Too Pretty to Die (13 page)

I’d kind of been hoping—naïvely—that Miranda could be put to rest peacefully, once her mother returned from Club Suture. I hadn’t even considered that her death might turn into a three-ring circus.

It was that
National Enquirer
atmosphere we lived in these days, where news about anyone who registered anywhere on the “fame and fortune” scale became instant front page headlines.

I wondered how long it would take before newsprint about Miranda’s passing got buried beneath something more sensational. Like the pastor of an area church getting snagged in a sex scandal—which seemed to happen every other weekend of late—or Ross Perot getting snapped taking out the trash in his BVDs.

Oy.

“So how’d my name come up in all this?” I asked, because Janet hadn’t exactly settled that part yet. The only folks who knew I’d gone into the house with the police, other than my mother, were Deputy Dean and that ponytailed officer. Okay, and Beagle Man and Lycra Woman, but I hadn’t introduced myself to either, and surely neither one had Janet’s number on speed dial.

Toot toot.

Brian had gotten impatient, waiting for me to catch up, and brought the Acura to me instead. The red coupe pulled up, nearly brushing my thigh, and its horn bleated yet again. The passenger door unlocked with a crisp click. I kept the phone to my ear and grasped the door handle with the other, but that’s as far as I got.

Janet took a breath before racing forward: “The deputy chief finally took a shot at calming down us nasty reporters, assuring us it didn’t look like foul play was involved because there was no sign of an intruder at the duplex, and that the decedent appeared to have died by her own hand, using a weapon registered to her, all nice and legal-like. She went on to say there was preliminary evidence supporting the fact that the decedent had gunshot residue on her skin so no one need worry about a killer running around the neighborhood.”

Wow, that was a lot of scoop from the usually tight-lipped Anna Dean.

But Janet still hadn’t answered my question.

“And my name came up when precisely?” I prodded.

“Geez, get thy panties out of a twist, you pushy broad,” she quipped. “I’m getting to that.”

Toot toooot
.

Malone laid on the horn a little longer this time, and I opened the door and, holding onto the window, put one foot on the door frame, poised to climb in but not quite making it.

“So, they’re just about to wrap things up, offering a lot of ‘no comments’ and not making anyone particularly happy, which is when your mother appeared out of the blue, wearing the most gorgeous chocolate wool double-breasted trouser suit—”

“My mother showed up at the police station? In a trouser suit?” I repeated, blinking out of dumbfounded confusion, and I heard Brian grumble, “For God’s sake, Andy, get
in
.”

But I wasn’t listening to him.

“I know, I know,” Janet said, “She normally doesn’t do the trouser thing, does she? But it was Chanel, of course, and she looked perfect, as usual. You should’ve seen her shoes. . . .”

Cissy had shown up at Deputy Dean’s press conference?

Why
?

What was she up to?

“I don’t care about what she wore,” I said, interrupting Janet’s fashion commentary. “What did she
do
?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me
what
?”

“I can’t believe you’re so clueless,” Janet said, and I nearly told her there was a lot my mother did that I never knew about until after the fact. That was par for the course.

I hadn’t spoken to Mother since I’d left her alone to phone Debbie Santos at the spa in Brazil. Lately, it seemed, I couldn’t seem to leave anyone alone for even a few hours without disastrous results, could I?

What possible reason would Cissy have for showing up at the police department and interrupting a press conference?

“Janet, spill!” I demanded, because I didn’t intend to go around in circles with her on this one.

“Okay, okay.” The Park Cities Gossip Queen took a deep breath and slowly released it. “Apparently, Miranda’s will leaves her mother in charge of everything, but since Debbie Santos is temporarily stuck on foreign soil, the always dressed-to-kill Cissy Kendricks has been named trustee or custodian or guardian
ad
litem
of Miranda’s remains and her property until her mother can wing it back from South America. Cissy related the dreadful story about Mrs. Santos receiving treatment from Brazilian specialists for a rare strain of the bird flu brought on by close contact with a toucan during an excursion into the rain forest.”

If Mother’s tales of Debbie Santos’s toucan bird flu and rain forest excursion weren’t far-fetched enough, neither compared to the bit about her becoming guardian of a dead woman.

