Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery (16 page)

“I was running late. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just glad you’re here. Everyone else only came because they were afraid I’d dock their pay if they didn’t. But I think you came for something else, didn’t you?”

“Something else?” The hairs on my neck bristled like a prickly pear. Did this have to do with my undercover act as an unwed mother-to-be? Was she going to have Reverend Jim Bob do a laying-on of hands and banish Satan from my soul for all the lying I’d been doing?

“Don’t look so worried.” She reached out and squeezed my hand. “I know you came because you’re a good person. You really care about people. I could tell that from the moment I met you.”

I felt Reverend Jim Bob staring at me, and I prayed he couldn’t read the guilt on my face. If I’d been wearing pants, we’d need an extinguisher to put the fire out.

“Who might this be, Julie?” he asked, and I was actually glad for the distraction.

She quickly made the introductions. “This is Andrea Blevins.” She waved her hand at me as if I were a letter Vanna White had turned around. “She’s a waitress at Jugs. Just hired her yesterday as a matter of fact. She appeared out of the blue when I needed her most.” Her gaze drifted down to my belly. “And when she needed me.”

“Ah, a gift from Heaven for you both,” the preacher remarked with an ephemeral smile. Then he nodded at me. “Lovely to meet you, Andrea,” he said in a smoky warm tone that made me quiver. “You can call me Jim Bob. Everyone does.”

“The Reverend Barker is a big celebrity in these parts,” Julie jumped in, using his formal title all of a sudden, I noticed. Trying to create a little distance for my benefit? “He’s got his own TV show and a big billboard right on LBJ. He’s a busy, busy man, always out doing the Lord’s work,” she finished, staring hard up at the pastor, though he kept his eyes on me.

He shifted his shoulders beneath the purple mantle that topped his robes, clutching his hands together. “It’s good to have you in my church, young lady, despite the circumstances. Did you know Mr. Hartman?”

“No,” I told him, glad I didn’t have to lie this go-round. “I never had the pleasure.” Okay, so that was a stretch. I waited for lightning to strike, but merely heard the air conditioning click on again.

“Reverend Barker was a friend of Bud’s,” Julie said, and the preacher’s face tightened visibly. “They had a lot in common.”

“Oh, now, Julie, I wouldn’t say that,” he murmured, and I detected a faint flush to his cheeks.

“Well, you were both successful businessmen with humble beginnings,” she remarked, but I had a feeling that was not all she’d meant.

Which left me to wonder how Reverend Barker knew Bud.

Through the church?

Though Bud’s being a dutiful member seemed highly unlikely. Although I reminded myself that greater sinners than he were members of congregations all over the place. Even Highland Park Presbyterian.

Maybe Bud had donated to one of Jim Bob’s causes?

If only Julie had a string in her back like my old Chrissy doll, I’d give it a tug and make her explain her comment.

“Was Bud a member of Perpetual Hope?” I asked. Well, it couldn’t hurt to try to figure it out on my own. Julie laughed.

“Er, not exactly.” The preacher tugged back his sleeve to check his watch, a gold and diamond Rolex Presidential that winked beneath the lights. “We were acquainted through my charitable activities. He often collected toys at his restaurant during the holidays for our annual drive.” His reply was so smooth I almost bought it.

“There were lots of things about Bud people didn’t know,” Julie jumped in, and Jim Bob’s expression went from benign to unreadable. I bet he beat the socks off his buddies playing poker.

“I don’t doubt that,” I said, finding it impossible to believe the Bud Hartman I’d learned so much about in the last two days had been generous without something in it for him.

I couldn’t help but wonder what that might have been.

The preacher did another watch check. “Oh, my, I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ve got an appearance to make at the Parents for Public Morality luncheon at the Adolphus, and then I have a board meeting with my wife’s diabetes foundation.” He touched his wedding band. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I must go.”

He nodded at me, then grasped Julie’s hands. “Be brave, my child,” he told her. “This is not the end.”

“You know it’s not.” She tipped her pretty face up toward his.

He let her go.

She frowned, her eyes following his imposing figure as he sauntered off, black robes snapping at his heels.

Her small hands clenched to fists at her sides, and I noticed the red imprints of his fingers on her white skin.

