Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery (26 page)

He held open the Wrangler’s door as I climbed in, and he hung there a minute before he pushed it snugly closed. I rolled down the window and he leaned in.

“This was nice,” he said.

I agreed. It was. Though I’d be damned if I’d tell Cissy.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“In the morning?”

“At Jugs,” he reminded me. “The police should have their warrants in order to search the place. Lindstrom said they should be there by ten.”

“Okay.”

I didn’t tell him about my conversation with Julie, the one where she’d claimed I was acting weird and should take a few days off. If she fired me before I’d found what I needed to clear Molly—and I wasn’t even sure what that was—then all my efforts would be for naught. I had to move faster, dig deeper. Like where Julie and Jim Bob were concerned. If I didn’t get to the bottom of their relationship, it might be too late to do Molly any good.

For nearly two hours, I’d barely thought about the case or what might happen beyond this evening. I felt the knot in my stomach return. My shoulders tensed. A second earlier, I’d been wishing Malone would kiss me. Now I had other more important things on my mind.

“Sleep tight,” he said, brushing my cheek with his fingers.

“You, too.”

I watched him walk across the lot. He gave a wave before getting into an Acura coupe, and I sighed with relief that he didn’t drive anything more pretentious. Brian Malone was no showoff, and I liked that about him.

One of the reasons I didn’t want to disappoint him.

I decided to drive for a bit before I went home. I was suddenly keyed up. Malone had gotten me thinking about Bud’s murder again, and I needed to unwind.

There was something about a car ride that had always soothed me. Mother had told me stories about nights when I’d howled from the crib so that she and Daddy couldn’t catch a wink even with pillows over their heads. They’d finally taken me out in the Cadillac, and Cissy had held me in the back seat while Daddy had made several slow trips through the Park Cities. It had put me out like a light. So, any time I didn’t fall asleep like a good baby, into the car I went. Better than Sominex. I still had trouble staying awake on road trips if I were a passenger.

When I was driving, it was a different story. Instead of knocking me out, the rhythmic thunk of the tires on the pavement and gentle motion of the shock absorbers somehow relaxed me, made my thoughts more clear, convinced me that I could sort out any problems in my life between traffic signals.

So I drove west on Belt Line from Quorum, where Truluck’s was located, heading slowly toward Midway. Checking out other cars at the light at Inwwod/ Addison and listening to Sheryl Crow croon while my fingers tapped a beat on the steering wheel.

I looked around me as I surged forward on green, traffic amazingly heavy at ten o’clock on a weekday evening. Countless cars moved around me, everyone in a hurry to get where they were going. Wherever that was.

I hit another red light at Beltway Drive and glanced to my right, over into the next lane.

A white Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows idled, the streetlamp picking out the pockmarks on the hood. I could see them even better from my elevated position in the Jeep Wrangler, and it took but an instant for recognition to dawn.

My heart accelerated, like I’d put my foot on the gas for my pulse. I slunk back against my seat hoping the driver couldn’t see me.

The light flicked to green, and the Lincoln lurched ahead.

My delay in forward motion earned me a couple of rude honks, but allowed me to glimpse the license plate.

MCY
653.

Reverend Jim Bob’s car.

It could be no other.

So what was he doing in Addison at this hour?

Shouldn’t he be on the air, performing on his twenty-four-hour “live” ministry and spreading the gospel to bored cable viewers? Though I guess he taped the show or else he’d never have time to do anything else, such as preside over memorial services for people like Bud Hartman or attend board meetings and luncheons, much less spend time with Mrs. Jim Bob and the kids.

Or check into the Motel 6.

Because that’s where the Town Car was headed, turning right into the motel parking lot just before the jammed Midway intersection.

I couldn’t imagine the preacher having any reason to be there except for a tryst. And I had a feeling I knew who with. The lovably manic Julie Costello. Which would explain the tight purple dress she’d donned for her “prayer meeting.”

Adrenaline gushed through my veins.

This could be my chance to kill the proverbial two birds with one stone. Or at least stun them with a well-aimed breath mint.

Heck, it was worth a shot.