What the heck was going on?

“Cissy’s in charge of Miranda’s remains and her estate until Mrs. Santos returns?” I squawked. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You are kidding, right?”

What was next?

Would Mother knock Priscilla and Lisa Marie aside to take charge of Graceland?

“It appears perfectly legal, yes,” Janet confirmed. “Your mother even had an attorney from ARGH standing at her side throughout. He presented the paperwork to the deputy chief and nodded as Cissy winged her way through her comments.”

“When can Debbie Santos get back?” I wondered aloud, because the sooner she let my mother off the hook, the better it would be for everybody.

“According to your mama, Mrs. Santos won’t be fit enough to fly for at least a week, and so all her demands as sole living heir to Miranda DuBois will be executed by the honorable Cissy Blevins Kendricks,” Janet said with all the hype of a pro wrestling ringmaster. “Oh, and that’s not the best part!”

“There’s more?” I leaned against the roof of Brian’s car, feeling woozy. I wasn’t sure I could take hearing anything else.

But I would get an earful, regardless. Of that, I was positive.

“Your mother, acting on behalf of Mrs. Santos, has hired that Hollywood forensic pathologist, Dr. Larry Woo, to conduct an independent autopsy, as she doesn’t believe her daughter committed suicide and wants Dr. Woo to draw his own conclusions, separate and apart from whatever the M.E. finds. She’s putting pressure on the county medical examiner’s office to get their postmortem done within twenty-four hours. Can you even believe this?” Janet sounded way too excited. “It’s like being in an episode of
Law & Order
, only it’s real!”

It was real
crazy
, that’s what it was, I thought, and wobbled, my knees knocking. With one hand I hung onto Brian’s car for fear of sliding to the pavement, with the other I clutched the cell to my ear.

“Your mother was cool as a cucumber, Andy. You should’ve seen her.” Janet’s motor mouth ran on, droning around in my head like the buzz of cars in a Nascar race. “She promised Debbie Santos she’d hire a private eye to be sure a thorough investigation is done, as if the police can’t be trusted to do their job. Cissy all but wagged a finger at Deputy Chief Dean, noting that she’d be checking in with her and keeping an eye on the proceedings until Mrs. Santos returned. I’ve never seen Anna Dean turn such an ugly shade of red.”

Holy cannoli, but this had quickly gotten out of hand.

I pressed my fingers to my brow, willing away the headache that had so abruptly taken shape there. “This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening,” I said quietly, my own little desperate mantra.

I didn’t worry about interrupting Janet. She had yet to stop yammering about Cissy’s starring role at the press conference and the imagined consequences.

“It’s a good thing her phone is unlisted, or it’d be ringing off the hook! Oh, hey, you’ve got your landline unlisted, too, don’t you? ’Cuz the media’s gonna be after you, too, since the deputy chief forgot to turn off her microphone before she took your mother aside and suggested a conflict of interest, considering you—Guardian Cissy’s own daughter—were the last known person to have seen Miranda DuBois alive and kicking. That’s when your mother suggested the police better get on the stick, because you have some kind of evidence to prove she didn’t commit suicide so they shouldn’t be so quick to jump to conclusions—”

“
What
?” I screeched.

Oh, God, oh, God.

My stomach lurched.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” I murmured.

“Oh, wait, I’m not done yet,” Big D’s own Lois Lane said gleefully. “Cissy told Deputy Dean that you didn’t believe Miranda pulled a kamikaze with her .22 any more than she or Debbie Santos did. So what proof have you got, Andy?” Janet asked, so eager that it scared me. “You can tell me, can’t you? I can do an exclusive and get it out in a special edition, so you won’t have to deal with the rest of the press badgering you relentlessly.”

Because Janet certainly wasn’t badgering me. No siree.

I smacked a hand against my aching head.

Why was this happening to me
?

Proof?

What proof?

Was my mother nuts? Completely insane? Off her Valium? (Not that she took it regularly—she preferred to reserve it for special occasions—but I was beginning to think it might be a good idea.)

My brain went fuzzy, rather like the TV screen once did right after they played the National Anthem in the wee hours of the morning.

