her in. “If you wouldn’t mind coming into the kitchen, I’ve got a mess of groceries to unload. I think my dear aunt aimed to feed everyone on the block, or she’s hoarding in case we’re quarantined with the bird flu.”

“Some people are like squirrels storing nuts for the winter, eh? Arnold finds that often in children of parents who lived through the Great Depression.”

“Right, like squirrels,” I said, though it was more like a Highland Park matron used to having someone else keep the pantry stocked and panicking when she found it lacking.
“What, no water crackers? No Brie? How am I supposed to live in such deprivation?”

“Go ahead and have a seat,” I instructed, gesturing in the general direction of the table and chairs. “Would you like something to drink? There’s bottled water and orange juice, at least.”

“I’m fine.” She glanced at the watch on her wrist. “I need to get to the clinic in a few minutes besides so I can open up the pharmacy at nine.”

“Was there a particular reason you wanted to see Miriam?” I asked and began to rummage through the contents of the boxes, withdrawing plastic bags containing fruits and vegetables in every color of the rainbow. Bread, bagels, cheeses, and eggs soon followed. I pulled a bagel from its wrapping and took as big a bite as I could fit in my mouth. Didn’t offer one to Patsy, though. Rude of me, wasn’t it?

“As a matter of fact,” Patsy lectured, “your aunt never filled out the medical questionnaire that Annabelle always requires of our residents before they move in. We like to have copies of physicians’ records, and a list of medications and allergies for any newcomers, as well as their health insurance information so we can get them into the system right away. We have a centralized database for all that. As I’m in charge of the pharmacy, I’ll coordinate their prescriptions to make sure everything’s proper and all refills are promptly dispensed.”

She waved the manila envelope at me until I looked over. “I’ve brought the standard packet, including a release to send her primary care doctor so that we can get her record up-to-date as soon as possible. Arnold will want to set up an appointment, too, for an initial consultation since he’ll be assuming her basic care, and he’ll want to ask her if she has a DNR order on the books, just in case.”

“DNR?” Was that like a DUI? Which Mother most certainly did not have on or off the books. Or maybe it was like the DAR, of which she was a proud member.

“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.