Say Yes to the Death (12 page)

My friend opened her mouth to say more but my cell phone interrupted, playing a quick burst of Def Leppard's “Animal,” my personal ring tone for Malone. I had it tucked in my back pocket and grabbed for it, answering breathlessly, “Hello?”

“Are you at your mother's house?” asked my very tired-­sounding fiancé.

“Yeah, I'm still at Cissy's,” I said, “but if you need me to go home—­”

“No,” he cut me off. “Stay put.”

“Did they arrest Millie?” I asked, and my pulse zinged like I'd had too much caffeine when all I'd drunk was orange juice.

“Not yet,” he said, “but they're working on it.”

“What's going on?”

“They're executing a warrant right now to search Millie's house and the shop. They're building a neat little case for the prosecution. They've already got Olivia's blood on Millie's clothes and shoes, and they have the knife with Millie's prints on it, although she's admitted to handling it. They're looking for Olivia's missing computer and cell.”

“Which means what? Are they holding Millie while they gather more evidence? Can they do that?” I felt sick to my stomach, thinking of Millie behind bars for as much as a minute.

“No, babe,” Malone said, “they can't hold her unless they charge her. They have to follow due process. But they're working on it as we speak.”

“So where is she?”

“I just put her in my car, and she doesn't want to go back to her house. She can't stomach watching the police rip the place apart, so I'll head over and wait for them to arrive with the warrant.” His voice lowered even further. “She's exhausted and scared, and I don't want to leave her alone.”

I glanced across the table at Janet, who mouthed,
What's going on?
I shrugged and asked Brian, “So where are you taking Millie?”

“I thought that maybe”—­he cleared his throat—­“well, I hope your mom doesn't mind if I drop her off there. I'm just getting behind the wheel so we'll be there in five. See you soon.”

He hung up, and it was probably just as well.

I wouldn't have been able to come up with a coherent reply. My gray cells were still processing the fact that Malone was bringing Millie Draper over to Cissy's.

Chapter 15

W
hen I told Janet that Malone was on his way with Millie, she got up to leave, and I didn't stop her.

“I know she wouldn't want to find me here, Andy. She's probably already got the media stalking her,” my friend said as she carried her crumb-­filled plate from the table to the sink. “It would freak her out, thinking I was ready to pounce on her for the sake of a story.”

I nodded, because I knew she was right.

As I walked Janet to the door, I saw my mother standing just inside the butler's pantry. I'd been too wrapped up in talking with Janet to catch the creak of her footsteps coming down the stairs. I wondered how much of our conversation she'd overheard. By the tense look on her face, I imagined she'd overheard plenty.

She didn't say anything until I'd shown Janet out, my friend promising to do her best to track down Jasper Pippin and unearth further details on Olivia's life.

Before I could get into it with Mother that Malone was en route with Millicent Draper in tow, she dug into me about something else entirely.

“I know what you're up to,” she said, her pale blue eyes homing in on mine. “You're not calling Olivia's assistant for an appointment because you want her to plan your wedding. You want to pump her for information about Olivia and see if she rats out the perp,” she said point-­blank.

Dear Lord, she did watch
Law & Order
reruns.

“Geez, Mother,” I said, squirming beneath her very direct gaze, “what if I just changed my mind and figured you were right about having a professional involved in Brian's and my wedding?”

“Oh, please, do you think I just fell off the turnip truck?” She sniffed. “Listen here, sweet pea,” she went, her voice deadly serious, “if you're gonna play undercover agent with Olivia's assistant in order to find out who killed her, I'm going with you, and that's that.” She jabbed her chin in the air and crossed her arms rigidly over her pretty pink blouse. That was definitely Mother's
don't mess with me
stance.

How to delicately tell her to mind her own business?

“Oh, you are so wrong,” I lied.

“Am I?” She arched her perfectly drawn eyebrows. “Well, then, if there's nothing more to it and you really do want to start plannin' your nuptials, what's the harm in letting your dear old mother join you?”

I nearly choked. “Well, um, for one thing,” I muttered, trying to come up with a fast excuse, “I'm a grown woman. You don't have to hold my hand. For another, we don't want the same things.”

I did
not
want Cissy getting involved in my wedding planning, even if it was all a ruse. It was one thing sticking my neck out, but I didn't want to risk my mother's pearl-­draped throat if anything should go awry.