Ouch.

“Have you ever seen Mrs. Jim Bob?” Julie asked out of the blue, her gaze still fixed on the doors that the minister had disappeared through.

“No,” I said, because I hadn’t. Unless she was the woman with the purple beehive on his cable show.

“She looks like somebody blew her up with a tire pump,” Julie said and sounded pleased as punch. “That’s probably how she got diabetes, from eating too much sugar.”

“I don’t think . . .”

She didn’t let me finish. “Walk me out to my car?” she asked brightly.

“Sure.”

She picked up the brass pot from the table amidst the lilies and nonchalantly tucked it under her arm.

“Let’s hit the road.”

I followed her outside while she babbled on about the pretty flowers, the lovely service, and how tickled Bud would have been to hear Reverend Jim Bob paint him in such a positive light.

“You’d have thought Bud was Mother Teresa,” she said with a giggle. “He would’ve gotten a real kick out of that.”

Once past the glass doors in the lobby, the humid air hit me hard, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. Within seconds my clothes stuck to my skin, and perspiration molded stockings to flesh. I could only imagine the temperature inside my Jeep.

Hot enough to roast a turkey.

“Where’s your ride?” she asked.

I hooked my thumb across the lot toward the Wrangler, its black hard top baking beneath the sun.

“Four-wheel drive?”

“Yeah.”

“Bud had a Cherokee,” she said and sighed. “Now it’s on probation.”

On probation?

Did she mean in probate?

I cleared my throat, working hard to keep a straight face. Sometimes I couldn’t tell when she was doing her dumb blonde routine and when she was serious.

Julie’s red Corvette sat right out front, but the white Lincoln was gone from its reserved parking spot.

“Hey, I’ve got a favor to ask you,” she said and paused beside the driver’s side door. She dumped the brass pot none too gently on top of her sports car and left it there while she dug her keys from her purse.

“What kind of favor?” Hadn’t I done enough do-gooding for one day?

“Tiffany called me this morning and told me she couldn’t make her shift,” she replied and scrunched up her face. “Says she’s sick, but, knowing her, it’s nothing contagious. Just PMS. Which is just as well, because she scares the customers when she’s in hormone hell. Can you fill in?”

Another shift would give me more time to poke around. “Sure,” I told her. “No problem.”

“You’re a doll,” she squealed, and I wanted to laugh, that coming from a woman who looked like Barbie. “I’ll see you later then. Oh, and Junior, too!”

“Right.” Ha, ha. I was getting tired of her “Junior” routine already.

She hesitated for a minute and tipped her head, squinting at me over the roof of her car. “You look different today, Andrea. Though I can’t put a finger on it. Thinner, maybe? Must be the black.”

“Gee, thanks.” I think.

With a shrug, she dove into the Corvette and slammed the door. The engine roared to life, and the car started to back up when I realized she’d forgotten something.

“Julie, stop!” I shrieked at the top of my lungs.

Luckily, she did.

I ran over to the Vette and removed the brass pot, which had skidded precariously close to the edge of the roof, the hot pavement below.

She lowered her window, and I shoved it through.

“Oh, hell,” she said, then raised the window and drove off.

Shading my eyes with my hand, I watched the sleek red car skim across the parking lot and disappear into the street.

“
You look different today
,” I mimicked and headed toward my Jeep. “
Must be the black.
Right,” I muttered and smoothed my fingers over the crepe fabric. The dress was a size six and still fit, so it must’ve been the too-tight Calvins yesterday that had her confused.

Or else . . . my heart stopped.

I glanced down.

And realized something was missing.

I could see all the way down to the Minnie Mouse bows on my shoes without obstruction.

Uh-oh.

Yesterday, I was Marilyn. Today, more like Twiggy. No wonder Julie had thought I’d lost weight. I was minus two full cup sizes, front and center.

“Good going, Kendricks,” I said aloud and unlocked the Jeep.

I doubted if Mata Hari had ever had to worry about stuffing
her
bra, for Pete’s sake.

I
headed back to my condo, mulling over my observations from the memorial service as I drove.

