Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery (6 page)

“I’ll be in touch when I have hard evidence for you, Malone,” I told him, feeling better suddenly. Not so helpless after all.

“Andy, nooo . . .”

I disconnected, cutting off his plea.

The phone rang again almost instantly, but I let it go, humming aloud as I headed back to the bathroom to dry my hair, thinking that my mother was wrong. This particular cause wasn’t lost, not by a long shot.

I
had a client to see that afternoon, a woman named Anna McLaughlin who owned an antiques shop at Knox-Henderson. Normally, I didn’t make house calls for web projects, but Anna insisted on my personal touch. I charged her by the hour, so it was no skin off my nose. Mother had been buying pieces from Anna for years and had used the power of her purse strings to drum up the business for me when I’d first hung out my shingle. Not that I’d asked for her help, but that had never stopped her from doing exactly as she pleased. I much preferred to do jobs for nonprofits—the latest being a site to display the artwork of kids with cancer for a local charity—but I figured it didn’t hurt to do a favor for Mother on occasion. I never knew when I’d need something from her. Like getting Molly an attorney.

Once a month, I made the trip to Anna’s store to show her some updates for her web pages on the computer in her back room. Then I’d shoot some digital photos of new merchandise she wanted to peddle, adding the pictures, descriptions, and prices to her online inventory. It never took more than an hour, two tops, and I didn’t mind going there besides. Anna was always keen to show off her latest treasures from her trips to France or England (or to the Preston Hollow estate sales, if truth be told). I’m sure she assumed I’d tell my mother what goodies I’d seen and that “darling Cissy” would high-tail it over to Anna’s Antiques in her champagne-hued Lexus, whip out her Platinum American Express, and clean out the place.

I dressed carefully in black jeans and Tee with a silver chain around my hips. I put in my contacts and swiped my mouth with pale pink lipstick, which made me feel, if not look, more thirty than thirteen.

I picked up the funky “Alice” bag in the crazy black-striped Wurlitzer print that I’d ordered from mavery designs.com as a treat for finishing a recent project. I loved that Megan Avery used fabrics with colorful patterns dreamed up by artists. I had several of her bags, in different styles, and they suited me far better than the latest from Europe.

My car keys in hand, I headed for the door, catching sight of the blinking red light on my Caller ID. Without even scrolling through the memory, I knew it was Brian Malone. I dialed in my number and code to listen to what he had to say. As I’d suspected, it was another plea for me not to do anything rash that might jeopardize the case.

Right, I thought, locking the door on my way out.

As far as I could tell, Malone had no case.

The sun was high and bright and hot. It felt at least ninety degrees. And it was only May. By June, all Dallasites who took a step out of their air conditioning could empathize with poor Humpty Dumpty when his innards hit the pavement.

Just as soon as the motor turned over, I cranked up the cold air in the Jeep and drove east to Central Expressway, taking it south to the Knox-Henderson exit.

Anna’s shop was on the first floor of a tangled two-storied building with a whitewashed exterior and lots of windows.

A bell jangled overhead as I entered, and the scent of old upholstery, new varnish, and Anna’s overpowering White Diamonds hit my lungs.

I wove through a tight path between gorgeous gilded consoles and chairs that were clearly French, a Chippendale dining set with heavy ball and claw feet, a Victorian bed with a carved six-foot headboard, and polished mahogany china cabinets and chests of drawers. Above me, chandeliers with Austrian crystals glittered amidst Art Deco fixtures with odd shapes and jewel tones. Silver tea sets and delicate pieces of Nippon and Lalique tantalized from shelves and tabletops. Beneath my comfy black espadrilles, faded Persian rugs made each step a whisper.

“Andrea? Andrea, is that you? Right on time, as always.”

Anna emerged from the rear of the shop in a gust of perfume. A bright green silk sheath hugged her ample body. She’d tied a colorful scarf around her neck (to hide her chins, so Mother liked to say). Her still-pretty face was painted in the Texas tradition of too much is never enough, and her shiny blond hair was upswept in an immobile ’do that had probably cost the world an additional hole in the ozone (another Texas tradition).

“How’s my favorite web diva?” she cooed and hugged me to her bosom.

“I’m okay,” I got out, nearly breathless from her clinch.