“You're a bad liar. You always were,” she informed me, unfolding her arms so she could reach for mine. She held me in a death grip. “Why don't you just accept my help? There's a lunatic running around out there, and I don't want anything to happen to you. How can it hurt to have backup?”

“This is America. There are
always
lunatics running around,” I said, “just turn on the news or read the paper.” Or look in the mirror, I mused, only half kidding.

Mother frowned. “I'm not jokin',” she warned. “You've been doing this since grade school, and one of these days it could catch up with you.”

“What have I been doing?”

“Getting involved in other people's problems,” she said and clicked tongue against teeth, finally letting me go. “It's like a compulsion. You can't leave well enough alone.”

I stared at her and rubbed my arms where she'd dug in her talons. “
I
can't leave well enough alone,” I repeated. This coming from a woman who had worn a wig and dressed in velour warm-­ups with rhinestones in order to infiltrate a retirement home and figure out who was poisoning her bridge partners?

“Don't make me have you followed,” Mother added, and I sighed, knowing that she had the contacts and the deep pockets to do just that. “Whatever it takes, Andrea. If you're going to stick your finger in this pie, I'm going to keep tabs on you one way or another. It might be easier if you just let me play undercover agent with you. No one's going to mess with the two of us, not while I've got Anna Dean on speed-­dial.”

“Okay, okay,” I said reluctantly, giving in to her verbal arm-­twisting. She did present a good case. Maybe she should be on Malone's defense team. And it would make the whole scenario more believable if I went to talk wedding deets with my pushy mother in tow. “I'll call you as soon I've got an appointment with Terra, and you can tag along if it makes you feel better.”

Cissy smiled
,
and her face softened. “Oh, it does,” she remarked and gently patted my cheek, “immeasurably.”

The doorbell rang, and we both swung around toward the noise.

“That must be Malone,” I said nervously. “I'll get it.”

I dashed away, hurrying toward the foyer in order to let Brian in, knowing who'd be with him as I pulled the door wide.

There stood my knight in shining armor with his arm wrapped around the slumped shoulders of a very weary-­looking Millicent Draper.

“Hey, babe,” my fiancé said before he patted Millie's arm. “Hang out here for a while, okay? No one from the media will find you,” he assured her in his warm masculine voice, which even had me convinced. “Stay put until I get back to you,” he told her. When Millie nodded numbly, he leaned over to kiss my cheek. “I've got to run but I'll see you back at the condo in a bit.”

Without further ado, Brian took off, loping down the steps toward the driveway. Millie stood unmoving on the doormat in her police-­issued scrubs, and I quickly took her hand, attempting to draw her inside.

“Oh, Andy, I hate to impose,” Millie said in a scared little whisper. “Are you sure it's all right with your mother?”

I looked into her lined face and tired eyes magnified by her giant round glasses, and I had a sudden flashback to all the times Millie Draper had driven up to the kitchen door on the morning of my birthday. I used to peer out the window, eagerly awaiting the white VW van with pale pink printing on the sides—­because that was what she'd driven back then, not a fancy SUV—­and it was like opening a present on Christmas morning to see what marvelous fantasy Millie had brought to life with my cake.

“Andy?” she said, squinting at me. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Sorry, yes, I'm good,” I told her and quickly ushered her in. “I'm even better now that you're here. Brian's right, you'll be safe with Cissy. My mother might look like a delicate Texas bluebonnet, but she's a pit bull in pearls,” I remarked. “If any reporters sniff around, she'll send them packing.”

Before I closed the door, I glanced out toward Beverly Drive. I was thankful it was Sunday and traffic was at a bare minimum. Hopefully, no one had seen Millie standing at Mother's door in her jail scrubs.

As we stepped into the foyer, Cissy appeared. She strode toward the center of the entry and planted her hands on her hips. There was no welcome on her face. Instead, she watched us with a pinched face and tight lips.

“Look who's here,” I said, cutting through the silence. “It's Millie Draper.”

Since it was clear that Mother had heard about my intentions to meet with Terra Smith, I darned well knew she'd heard about Brian stashing Millie here for a while. But that didn't mean Cissy wouldn't veto the plan. It was her house, after all, and Sandy Beck wasn't around to act as a buffer. I just prayed she'd be open-­minded.

“What a nice surprise, eh, Mother?” I said and let go of Millie. “Brian had to go, um”—­I chose my words carefully—­“take care of a few things for Millie. He thought she might be better off with you for a while. Is that okay?”