What kept running through my mind was the sight of Reverend Jim Bob’s hand on Julie’s shoulder after the eulogy was over and the way they’d been speaking to each other in such hushed tones, heads bent together so intimately my gut told me there was more to their relationship than shepherd and sheep.

Were Jim Bob and Julie having an affair?

Was that what she’d meant when she’d suggested the televangelist and Bud had had something in common?

Her,
perhaps?

I remembered, too, the way the preacher had gripped Julie’s hand so tightly before his departure.

What the heck was that about? Was he angry with her for some reason? Was it a warning to keep quiet?

Might it have anything to do with Bud’s death?

I could be way off base, but I’ll wager I wasn’t far afield.

Julie and Jim Bob Barker?
I mused and shook my head.

The more I dwelled on the idea, the less it seemed so far-fetched.

I mean, why not? The Rev was a great-looking guy, though twice her age. And he certainly had enough money and power to appeal to her baser needs. For heaven’s sake, Bud had been two- or three-timing her, if what I’d heard from the other waitresses was correct. So what would have prevented her from taking another lover?

But what if Bud had found out? What if
he
wasn’t big on sharing?

Or maybe he’d seen dollar signs. A business opportunity.

Maybe he’d tried to blackmail the preacher. He could’ve had Julie followed, come up with photos that would’ve tarnished the preacher’s squeaky-clean image. Could Julie have even been in on it?

Well, it was possible, wasn’t it?

And it was a damned good motive for murder.

The theory sent a charge through me, a sudden surge of hope tempered only by my worrying whether or not Malone would think it was worth looking into. Or, worse, would he tell me I was grasping at straws?

Once home, I changed out of my funeral attire and into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from Operation Kindness, a local non-kill animal shelter I’d done some pro bono web design work for. Peeling off the sticky pantyhose had taken a bit of doing, but it was pure joy to throw the damp wad of nylon into the trashcan and wiggle my bare toes in the carpet.

Having skipped breakfast that morning for lack of time, I fixed myself a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich and considered it brunch.

The phone rang just as I took a bite. I picked up the receiver and uttered a gluey “Hello?”

“Andy? Is that you? It’s Malone.”

Speak of the devil, I thought, as I forcibly swallowed down the lump of peanut butter and bread.

“Anything new?” I asked, hoping he’d found some glitch in the prosecutor’s case, some way to get Molly out of jail so I could drop this Nancy Drew act and return to my slightly less theatrical existence.

I heard him shuffling papers in the background. “I’ve been doing some digging on my own,” he said, “and I found out a few things about our friend Fred Hicks, the helpful security guard who so fortuitously spotted Molly running from Jugs just before one o’clock on the night of the murder.” Sarcasm edged his usually even-keeled voice.

“And?” I twisted the cord around my finger, waiting for him to finish, knowing it had to be something good to have gotten a rise out of him.

“He’s not as clean as the cops made him out to be,” Malone remarked, sounding triumphant, and I realized he wasn’t nearly as disinterested in this case as he’d appeared in the beginning. “Hicks has a record of two arrests for theft, though charges were dropped when he paid restitution.”

“Theft of what?”

“Cold hard cash.”

“So how could he keep working as a security guard?”

“He was an unarmed guard, Andy. Some companies still don’t do background checks these days, which is how pedophiles end up working in day care.”

Fred Hicks was a thief.

The tip of my finger went from blue to white, and I unwrapped the cord from around it as fast as I could. My heart was pounding hard inside my chest.

“Do you think he went over to Jugs, found the door unlocked, and tiptoed in to rob the place? Maybe Molly was still in the locker room”—she’d said Bud had been watching her from the shadows—“so maybe Hicks slipped in, found the bag with the day’s deposits sitting there on Bud’s desk and tried to run off with it, only to get sidetracked when Bud attacked Molly. He might’ve witnessed the struggle before she ran out.” The more I talked, the less idiotic the scenario seemed. “So then Bud turns around and catches him with the loot in his sticky fingers.”

Malone did one of those, “Whoa, Andys,” that he was getting so good at. “I agree that the police need to look at Hicks more closely, but let’s not jump to conclusions, okay? As much as I’d like to clear Molly, we have to approach this realistically. First off, how would Hicks have even known where Bud’s office was, much less that the day’s receipts would be sitting on his desk?”