Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery (15 page)

An ancient 1,200-watt dryer I’d left behind still worked, though so slowly I thought I’d turn gray before my hair felt less than damp.

My old dresser drawers yielded faded pairs of floral panties and bras with tiny bows between the cups. My slept-in clothes held little appeal, and I decided clean and out-of-date was better than day-old, no contest.

The simple Liz Claiborne black dress that I’d worn to my father’s funeral still hung in the back of the closet where I’d stuffed it years before, hoping never to see it again. Definitely hoping never to wear it. Now I held it in my hands with the clock ticking, debating whether to slip it on or go to Bud’s service in the cranberry moiré number I’d once worn to the Dallas Symphony Association’s fundraising ball.

“Sorry, Daddy,” I whispered and dropped the black dress onto the bed.

I went through several balled-up pairs of pantyhose before I found one without runs. Then I zipped myself into my funeral dress and slid my feet into the only pair of black shoes I could track down. Pappagallo pumps with Minnie Mouse bows that were so old they were probably back in style.

Gathering up yesterday’s clothes and sneakers into a ball, I raced downstairs and snatched up my purse from the bench in the front hall where I’d left it the night before.

I heard voices in the kitchen, but I didn’t have time for morning chitchat.

My watch showed twenty to ten, and I’d need every one of those minutes to reach the Church of Perpetual Hope before the memorial service started. Even though I didn’t want to go, I had a thing about being late.

I had the front door open and one foot outside when Mother’s voice stopped me cold.

“Just where do you think you’re skipping off to without so much as a ‘good morning’?”

I cringed at her tone and slowly turned around. “Good morning.”

Her eyes raked over me, and her perfectly made-up face frowned. “Why are you wearing black? Isn’t that the dress you wore to Daddy’s . . . ?”

“Yes, yes, it is,” I cut her off and self-consciously held my purse and bundled clothes against my belly.

She crossed her arms, willing to wait me out. “You look like you’re on your way to a funeral.”

“You’re right. I am.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Andrea?”

I mumbled the name.

She wrinkled her nose. “What was that?”

I sighed. She wasn’t going to let me off that easy. “All right, already. I’m going to Bud Hartman’s memorial service in Plano,” I told her, enunciating crisply so she wouldn’t miss a word.

“The man the police think Molly O’Brien murdered?”

“The very same.”

Her mouth fell open. It was one of those rare—and I do mean rare—moments when Cissy was speechless.

Of course, I took full advantage of it.

“I’ve got to go.”

My watch showed a quarter till ten. At this rate, I would be late even if I drove like Jeff Gordon.

“I’ll phone you later,” I called over my shoulder and leapt down the front steps to my car.

The worst of the morning traffic had already passed, and I made good time north into Plano, an area best known for its ever-expanding neighborhoods and new shopping malls that seemed to proliferate like oversexed rabbits.

Unlike Highland Park or University Park, which housed the campus of Southern Methodist University, the residential areas up north were newer, the houses all very similar in architecture, and the yards sorely lacking in things green and leafy. From what I knew of Dallas real estate, fully mature shade trees on the property could boost prices higher than in-ground pools. Heck, pools were a dime a dozen. But honest-to-God thirty-foot maples or oaks, now those were as rare as an honest politician.

I could only imagine how the market values in Plano would shoot up when the omnipresent saplings had a chance to mature in another decade or two.

Speaking of time, it was five past ten when I approached the intersection at Parker and Preston. I squinted past the glare of sun on my windshield, looking for the Church of Perpetual Hope amidst the grocery stores, retail outlets, and restaurants that crowded side by side in every direction.

As the light shifted from red to green, I finally spotted a billboard beyond the bull’s-eye of Target. The towering sign depicted soaring doves and clouds with silver linings.
COME SAVE YOURSELF
,
COME PRAY WITH US
, the words beckoned, and a lightning bolt pointed down to a spot just beyond the Black-Eyed Pea restaurant, where I assumed the church was located.

Yep, there it was. A golden dome came into view as I rounded the corner and drove about another half a block.

“Oh, my,” I breathed as I pulled into a parking lot as big as the one outside Texas Stadium.

Come to think of it, the church itself gave the Cowboys’ home a run for its money.