My heart pounded as I awaited a reply. I guess if Mother said no, I'd take Millie to the condo with me. No harm, no foul.

But Cissy's tough expression crumbled, and her brow tried its hardest to wrinkle as she took a step toward us and said, “Oh, Millie darlin', you've had quite the morning, haven't you?” She reached a nervous hand up to tug at her starched collar.

Millie bit her lip, nodding. “I've had lots better,” she replied, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Of course you can stay while Mr. Malone is helping you out. In fact, you can stay as long as you need to,” Mother added, giving me a sideways glance. “I wish I could convince Andrea to stay, too, until this whole thing's been solved and the madman who killed Olivia is caught. I just hope they find him soon.”

“Amen to that,” Millie whispered.

If my mother had any fears about Millie—­if she thought for an instant that the Cake Lady had really committed murder—­she certainly didn't show it. Heck, if
I
felt Millie was a homicidal maniac, I wouldn't leave her alone with Cissy, not even for a minute. No, I knew in my heart that Millie couldn't hurt a fly, and I could tell my mother felt the same.

“My dear Millicent, whatever I can do for you, consider it done,” my mother offered, her voice as warm as honey.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kendricks,” Millie replied and swayed on her feet. “I wasn't sure where to go. Mr. Malone wanted me to lie low. He said the press had caught wind of the story and would be swarming my house and the store, what with how fast social media spreads information.”

“And misinformation,” I murmured.

“So true, so true,” my mother said and stepped toward us, giving the older woman a soft smile as she took her elbow and led her away. “Perhaps we can pick up some things from your place later on. But, for now, how about we get you some clothes to wear . . . I'm sure Sandy's got somethin' you could borrow, and she's just about your size . . . then I'll make you some tea and you can put up your feet. Does that sound all right? And do call me Cissy. We've known each other for too long to be formal.”

“Thank you, Cissy,” Millie replied meekly, “and, yes, a change of clothes and tea sounds lovely. I don't exactly feel human wearing these.” She tugged at her scrubs.

I wondered if Mother would crush a Xanax or two into the teapot, and I figured that might not be such a bad thing.

Whatever happened, I had a feeling Millie would be in good hands, even without Sandy Beck around to do the fussing.

I shook my head, listening as my mother's voice trailed off and thinking that maybe Stephen was good for her. Maybe he was responsible for her turning into a kinder, gentler Cissy. Or was it just that she was getting older and the tough shell she'd lived in for so long had developed cracks?

At least Millie's presence had distracted Cissy enough that I could escape. I took the opportunity to slip out of my mother's manse and get into my Jeep without her standing on the doorstep and watching me every step of the way.

Chapter 16

I
took Preston Road north, hardly seeing anything I passed. Even though I played my favorite oldie but goodie, Def Leppard's “Rock of Ages,” hoping to take my mind off things, hearing
Pyromania
didn't loosen me up the way it usually did. Instead, I kept picturing Olivia covered in blood, lying on her office floor.

As soon as I got home, I shed my clothes and showered. For a long while I simply stood there motionless, letting the hot water rain down on my head and my body. Then I scrubbed shampoo fiercely into my hair and soaped up my limbs before rinsing off thoroughly, desperate to wash the memory of Olivia's death from my pores and my brain.

When I turned off the shower, my fingers were as wrinkled as raisins. While I watched the suds disappear, gurgling down the pipes, I found myself wishing it was as easy to send the whole ugly morning down the drain like dirty water. Unfortunately, I figured it would be a long, long time before what I'd seen was forgotten.

While I toweled myself dry, I heard the faint strains of “Animal” and realized my phone was ringing. Holding the towel on, I raced into the living room to answer.

“Andy?”

“What's going on?”

“I should be back soon,” Malone said. “The cops didn't take much from Millie's house or her shop. It seems they were mostly interested in her computers.”

“All right,” I replied, not sure if that was a good or bad thing.

After I hung up, I got dressed. Then I started looking around the room for Terra's business card. I had tucked it into my bra at the wedding yesterday after the rescue of Penny from the toilet. But I'd forgotten about it. There was no sign of it in the bedroom so I wandered into the living room. If it wasn't there, I'd probably lost it, since that was about the only other usable space besides the galley kitchen and the bathroom in my tiny place.

Ah, there it was! I struck gold on the floor near the sofa where I'd removed my bra the night before when Malone and I had—­ Well, anyway, I hadn't lost it. I smoothed it out, reading her handwritten number on the back.