She stepped back and clasped be-ringed hands together, an “I know better” look on her face. “Your mother phoned me a little while ago,” she admitted. “Cissy told me all about that girl in prison.”

I should have known. Mother could get out a story faster than CNN. And she didn’t even have a satellite feed.

“I don’t want to talk about that, Anna, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, honey,” she said, but looked disappointed.

I two-stepped around her and followed the narrow path toward the rear office. I’d barely set my things down on the desk and switched on the computer when Anna appeared, studying me from above the flat screen monitor.

“May I ask you something, Andrea?”

I finished typing the password onto the screen and hit the enter key. Then I shrugged and glanced up at her. “Shoot.”

She caught her hands beneath her breasts and cocked her head like a chicken. “Why does a nice girl like you . . . a well-endowed girl with no need to work”—I nearly cringed at the obvious reference to my trust fund, not my boobs—“why do you live the way you do when you could be part of the crème de la crème of Dallas society? Cissy told me you refused to debut when you were eighteen. She said it near to killed her.”

So Mother was still getting pity with that one, I mused, frowning. My father had his fatal heart attack just months before my deb ball at the Fairmont and, somehow, without him there to make the situation bearable, I didn’t see the point of going through with the charade. Not even for Cissy.

“And she told me that a friend of yours from Hockaday who’d chaired last year’s Fur Ball was just engaged to one of the Hunts. ‘It could have been Andrea,’ she said to me. Her very words.”

I wanted to tell her that Mother would’ve married me off to Ted Bundy if he’d had the right pedigree, but instead I sighed softly. I’d been through this enough times to know how to deal with it.

Folding my hands atop the desk, I looked up at her, meeting her curious eyes with my steady gaze.

“I like my life just the way it is, Anna, but thank you for your concern.” I knew my face was probably as deep a red as the ruby glass Anna’s store had on display, but I still managed to be polite. “I’m happy the way I am, despite what Cissy would like her chums to believe. I don’t have any regrets whatsoever. And isn’t that what’s important? Living for yourself and not for other people?”

Anna’s face crumpled slightly. There was no way for her to reply but to say, “Yes, of course, dear.”

It seemed to work with all of Mother’s friends, though, like the rest of them, Anna seemed befuddled. No doubt behind my back—and Cissy’s—they discussed what an odd bird I was, probably wondered what was wrong with me.

Sometimes it was tricky being so different from the “village” that had raised me. It would have been so much easier if I’d fit neatly into the world in which I’d been born instead of fighting it every step of the way.

“Now, Anna, would you like to see the new designs I’ve come up with before I update your site? Then we’ll do the photographs of your new inventory, and I’ll put them up . . .”

The bell on the front door jangled, and her bored expression vanished, as she put her party face back on. “Do whatever needs doing, hon. I’m sure I’ll love it.”

“Okay.”

I didn’t realize until she’d left that I’d been holding my breath. I laced my fingers together, cracked my knuckles, and got down to business.

Within an hour, I had updated some of the text and graphics on her home page, then spent a good twenty minutes maneuvering carefully through the shop with my digital camera in hand, taking pictures of the pieces Anna pointed out between her intense discussions with this customer or that. When I felt like I’d accomplished enough to justify my coming over, I picked up my bag from Anna’s office, palmed my key ring, and ducked my head into the store.

Anna was tending to an expensively dressed blonde with a Louis Vuitton bag the size of a suitcase.

She wiggled her fingers at me as I made my escape, but I didn’t slow down until I’d reached the Jeep.

No wonder Molly O’Brien had never felt accepted at Hockaday, I thought as I climbed inside. It was hard enough to actually belong and still not fit. To be an outsider without papers and pedigrees must have been truly painful. It made me thankful that we’d found each other back then.

Maybe Molly and I were more alike than we were different.

I smiled at that, knowing Mother would catch the vapors if she heard me utter such blasphemy. As far as she was concerned, Molly O’Brien would forever be “that scholarship girl.” Not worthy of a deb ball, not worthy of a “good” marriage, not worthy of a house in the right zip code or a Mercedes SUV in which to carpool the kids. Not worthy of a friendship with a Blevins-Kendricks.