“
Andy
?
You there
?
Hello
?
Did I lose you? I’m heading over to Cissy’s now to do a little Q and A.
Maybe you could join us
,” I heard Janet saying in my ear, sounding so far away.

I threw back my head, letting out a strangled, “Aaaarrrgh.”

Which Brian heard and threw the coupe in Park, hopping out and racing to the passenger side of the Acura.

“Babe, I think it’s time to go,” he said, and put a hand on my head and another on my shoulder to guide me into the seat—like the police did with suspects—then he took the phone from my hands, telling Janet good-bye before hanging up, dropping the cell in my lap, and shutting me in.

I made no noise of protest, not even a whimper.

I was as close to open-mouthed shock as I could get.

Before I could answer, my cell rang again. It was doubtless Janet, calling me back, determined to get the scoop.

Brian gave me a look that said, “Don’t do it,” but I retrieved the phone from between my thighs and answered anyway, while he put the car in gear and started to drive.

But it wasn’t Lois Lane with her nose for news.

It was Cissy.

I felt my blood pressure rise even before I heard the cultured twang of her familiar drawl.

“My word, Andrea!” the Mother of all Mothers started in. “Where in the world have you been? I’ve left you innumerable messages, yet you never returned a single one.”

Which explained the high count on my voice mail.

She and Janet probably accounted for all twenty-one.

“I was incommunicado,” I said, and my eye twitched. “Which is more than I can say for you, Ms. Press Conference Buttinski. Janet Graham’s already called to fill me in on your latest stunt—”

“My latest stunt?” Cissy sputtered. “You mean the press conference at the police station, don’t you?”

Duh.

I got out a strangled, “Uh-huh.”

“I’m not sure what information Janet chose to impart to you, but I was merely acting on behalf of a friend,” Cissy defended. “Debbie Santos needed someone she trusted to stand up for Miranda, and I agreed. How was I to know that Anna Dean would be speaking to the media just as I showed up at the station with Debbie’s attorney? It was pure coincidence—”

“But you’re making everything worse,” I interrupted. “You’re bringing in a forensic pathologist to do an independent autopsy, and you’ve threatened to hire a P.I. to do his own investigation, then you out and out lied about my having some sort of proof that Miranda didn’t kill herself. My God, Mother! What’re you trying to do?” My voice rose to a pitch I’m not sure I’d ever reached before, even when I was eleven and sang soprano in the church choir. “You want to get me arrested for withholding evidence? Can’t you just leave things alone, just for once in your life? Why don’t you let the police do their thing and just watch from the sidelines, like normal people do?”

As if the conversation wasn’t stressful enough, Brian hit the brakes hard, stopping the car abruptly as an intersection with a red light loomed ahead. He threw his arm across my chest, like that would’ve kept me from going through the windshield if that’s where I’d been headed.

“Hey!” I yelped. I wagered he’d been paying more attention to my end of the conversation than to the road.

He mumbled, “Sorry.”

I brushed his arm away, leaning my brow against the window and closing my eyes, wanting to restore my equilibrium.

I’d hoped that while I was at the cinema watching Harry Potter magically turn the bad guys into snakes, any potential hype or sordid sensationalism surrounding Miranda’s untimely death would evaporate, and the poor woman could have a little peace and quiet in the Afterlife.

Was that selfish of me? Was my mother doing what was right by throwing herself in the middle of things, while I just wanted to be left alone?

“Andrea? Andrea, are you there?”

I pushed the cell up to my ear. “Yes”—unfortunately—“I’m still here.”

She launched right into her saint routine: “If I’m making things worse by keeping a promise to a lifelong friend, well, then forgive me. And I didn’t exactly lie about what you knew. You told me this morning that Miranda didn’t have her gun with her when you brought her home last night. So how could she have used it to shoot herself? If that’s not evidence, I don’t know what is.”

“Maybe she had another gun,” I suggested, bumping my head against the window as the Acura took a curve a little too fast.

“No, she didn’t,” Mother insisted. “Debbie Santos said that Miranda bought the .22 last spring when she got some unsettling e-mails from a fan, even though her stepfather urged her to get something larger. But Miranda wanted a gun she could carry in her purse.
One
gun, Andy, that’s all she bought.”

“Did you tell that to Deputy Dean?”