It was hardly an ordinary white clapboard structure with a bell tower in its steeple.

All chrome and glass that glinted fiercely beneath the sun, it appeared to be the same size as the Wal-Mart SuperCenter in Mesquite. The place must’ve covered five acres. And that was a conservative guess.

A small herd of cars occupied the spaces in the first few rows nearest the entrance. I wondered if they belonged to church staffers or if they were mourners come to pay their last respects.

Leaving the Jeep in the first open slot, I hurried toward the building, bypassing Julie’s red Corvette in a square marked
RESERVED
well in front.

I slowed my steps as I spotted a second car that looked familiar.

In the adjacent reserved parking space sat a shiny white Lincoln Town Car with pockmarks on its otherwise pristine surface.

The same car I’d seen at Jugs yesterday.

A butterfly took flight inside my stomach.

He was here at the church.

The mystery man I’d heard arguing with Julie in Bud’s office. The one I suspected might be a partner in the restaurant.

I reached inside my purse and pulled out the tiny notebook I kept for grocery lists and appointments. I removed the pen from its spine and jotted down the three letters and three digits that made up the Texas license plate number. This time, I’d be safe rather than sorry.

MCY
653.

Then I returned the notebook to my bag and entered through the glass doors.

A receptionist at a moon-shaped desk in the subdued blue lobby pointed me toward a carpeted hallway, which I followed like the Yellow Brick Road until I came to a pair of closed doors.

The air conditioning must’ve been set on “frigid,” and I shivered as my body tried to adjust from the tepid morning to the chilly temperature.

I rubbed my arms and drew in a deep breath, then I pushed past another set of doors to find myself at the rear of an enormous room the shape of a baseball diamond. Polished beams rose heavenward toward a skylight through which hazy rays of sun descended. The entire wall behind the pulpit was stained glass. Images of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, of various creatures and biblical scenes came alive as the sunlight breathed movement into the riot of color.

Cushioned pews that could have held hundreds remained mostly empty save for a smattering of people scattered in the foremost rows.

A table up front held a lidded brass pot surrounded by vases full of white lilies, and I figured the pot contained Bud’s ashes.

It seemed impossible to believe that a man who’d caused so much trouble, whose death had put Molly behind bars, now was little more than dust.

“. . . ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . . ,” the preacher intoned as if reading my thoughts.

Red runners led up to the apse and carved pulpit. A tall man in robes helmed it like a ship’s captain, his voice reverberating through the auditorium as he spoke of Bud Hartman “going home.”

The carpet masked my footsteps as I tiptoed forward. I saw Julie’s blond head bobbing as the eulogy went on, the booming bass of the minister’s voice thumping inside my skull.

I glimpsed Rhonda, Christie, and Ginger clustered together in the row behind Julie. I recognized a few others from the restaurant. The rest were strangers to me.

Sliding into an empty pew several rows back, I set aside my purse and clasped my hands in my lap.

My gazed focused on the preacher’s face, and it dawned on me that I recognized him. It took but a second for it to register that he was the Reverend Jim Bob Barker in the flesh.

What had Bud Hartman done in his lifetime to rate Jim Bob’s presence at his memorial service?

How could a man busy with raising funds to buy toys for children in undeveloped nations have time to eulogize a murdered restaurateur? Especially when that restaurant was Jugs, which I doubted was a place the Reverend Jim Bob would take Mrs. Jim Bob to dine unless he was looking to sleep on the couch.

It made no sense.

Other than the rise and fall of the preacher’s voice, reverberating like a rumble of distant thunder inside the cavernous space, the only sounds I detected were sniffles from the front row.

Solitary sniffles.

Julie Costello seemed to be the only one grieving over Bud’s passing, and, if what I’d seen yesterday was any indication, that barely registered a one on the Richter scale. By all accounts, theirs had been an open relationship, one where Bud had been able to have his cake and eat it, too.

So what if Julie had gotten tired of his tomcat ways? What if she’d wanted monogamy, maybe even marriage, and he’d refused to give it? She appeared to be a take-charge kind of woman—despite her ditzy facade. I couldn’t imagine she’d be okay with a boyfriend who ran around with his hired help right under her nose.