My cotton T-shirt stuck to my back, and I turned up the air conditioning. I checked behind me in the rearview mirror as I shot onto the highway and headed for downtown.

I was going to Lew Sterrett.

I had a plan, and I needed Molly’s help.

I
sat across the Plexiglas barrier and stared at her.

She’d tied back her dark hair in a ponytail, emphasizing the high angles of her cheekbones, the slashes of her eyebrows dark against pale skin, though I can’t say the orange jumpsuit did much for her complexion. Smudges ringed her eyes, and the whites were red-veined. She looked like a woman on the verge of losing everything, and her expression reflected her despair.

“How are you?” I asked, but she shook her head and picked up the black receiver to her right. I followed suit and wrinkled my nose at the odor of congealed bad breath on the plastic.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve been in worse places. You should’ve seen some of the dives where Seb and I lived in Paris,” she said and gave a halfhearted grin, but there was fear on her face. “I’ll survive this, too.”

“I would’ve put up the money to get you out,” I told her, and she pressed her mouth into a thin line. “I can’t believe the judge denied bail.”

“Guess he was afraid I’d pack up my kid and disappear,” she murmured. “And he was right, Andy. I would have run. I would’ve done whatever it took to stay with my baby.” She bent toward the Plexiglas. “How is he?” she asked, her grim features suddenly anxious. “He’s never been away from me for more than a few days.”

“He’s doing fine,” I said and smiled to prove it. “He’s staying at Mother’s in Highland Park.”

“No kidding?”

I held up my hand. “Scout’s honor. I dropped him off this morning. Last I saw him, Sandy was herding him into the kitchen for some pancakes.”

“Oh, God.” She chuckled. “I can’t imagine Cissy Kendricks babysitting my son. I thought she ate children for breakfast.”

“Only if she’s out of marmalade.”

“I hope he doesn’t get too used to Buckingham Palace.”

That’s what she’d called it when we were in school. The first time Molly had ever visited the house on Beverly Drive, she’d been afraid to touch anything. Just to show her it was okay, I’d picked up one of Mother’s crystal ashtrays and pretended to juggle it, only to toss it so high I missed the catch and sent it shattering at my feet. Cissy had assumed Molly had broken it and that I’d covered up for her by taking the blame.

“I’ll tell Sandy not to spoil him too much,” I promised.

“Sandy’s a good lady.”

“The best.”

The brightness faded from her eyes. Her chin quivered. “I blew it, didn’t I? If I’d had any sense, I would’ve stayed in Chicago and finished school instead of leaving everything I’d worked so hard for to be with Seb.” She didn’t look at me when she continued. “He totally freaked when I told him I was pregnant. He wasn’t ready to be anybody’s daddy.” She pressed her lips together so hard they disappeared into a thin white line. Then she lifted her eyes again. “But I’m glad I made the choice I did. Because it gave me David.”

So it was true. The poetic Sebastian was David’s father. Or at least the sperm donor. I couldn’t imagine how hard that decision had been on Molly. Keep her baby or lose the man she loved. If I’d had Sebastian in the room with me, I’d have wrung his scrawny neck.

I wanted to ask her more, but figured she’d tell me in her own time. Catching up while she sat on the other side of the Plexiglas probably wasn’t the best place for that. I held my curiosity in check, for now.

“I was so stupid back then, such a damn romantic fool.” She puffed her cheeks and blew the air out. “If I’d had any sense, I would’ve kept in touch with you, Andy. But, once I was back and had David to look out for, I was so busy trying to stay afloat that I let everything else slide. I did learn you were back from Chicago, and I meant to connect with you, but”—she shrugged—“something always came up.”

I was as responsible for letting our friendship go by the wayside as she was, but I didn’t want to argue. Instead, I told her, “You don’t have to apologize.”

She poked a finger at me, tapping the barrier between us. “You’re the same person you always were, you know? I figured maybe you’d changed in the years I was gone, but you didn’t. I still can’t believe you came to my rescue, getting me a lawyer and taking care of my son, without asking anything of me. Andrea Kendricks. Patron Saint of Lost Causes.” Tears glistened on her lashes, and my heart ached.

I wanted to reach for her hand, but the glass stopped my fingers. “Hey, that’s what friends are for.”

“Except for you, I wouldn’t know.”