The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club (27 page)

It took a second for my brain to register what she meant.

“Oh, this?” I lifted my fingers to the spot where I’d slept on the marker. “I fell asleep at the computer and had a run-in with a pen. Looks like a
Z
, doesn’t it? For Zorro.” I pantomimed carving the letter into the air.

“Um, more like an
L
actually.”

For loser
, I thought, dropping my sword arm to my side. How fitting.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll wash off in a few days.”

Hurrah.

“Gosh, I’d better run,” she said, and she did.

I watched as she dashed across the lawn toward a three-wheeled cycle parked at the curb, behind where the Simon David truck had stopped earlier. The thing was rigged with baskets and a bell, too, I realized, as she jangled it several times before pedaling down the street and out of my line of vision.

Nice enough lady, I thought, wondering why there was something about her I didn’t trust, much the same way I didn’t trust her husband.

“The Finches worked with you in Austin, Annabelle?”

“Yes, but they’re not the only ones. I couldn’t have opened in Dallas without their help . . .It’s not like they had anything to do with what happened.”

They knew about the threatened lawsuits, and Patsy herself brought up loyalty and how they’d “do anything for” Annabelle.

I wondered if that included murder.

I
f I were writing an official report on my undercover work as Mother’s sidekick, I would have summed up the rest of the morning something like this:

9:15 a.m. Ate two bagels with raspberry cream cheese, chased down with a glass of fresh-squeezed juice from Simon David.

9:40 a.m. Brushed teeth, gathered up the bachelor photos from Two Hearts and the articles Janet had e-mailed, stuffed in purse.

9:50 a.m. Emptied the contents of Bebe’s medicine cabinet into a gallon-sized plastic baggie (don’t ask if that had felt creepy), also stuffed into purse.

10:00 a.m. Locked up the house but couldn’t deadbolt the front door (still no key) and drove over to Sarah Lee Sewell’s.

Trés exciting, no?

Well, no. In fact, it sounded positively boh-ring.

If my initial twenty-four-hours at Belle Meade had provided me with a peek into the
Lifestyles of the Chic and Shamus
, then I’m glad my guidance counselor at Hockaday had steered me toward art and graphics. Besides, I don’t think I had the right equipment to be a real private dick.

After only one wrong turn, my Jeep sniffed out the route to Sarah Lee Sewell’s place. The front door stood wide open, accommodating a fat black hose that emanated from the rear end of a bright yellow van marked,
AAAA CARPET SERVICE
, parked in the driveway. A white Ford Escort sat at the curb and had graceful curly-cued letters identifying it as
BELLE MEADE HOUSEKEEPING
.

I was relieved that Mother hadn’t been at Sarah Lee’s house without adult supervision. She still had me worried, and that nagging concern for her mental health wouldn’t abate until she was back home on Beverly Drive, with Sandy Beck hovering over her (the usual routine).

The powerful whir of the carpet cleaner hit my ears full blast as I stepped through the front door. A woman in a bright yellow T-shirt and cap—to match the van, of course—propelled the machine around the living room, the furniture pushed to the fringes, some pieces stacked atop others. If I had yelled bloody murder, she wouldn’t have noticed.

A glance into the kitchen revealed another woman at work in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, hair tucked under a kerchief and headphones plugged into her ears. Her compact body swayed as she mopped the tiled floor with great vigor.

Elvira, from Belle Meade’s Housekeeping department, I figured, by sheer process of elimination.

I began to tiptoe across the slick tiles, trying to get her attention, when she saw me and threw up a hand like a traffic cop.

So I stopped, where I was, but I was far enough into the room to earn a disapproving frown.

She peeled off the headphones, leaned on the mop, and shouted above the carpet machine’s din, “What d’you want? You looking for someone?”

“Woman with black hair and glasses,” I yelled back. “Her name is Miriam.”

“Who?”

“
Miriam Ferguson
,” I bellowed.

“Ah!” She hooked a thumb. “Upstairs!”

I nodded, started to say, “Thank you,” but she put her headphones back on and resumed attacking the floor with her O-Cedar.

The cap-wearing carpet cleaner didn’t even glance at me as I raced up the steps, eager to escape the din.

I found Cissy quite easily this time without having to stick my nose into any strange bathrooms or closets. After spotting her from the hallway, I slipped into the room she occupied and shut the door behind me, noting only the vague hum of machinery beyond. It was blissful. I could finally hear myself think.

Cissy didn’t look up as I entered, neither did she flinch as the door clicked closed. She seemed to be somewhere else entirely (as she had a lot these past few days).

She stood in the center of the master bedroom, surrounded by brown packing boxes; chin hanging down, she crushed a black dress against a garish—doubtless, borrowed—cheetah-print blouse, holding on for dear life.