Then I located my cell and dialed, once I'd figured out what to say. I was going to stick with simple. I didn't even want to mention Olivia at all.

Luckily, Terra's voice mail picked up, and I managed not to ramble too much in the message I left her: “Hey, Terra, it's Andy Kendricks. I'm the one who helped you get Penny unstuck yesterday. Maybe this isn't the best time to call . . . things are probably crazy for you right now . . . but I need to start thinking about my own wedding plans, and I was hoping we could talk.”

If I didn't hear back from Terra, I wasn't sure how else I'd learn more about Olivia's business from the inside. Terra was my best bet at finding out who might have had it in for her boss, though I figured that list might include Terra herself.

After I'd grabbed a glass of water and my laptop, I settled down on the couch. It struck me that there
was
a way I could find out about Olivia that didn't involve anyone else. I went to iTunes and proceeded to download Season One of
The Wedding Belle
for $9.99. Luckily, that was as long as the show had been airing. Thank God there weren't nine seasons. I don't know if I would have survived watching that much of Olivia La Belle.

I sat cross-­legged with my laptop on a pillow and leaned back as I played the first episode. I had to fight not to roll my eyes through the zippy musical prelude that included plenty of church bells ringing and a slow shot of Olivia's long legs as she exited the back of a chauffeur-­driven Escalade with her phone at her ear and a big white Hermès bag in hand while her voice-­over drawled, “I'm Olivia La Belle, the premier event planner in Texas, where everything's bigger: the hair, the ball gowns, the jewels, the egos, and especially the bank accounts of my brides' dear old daddies.”

Good God, I found myself groaning as the images flashed by: a bride with her blond hair bumped-­up to high heaven, a glittery white gown with a train at least twenty feet long, an engagement ring with a brilliant-­cut diamond as big as a quarter, a face-­lifted mother-­of-­the-­bride in a sparkly dress, and a good ol' boy in a Stetson hat with a bolo 'round his neck flashing a fat money clip.

Way to reinforce tired old stereotypes, Olivia, I thought.

Then again, what had I expected? Particularly since Olivia had been a stereotype herself: the pretty, leggy blond trust fund baby who acted like she owned the world and everyone in it.

Sometime deep into Episode Three, Malone came in, and I put Olivia on pause.

He looked like he'd been through the wringer. After a lingering hug where he pressed his face into my hair, he whispered, “I'm so glad you're all right. We need to talk, okay? But first, I need a long hot shower.” Then he disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the door half open so I could hear the fan go on and the water start falling.

I pushed play again and sat there like a zombie, eating up every melodramatic moment of the reality show like it was a never-­ending bowl full of Cookie Dough Häagen-­Dazs. It was tacky and show-­offy, and, in parts, mean-­spirited, but I couldn't get enough.

I was starting the fourth installment of
The Wedding Belle
when Malone emerged from the bedroom in clean clothes, wet hair, and slightly foggy glasses. He sat down beside me and didn't say a word, just leaned in to watch as Olivia turned from sweet drawling Southern girl into a raging bull, verbally attacking various vendors, claiming late delivery, wrinkled linen, or in the case of Jasper Pippin, wilted flowers. She routinely snipped at her then-­assistant, Debbie, for all sorts of minute blunders. It was no wonder the girl looked terrified every moment she was on camera. By the end of the show Olivia pulled a Donald Trump and told Debbie she was fired. Debbie cried but I was guessing those were tears of relief and not sorrow.

“Andy, what the hell are you doing?” Malone asked when the show ended, and I queued up the next episode.

“I'm catching up with Olivia,” I said. I wasn't sure if I was ready to tell him about my plans to do a bit of digging into the life of my old nemesis, but maybe I didn't have to.

“Why? You didn't even like her,” he reminded me.

“That was when she was living and breathing,” I said, “but now she isn't.”

“Let me get this straight.” He cleared his throat. “You were just not that into her when she was alive but now that she's dead, you're suddenly a fan?”

“I wouldn't call myself a fan exactly,” I tried to explain and looked into his skeptical blue eyes. “I'm more like a rubbernecker watching a train wreck while it's still smoldering. I want to find out how it all came to pass.”

He pushed at the bridge of his glasses and shook his head. “Andy, c'mon, you can't get involved in this any more than you already are. You'll likely be a key witness for the prosecution, albeit a bit of a hostile one.”