Such behavior had to be a slap in the pompoms for the former Cowboys cheerleader. Maybe she’d returned to the restaurant that fateful night, had found Bud all over Molly, and had decided to put an end to his extracurricular activities once and for all.

Could’ve happened.

Julie was hardly in the clear, as far as I was concerned. Especially after eavesdropping on her argument with the mystery man yesterday morning. Maybe there was more involved here than Bud’s sex-capades. Maybe she was the one stabbing Bud in the back with someone else, for business or pleasure.

Which led me to the matter of Bud having a partner in the restaurant. If this was the case, as Molly had suggested, why wasn’t anyone stepping forward? Who was he? And was he tied to a murder plot?

I’d have to ask Malone to check into the business, see if there was partnership insurance and whose name was on those papers. Perhaps Bud had been killed for the time-honored motive of money.

Last, but not least, there were the Jugs waitresses. I wasn’t entirely convinced that someone hadn’t paid Bud back for his harassment by sticking that chef’s knife between his ribs after Molly had run off.

Christie, Rhonda, and Ginger had all complained about Bud’s unwanted advances. Who’s to say the killer wasn’t one of them?

I counted suspects on my fingers until I ran out of digits.

Bud had more enemies than Osama bin Laden.

Unfortunately, the police didn’t seem to care, not as long as they had Molly’s fingerprints on the knife and Molly herself locked up snugly in Lew Sterrett.

“. . . as Jesus gave his life on the cross, so shall we be saved . . .”

Reverend Jim Bob thundered on, and I stifled a yawn.

Ever since I was a child, church services had made me sleepy. I’m not sure what it was. The repetitive phrases I’d heard time and again. The hum of the air conditioning. The way I had to sit so still.

My eyelids began to droop, my chin sloping toward my chest only to snap up again as the preacher’s voice rose emphatically.

Someone coughed—probably trying to stay awake as well—and I forced my eyes wide, making a concerted effort to concentrate as Reverend Barker wrapped up the eulogy with a few more flowery phrases about Bud’s return to the arms of Our Loving Father, and then concluded with a persuasive, “Amen.”

I glanced at my watch and noted it was ten-thirty, and I sighed with relief that the service had been mercifully short.

Reverend Jim Bob stepped down from the pulpit and strode toward Julie, his hands outstretched, his graceful robes swaying.

Glancing to my right, I watched Ginger, Christie, and Rhonda scoot out of their pew and make a beeline toward the aisle. All three were dry-eyed. They looked anxious to escape, and I realized they’d probably come for the same reason as I had: because Julie had left them little choice in the matter.

I recognized several faces from the kitchen staff and a few other servers. If not for Jugs employees, I wondered if anyone would have shown up at all.

Slipping my purse over my shoulder, I slowly rose and inched my way from the pew onto the line of red carpet. I followed it forward, passing others leaving, and approached Julie and Jim Bob Barker.

They leaned into one another, speaking in hushed voices. Julie dabbed at her eyes. His hand rested on her shoulder, gently kneading. The gesture appeared rather intimate, and I wondered if the preacher gave all his lambs such personal attention. Or maybe it had more to do with Julie’s snug-fitting black lace dress that showed off her curves so unchastely. Her stockings had seams up the backs, and her stiletto heels made her legs seem endless, though perhaps the short length of her skirt aided in that illusion.

Like the well-mannered woman my mother brought me up to be, I softly cleared my throat to announce my presence.

Jim Bob’s head fast drew apart from Julie’s, and he dropped his hand from her shoulder to clasp the other in the folds of his black robes. He smiled at me, and I was struck by what a truly good-looking man he was, even more so in person than on TV. His eyes were a clear and piercing blue and seemed to cut right through me. His gray-streaked hair was neatly combed away from his chiseled features.

I understood why he’d attracted such a following. Though he was surely old enough to be my father, I felt a tingle down yonder. The man was a hottie.

“Andrea,” Julie greeted me, miraculously getting my name right. She sniffed and blinked teary eyes, though her mascara remained perfectly unsmudged. Must be industrial-strength waterproof. I wondered what brand it was. “You made it after all,” she said. “I didn’t see you before the service started.”