I tried to veer into the right lane, but it was too late to get over without causing an accident. I managed to squeeze the Jeep into the left turn lane at Midway, though waiting for the light to change was a killer. My fingers tapped an impatient beat on the wheel so fast the Goo Goo Dolls couldn’t begin to keep up. I switched off the radio and sighed until the green arrow appeared, and then I hightailed it back onto Belt Line, pulling another U-turn at Beltway.

It seemed an eternity had passed before I bumped the Wrangler into the motel’s parking lot, trying to spot Jim Bob’s white sedan to no avail.

I parked in front of the office doors and went inside, drumming up a story in my head as I approached the night clerk, a solid-looking Hispanic man who smiled politely.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Oh, gosh, I certainly hope so,” I told him, doing my best to appear frantic, turning my keys over in my hands and gulping in air like I couldn’t catch my breath. “It’s my father. I think he checked in just a few minutes ago. I
have
to see him. It’s an emergency.”

“Your father’s name?”

“Uh, geez, I’m not sure if he used his real name.” I was damned sure Jim Bob Barker had not registered as himself. Leaning over the counter, I whispered, “He’s with his
tootsie
, you know? He and my mother aren’t divorced yet, and he has to keep a low profile. Probably paid cash for the room.”

The smile disappeared, and the clerk peered at me with dark eyes that had probably seen this act before, though the script doubtless changed with each performance. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not allowed to give out information on guests. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

“Yes”—I looked at his nametag—“yes, Ronaldo, you can. Maybe this will help.” I worked a folded twenty-dollar bill from my change purse and slipped it out onto the desk. Oh, man, I was gonna be broke before the end of the week at this rate. “Just to jog your memory.” I winked at him, sly-like. “He drives a white Lincoln Town Car.” I rattled off the plate number for him, having it memorized by now. “He’s about six feet two, a hundred ninety pounds, salt-and-pepper hair.”

“The man who was just here?” His palm casually covered the bill. “The guy with the beard and mustache?”

A beard and mustache, huh?

So I wasn’t the only one playing dress-up.

“He has piercing blue eyes.”

I could tell by Ronaldo’s expression that he knew exactly who I was talking about.

“Sorry, ma’am, I still can’t help you. It’s against our policy.” He artfully slipped the hand with the twenty into his pants pocket.

Had I just been conned by a con?

What was the world coming to?

It left me no choice but to pull out the big guns.

I reached in my purse, wrapped my fingers around my Tic-Tacs, and withdrew them. I shook them noisily at him without letting him see the container. “My father needs his nitroglycerin, Ronaldo, or he might go into cardiac arrest. He has a horrible, horrible heart condition. Please, just tell me the room number, and I’ll take his pills to him.” I quickly shoved the breath mints back inside my purse. “You don’t want him going into heart failure after a night of passion with a woman who’s half his age, now do you? How would it look for a man to die at your motel because you prevented his own daughter from delivering his medication?”

Ronaldo’s eyes widened as I finished, and he glanced around the lobby. A couple who’d swept through the doors stopped and stared at us. I held my breath while Ronaldo glanced at some papers on the desk. “Larry Jones, room 145,” he said under his breath.

Larry Jones?

Wasn’t that the name of the guy in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, who’d been made the figurehead of ERA, Inc., the front for Jim Bob and Bud’s partnership? If I remembered correctly, Jones also happened to be Jim Bob’s brother-in-law.

Smooth, Rev.

“He wanted a room around the back.” Ronaldo swallowed. “Should I call 911 or anything?”

“No need.” I patted his hand. “I’ll take care of my dear daddy. That’s why I’m here.”

He nodded and mopped at the sweat on his brow.

When I got outside, I hesitated before climbing into the Jeep. My hands shook as I reached into my bag and pulled out the Tic-Tacs, shaking a couple in my mouth, not liking the bitter taste left behind from so many lies.

It almost scared me how good I’d gotten at telling them.

If I didn’t stop soon, I’d have to start wearing flame-retardant Levis.

My blood still buzzing, I climbed into the car and slowly drove around to the rear of the building, counting room numbers as I went until I saw the white Lincoln parked in front of 145. Beside it—surprise, surprise—was a little red Corvette. Julie must’ve driven in while I’d been at the front desk, pleading my case to Ronaldo.

