Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery (5 page)

S
andy answered the door. She looked both pleased and surprised to see me.

“Andrea, sweetie,” she said in her honey-smooth drawl, the stern frown she wore to scare off solicitors morphing into a smile.

She drew me into her sturdy embrace, muffling my own greeting in the cushiony folds of her breasts. She wore a blue cardigan over a white silk blouse and tan trousers, and she smelled of roses. My mother had hired Sandy Beck as a housekeeper some thirty-odd years ago, and she’d become so indispensable that she’d evolved into Mother’s social secretary—her best friend, if truth be told—and my fairy godmother.

“What brings you here so early in the morning?” she asked, and then her broad mouth fell open as I drew apart from David. Until that moment, he’d been hiding behind me.

“For heaven’s sake,” she breathed, the folds of skin lifting above her bright eyes. She touched a hand to her neat gray hair, a sure sign she’d been thrown for a loop. “Now, sweet pea, I’d know if he was yours,” she said, recovering quickly. “You couldn’t hide a thing like that any more than you could keep a secret.”

I smiled at her teasing. “No, he’s not mine.”

Sandy tugged her cardigan closed. The morning air was cool despite the sun. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken to babysitting.”

“He’s Molly O’Brien’s,” I told her, catching the change in her expression. No doubt she’d already gotten an earful from Mother.

“I see,” she replied, though her quizzical expression told me she awaited further explanation.

“I promised Molly I’d look out for him until . . . well, until she can come home.”

“You’d like him to stay with us?” she asked pointedly, and I blushed.

“Do you mind?”

Sandy put her hand on my arm. “If it means so much to you, Andy, then it’s no trouble at all.”

I covered her fingers with mine. “Thank you,” I said. “It does.”

I’d embarrassed her. Her cheeks reddened. I let go of her hand, and she fiddled with her collar.

She cleared her throat, leaning nearer to ask me, “Will she be there long?” With the unsaid word being “jail.”

I sighed, feeling the helplessness creep in again, knowing I would have to do more for Molly than keep David safe. Wondering exactly what that might be and where to start. “I hope not.”

I shifted my eyes from Sandy’s face with its comforting wrinkles to David. He was ignoring the two of us entirely as he cautiously approached one of the pair of whitewashed terra cotta lions standing sentry on either side of the front door. He’d looked entranced ever since I’d pulled the Jeep off tree-lined Beverly into the circular drive in front of Mother’s. I always thought of it as her house, never mine, perhaps because the Highland Park estate had always reflected her tastes, from the vaulted ceilings and gold-leafed moldings to the cast-stone fireplaces, marble baths, and Chinese silk rugs. It was like a palace in a fairy tale with Mother its queen and me a visiting commoner.

I hoped the boy would feel comfortable in a setting so different from what he was used to. If I knew Sandy, she’d make sure of that. For Mother’s sake, I prayed he would behave as he had on the drive over. Though I sensed he was not the kind of child who broke things or ran around screaming and smearing jelly on the walls.

“You want to head inside, David?” I said, and he turned to me, as if only then remembering I was there. His cheeks glowed pink. His knapsack clung turtle-like to his back; on his slight frame, it looked heavy. I waved at the door Sandy held wide for him. “C’mon,” I prodded. “Let’s go.”

He walked toward me, eyes downcast, and I set my hand atop the soft nest of his hair, guiding him beneath the arched doorway and into the marble foyer.

I knew he was terrified, what with his mother being taken away in the early morning hours by the police and no one telling him exactly what was happening. But, for all his shyness, he hadn’t cried or pouted. In fact, he’d hardly said a word except to ask a question now and then. Molly had been quiet, too, back in school. The kind of girl who had so much going on behind her eyes, but rarely spoke unless spoken to.

“Why don’t you let me take David to the kitchen for some breakfast,” Sandy offered as we paused near the foot of the curved staircase. “And you can go up and visit Cissy.”

Before I’d answered, she put her hands on her knees and bent forward, nose-to-nose with David. He backed against me, and I placed my hands on his shoulders to still him.

“How does that sound, young man?” she said directly to him. “You haven’t eaten breakfast yet, have you?”