“That's why I can't sit still,” I informed him because, well, I was responsible. Not for Olivia's murder. But I was the one placing Millie squarely at the scene of the crime. “I can't just stay on the sidelines while Millie takes the heat for something she didn't do. I have to do
something.
”

“So what does that make me? Chopped liver?” Malone made an unhappy noise and got up off the sofa. “I'll do my damnedest to get Millie out of this.”

“Of course, you're not chopped liver! If anyone can get her off, you can,” I called after him, because he was taking this the wrong way. He was an amazing lawyer. There was no doubt about that. He wouldn't be working at Abramawitz, Reynolds, Goldberg, and Hunt if he wasn't. “It's not
you,
” I said, setting the laptop aside and dumping the pillow to the floor as I followed. “It's me. I feel guilty about Millie. I can't help it.”

He had his briefcase open and shoved some paperwork inside it. “You have no reason to feel guilty.”

“Really?” I said and came around the kitchen table. “
I'm
the one who puts Millie at the scene with the cake knife in her hand.
I'm
the one who made her stay put and wait for the police.”

Brian's wide eyes blinked behind his glasses. “No,” he said pointedly. “Millie puts Millie at the scene. She knows now that should have called 911 when she saw Olivia on the floor with the knife in her neck. But she did what she thought was right at the time, and she's too nice a woman to lie.”

“So the police are pinning this case on her because she tried to help a dying woman?” I said, because that was how it felt.

“No, Andy,” Brian said in an exasperated tone. “They're making a case against her because that's where the evidence is pointing.” He paused before adding, “At least so far. But Millie's got the best team in town on her side so that's going to change. We'll get our own investigator on it and review whatever evidence the prosecution drums up. We'll catch their mistakes, find the holes. You have to trust me.”

“I
do,
” I said. I trusted Brian more than anyone on the planet. “I'm just scared for her,” I admitted. “It's like someone's trying to toss my own grandma in jail.”

“They're doing the autopsy now,” he said, “so we'll have some preliminary findings by tomorrow. That could help Millie's case.”

“Or hurt it,” I remarked, being realistic.

“The more information we have, the better for Millie,” he replied. “Then we'll know better how to attack the prosecution's case.”

That sounded logical. But what if the evidence had already been manipulated to make Millie look guilty? What if she'd been set up? I didn't often believe in conspiracy theories, but I'd begun to wonder if one might actually apply here.

“So if they're not arresting Millie yet, are you off the hook until tomorrow? I mean, it is still Sunday,” I said. “I'll make chocolate chip pancakes, and we can save part of the day.”

I didn't mean to sound cold or uncaring. I just desperately wanted to—­needed to—­salvage some normalcy after a horrible morning.

“Sorry, Andy,” he said, as I knew he would. He ran a hand over his hair, which had been damp a minute ago but had air-­dried in record speed. “I wish I could hang around,” he added, closing the buckles on his briefcase, “but I've got to head into the office.”

“You can't go in, say, an hour?” I asked, hating that I sounded whiny.

“I'm meeting Allie so we can get started preparing motions to file on Millie's behalf. We need to be ready for anything, particularly now that the cops have possession of Millie's hard drives. Who knows what they'll dig up that looks incriminating,” he was saying, “emails, something from Instagram, or a Facebook post—­”

“Wait, what?” I cut him off. “You're working with Allie Price?” I said, because she was Brian's old girlfriend. The last serious girlfriend he'd had before he started dating me. I didn't hate her anymore—­though I didn't really like her either—­but that couldn't stop a spark of jealousy from igniting.

“Yes, Allie,” Brian replied matter-­of-­factly and came around the table to kiss me. “If I'm lucky, I'll be home in time for dinner.”

He'd be spending all afternoon with Allie working on Millie's case? This whole mess was getting worse by the moment.

“You're okay with it, right?” he asked, as if my saying,
No, you can't work with her, I won't allow it,
would make any difference.

“Huh? Oh, sure, I'm fine,” I murmured as my vivid imagination pictured him sitting side by side with pretty blond Allie, their heads bent together, an undercurrent of electricity crackling between them as Allie said something like,
Remember when we used to team up on cases and then go home and have wild monkey sex?

“Love you,” Brian called over his shoulder and gave me a wave as he headed out the front door.

“I love you, too,” I replied feebly as the door shut with a
thunk
behind him.

I knew then and there that Olivia was screwing with my life even in death. And somewhere—­from the depths of hell, I figured—­she was smirking.