I pulled the Jeep into a spot across the way, backing in beside a Dumpster. After I cut the engine, I sat there for a few minutes, staring at the drawn curtains in the window of the room where Jim Bob and Julie were holding their late-night Bible study—reenacting the scene from the Garden of Eden where Eve does a strip tease with a snake, no doubt—and I tried to come up with a plan. Only, I couldn’t think of anything. Nothing that made sense.

I just knew that I couldn’t fail Molly and David, even if it meant embarrassing myself by confronting the preacher and the cheerleader without cue cards.

As though wearing hot pants in public hadn’t killed any pride I had left.

For some reason, that made me feel calmer as I got out of my car and quietly closed the door. Before I approached their room, I made sure my cell phone was in my purse. Just in case I had to quickly dial 911.

I pounded with my fist until I heard Julie’s high-pitched voice yell, “Who the hell is it, for Christ’s sake?”

Now what kind of language was that for a prayer meeting?

“Room service!” I said the first thing that sprang to mind.

Did they even
have
room service at Motel 6?

I had no idea.

“We didn’t order anything!” she shouted back. “So scram!”

Nuts.

I drew in a deep breath, failed to come up with any alternative, and decided to be honest. It was a stretch.

“All right, it’s not room service, it’s me. Andrea.” I practically kissed the door, my mouth was so close to the wood. I tried to peer through the peephole, but it didn’t work in reverse. “I know you’re in there, Julie, and I know who you’re with. So please, open up or I’ll call Cinda Lou Mitchell on my cell and tell her to get her camera crew out here for an exclusive.”

Swift thinking, Kendricks,
I thought, and pressed my ear to the door, picking up on some mumbling and then the noise of the locks being undone.

The door flew open, and Julie stood there in her purple dress, although her hair was mightily disheveled, her lipstick smeared around her mouth. Before I could utter so much as a “howdy-do,” she grabbed my arm and hauled me in.

“Hey . . .”

She pushed me inside and slammed the door.

I nearly tripped over the bed, dropping my purse onto the already-rumpled spread. I rubbed my arm as Julie reset the locks, and I decided she was a lot stronger than she looked. Did cheerleaders lift weights? I was willing to bet she could bench press me over her head.

But I had pepper spray, I reminded myself, reaching for my bag and jamming my hand in to locate the bottle. I palmed it, my finger on the trigger, concealing it against my thigh.

Quickly, I took in the small room around me, finding no sign of Reverend Jim Bob. Well, except his jacket hanging over the back of a chair. Then I realized the bathroom door was shut tight. God, don’t you love a man who hides in the toilet when trouble comes knocking?

Julie peered out the drapes, probably checking to see if I’d come alone.

Maybe I should’ve called Malone, caught him in his car before he’d gotten home.

Though he would’ve tried to talk me out of going there, wouldn’t he?

Not that it was the first stupid thing I’d ever done.

Julie spun around, blond locks flying, though a wisp of hair caught in the corner of her mouth as she hissed, “Shit, Andrea, what the crap do you think you’re doing? Did you follow us here from the church after the prayer meeting?”

Was she serious?

“What are you, like a stalker or something?”

I ignored her questions, posing one of my own. “Does Reverend Jim Bob check into the Motel 6 after prayer sessions with all of his flock or just with you?”

“You’re nuts,” she protested, but I shook my head.

“Save it. I saw his Lincoln outside.”

She crossed her arms forcefully and called over her shoulder. “You can come out of the bathroom, Jimmy.”

The door slowly creaked open, and Jim Bob peered out. He still had on the mustache and beard that Ronaldo had mentioned, and I noted a slight resemblance to Robert Goulet.

His eyes widened when he saw me. I’m sure he had no clue what I was doing there. In fact, I wasn’t so sure myself and was beginning to think this idea was more foolish by the minute.

“I told you she was acting pretty strange, Jimmy, and now she shows up at the motel.” Julie prattled on breathily, not hiding her distress. She had her hands balled into fists. “I shouldn’t have felt sorry for her. She was out to get us from the start. I should’ve known it.”

“Hush, baby, hush.” Jim Bob stepped to her side and set a hand on her shoulder. He looked at me, the fake mustache wiggling as he spoke. “You were at Bud’s memorial service.”