“Nope.” He shook his head, then looked up as if to get my approval.

“Go on,” I told him. “Sandy’ll take good care of you. And wait till you taste her pancakes. Um-um good.”

I worked the knapsack from his arms, and he wriggled out of the straps. Sandy took his hand, speaking over her shoulder, “Cissy’s having tea and toast in her sitting room.”

I listened as their footsteps dwindled, the click of Sandy’s pumps and the shuffle of David’s sneakers.

Then I put a hand on the carved railing and took a deep breath.

For some reason, I felt a little like I was paying audience to the queen when I visited Mother. Cissy Blevins Kendricks had always been a formidable person, still was even as she neared sixty, and she had always intimidated me, even if she hadn’t meant to do it. She had a way of making me feel small and rumpled and awkward without saying a word. I didn’t blame her for it, and I didn’t hate her, either, though I’m sure some psychiatrists would find me dysfunctional for being so accepting. She was who she was, and I would never be that. Knowing exactly where I stood made it easier for me to be with her. And, I figured, for her to be with me.

I started up the stairs, following the pattern of the Oriental runners. The house seemed so still in the early morning, the soft moan of the wood beneath the patterned wool sounded loud to my ears, though the way my heart hammered noisily in my head it was a wonder I could hear anything at all.

I briefly poked my head into Daddy’s old study. Mother hadn’t touched it in years, except to have the maid do an occasional light dusting. If I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, I could detect the vague aroma of his Cuban cigars, which he’d smoked religiously before his first heart attack. After that, he’d had to quit. “Come hell or your mother,” as he liked to say. He had framed two of my “masterpieces” and hung them on either side of a favorite landscape by John Singer Sargent. “Can you imagine that Degas dismissed Sargent’s work entirely?” he’d remarked to me once when he’d caught me closely admiring the texture of the brushstrokes. “Shows that you can’t listen to anyone else when it comes to your destiny, Andy. You have to listen to your heart.”

I smiled even now as I remembered. Daddy always knew just the right thing to say.

Mother was a different story.

Before I crossed the threshold to her sitting room, I steeled myself. Surely Cissy would try to convince me to let Brian Malone take care of Molly, maybe even hand over David to the Department of Children and Family Services (or whatever it was called), and I couldn’t do it. I only hoped she’d understand why, even if she didn’t agree.

Just as Sandy had said, there she sat, propped up on the roll-armed Queen Anne settee, bifocals perched on the tip of her nose as she sipped tea from a Limoges cup and read the morning news.

As I took a step inside, a floorboard creaked beneath me.

Mother’s chin lifted. She peered over her spectacles. “Well, well, well,” she said and put aside the paper.

I was hardly in the mood for one of her “I told you so” speeches, but I knew I was going to get one regardless.

“So she’s really in the slammer?”

I laughed at her choice of words, and my nerves settled down. Mother had a knack for breaking the ice. “You watch too many old movies.”

“Who did she kill?”

I groaned as I sank into a damask-covered wing-chair. “She didn’t kill anyone,” I said quite plainly, not returning her curious stare but glancing around me at the watered silk on the walls and the gilt-framed Impressionist paintings that Mother and Daddy had bought in Europe years before. They had inspired me as a child and even now I could hardly take my eyes off them.

“The police arrested her for sport, I suppose.”

I turned my head, scowling at her. “Mother.”

Her hair was brushed high off her forehead, but she wore no makeup yet, and I could see the grooves of concern etched in her brow. “Darling, I do realize you mean well, but,” she paused dramatically and shook her head. “You’re asking for trouble, getting yourself involved in something that’s none of your concern.”

“But it
is
my concern,” I insisted and managed to keep my voice from rising like Minnie Mouse, something I’d learned to do with much practice. I didn’t want her to accuse me of being shrill, not now when I needed her help. She was the one who could pull the strings in Dallas society, not I. She was responsible for getting Molly an attorney in the wee hours of morning, even if it did happen to be Malone.

I set my forearms on my knees and leaned forward. “Okay, I realize you don’t think much of Molly”—I paused at the telling arch of her eyebrows—“but I honestly believe she had nothing to do with murdering Bud Hartman. She might not be a blue blood, but she’s a decent person with responsibilities and a son to take care of.” I grinned nervously. “You should see him. He’s a doll.”

Mother’s face tightened up in an “I can go you one better” expression. “I’ve seen him already.”

I blinked, wondering how she’d managed that. A crystal ball?

Her mouth curved smugly, and she gestured toward the heavily draped window to her left. “My sitting room overlooks the front drive, or have you forgotten?”

I had.

“How long do you intend for us to keep him here?”

“Um,” I said, ever articulate, and nervously pushed at my glasses. “Just until Molly’s out of jail.” I tried not to wince.

“And how long will that be? Twenty years to life?” She crossed her arms to punctuate her sarcasm.

I ignored it and replied in my best positive-speak, “Soon, I hope. Brian Malone will handle her bond hearing. He’ll get her out on bail, I’m sure.” I sounded far more confident than I felt, especially after Malone’s assurances that Molly wasn’t going anywhere.

She cocked her head and settled her hands gracefully in the lap of her pale pink caftan. “Do you know what you’re doing, Andrea? Getting entangled in the troubles of a woman you haven’t seen in years, one who’s been accused of murder?”

I started to say something in my own defense as well as Molly’s, but I couldn’t go through with it.

She was right. I had no idea what I’d gotten myself into or how to get out.

“If you were married, you wouldn’t feel the need to seek out lost causes, like all those stray pets you used to bring home when you were little,” she said, the molasses sweetness of her drawl nearly masking the zing of the arrow shot point-blank into my chest. “You shouldn’t have been so rude to Trey Maxwell last night,” she reprimanded when I merely stared at her, open-mouthed, unable to think of a comeback that would be equally stunning. “I doubt he’ll be calling you anytime soon after the way you behaved.”

Trey Maxwell?

Talk about a lost cause.

I turned away for a moment, unable to look at her, afraid I’d start laughing hysterically.

“And to think you refused the invitation I finagled for you to appear in the Pi Phi charity style show.” Mother clicked tongue against teeth and picked up the paper again, opening it with a crisp snap. “Oh, yes, I can certainly understand how playing social worker is so much more appealing than modeling Donna Karan in the ballroom at the Anatole.”

I dropped my head into my hands and softly moaned.

I
went back to my condo and took a long hot shower. The water soothed me, and I stood under the spray for longer than usual, letting it loosen up the knots in my back and shoulders. But it did nothing to wash away the knots in my stomach.

The phone rang as I toweled off, and I raced to the bedroom to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Kend . . . Andy?”

Brian Malone. The uncertain stammer could belong to no one else.

“The bond hearing,” I said before he had the chance. My damp hair dripped down my neck, chilling me. “Did the judge grant bail?”

His sigh told me the answer well before he uttered, “No, I’m sorry. I tried everything, but Judge Harmon felt she was a risk for flight.”

“Damn.” This whole thing sucked. It wasn’t fair to little David or poor Molly.

“There’ll be a hearing next week. I’ll move to dismiss, of course, but the motion will be denied. I hate to say it, but your friend gave them enough evidence to make the rope that’ll hang her.”

I gripped the receiver tightly. “Hey, you’re supposed to be on her side.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Then we have to poke holes in their theory, we have to dig up something the cops didn’t see . . .”

“Whoa, Andy, whoa,” he cut me off. “You can’t interfere with a police investigation.”

“What investigation? Sounds like they think they’ve got the case sewed up already, so they’re not even trying to find the real killer.”

“But you can’t sniff out clues.”

“How hard could it be?”

“You’re a web designer, not a private eye,” he scoffed. “You can’t run around playing Columbo.”

Maybe he was right. I couldn’t exactly flash a badge and ask questions. But there had to be other ways to find out what had really happened last night and who was responsible for Bud’s death. If only I could get to the root of things, go back to where it all began.

“Andy? You still there?” Malone squawked, already sounding panicked. “Aw, geez, you’re not cooking up something stupid, are you? Your mother said you weren’t good at taking instructions.”

“Did she mention I didn’t play well with others, too?”

“You can’t do this.”

Those words only fanned my fire.

A crazy idea had already taken hold of me, and nothing he said was going to stop me from trying to get Molly out of this mess.