“Mother,” I said, so as not to startle her. “Can I help?”

As soon as she lifted her head with that black bouffant wig and saw me through her cat’s-eye specs, she quickly composed herself and carefully folded the dress, setting it down in the nearest box.

“Good morning, sweetie. No, no, I’m making good progress. Just packing up Sarah Lee’s things for her sister. She wants them shipped to South Dakota. Annabelle said she’d send a volunteer to help. There’s so much more to do than I thought when I promised Margery.”

“So much for detecting, huh?” I teased.

“Well, I did bag up those mugs from her kitchen before Elvira could get to them,” she informed me. “So that evidence is safe in my satchel.”

“Good thinking.” Though I wondered how she thought anyone would get prints or residue off them when they’d been washed already.

“I just never imagined how large Sarah Lee’s wardrobe would be, when she donated a truckload to the Welfare to Work program before she moved into Belle Meade. I wonder what her sister will do with it all.”

I watched her lift a shimmering beaded gown on its hanger from atop a pile on the bed. “Oh, how she loved this Bob Mackie”—Mother smiled, as if remembering a private moment—“said it made her feel like a showgirl.”

“Can’t imagine Mrs. Fleck will have much cause to wear Bob Mackie in Sioux Falls.”

“It’s Flax, sweetie, and she lives in Bison, not Sioux Falls.”

“My point exactly.”

“It’s just a shame. It really is.” She sighed, adding the gown to the box she’d been working on. Then she put her hands on hips wrapped snug inside a pair of black jeans. The denim cuffs were tucked into those awful lizard boots littered with rhinestones. Had my old drama teacher Mrs. Coogan found those at Tammy Faye Bakker’s yard sale?

Egads.

Stranger still, was seeing my mother in denim. I can’t remember her ever donning a pair before, and I had a feeling I wouldn’t ever again after this. I wish I’d brought my camera. I could always use the photos as leverage the next time she tried to twist my arm into doing something I didn’t want to do.

“Did you find anything else about Mrs. Sewell’s involvement with Two Hearts?” I asked to distract her.

“I’m sorry, Andrea,” she apologized, “but I haven’t yet had a moment to look for any papers. I’ve been so preoccupied with
this
.” She indicated the mess around her. It did look as though a bomb filled with couture had exploded. “Thank heavens Sarah’s good jewelry and her best silver were stored in a safe deposit box at the bank. I’d hate to be responsible for that, too.”

“Don’t worry about Sarah Lee’s papers from the matchmaker,” I told her. “I don’t think it matters.”

“How do you mean?”

“Because of what I found on Bebe’s hard drive”—I drew my bag off my shoulder and sifted through the contents to find what I needed—“check out this.” Once I dislodged the photos and letter I’d printed off Bebe’s computer, I wove through the maze of boxes to hand them over.

The closer I got, the more she tipped her head and got squinty. “Darling, what’s that on your face?” She actually wet her thumb and reached out to rub my cheek.

Gross, a spit bath!

Did she think I was three years old or something?

“It’s ink, geez! It’ll come off in a few days.” I brushed away her touch, pushing the papers at her. “There were only three matches for Mrs. Kent that I could find. It should be easy enough to figure out if any one of them saw Mrs. Sewell as well. Their phone numbers are right on that letter. See?”

“Brilliant!” she said, forgetting about the smudge on my face as she took the pages and went back to the bed, sitting down amidst the contents of Sarah Lee’s emptied closet. “Oh, my, oh, my,” she murmured, and I watched the expressions shift on her face as she read the men’s biographies. She chuckled softly when she got to the photographs. “I can’t believe Bebe dated this one”—she pointed to the bald Mr. Andrews who used to play football—“he looks like her old butler, Nigel, who eloped to Vegas with the cook not long after Homer died. Bebe wanted to strangle him for stealing away the best personal chef she’d ever had.”

“Ah, a case where the butler
did
do it,” I said to myself.

Mother blinked. “What’s that, sweetie?”

“Nothing.” I felt like Mrs. Pinkston talking to her plants. “Look, I’ll leave the
tres hombres
to you, all right? I’ve got a few things to look into this afternoon.”

“You do?” She blinked her magnified eyes, seeming pleased by my statement. “Well, that’s wonderful, darling. Yes, I’ll take charge of investigating our suspects, once I’ve gotten help sorting through the rest of Sarah Lee’s closet.”

Our suspects
, huh?

Whatever made her happy.

I wasn’t about to admit that I didn’t think any of the Three Hearts bachelors had a fig to do with her friends’ deaths and send her high hopes crashing like the
Hindenberg
. It was good to see her smile, so what did it hurt?

“How about I meet you back at Bebe’s house for lunch?” I suggested. “One o’clock all right? I don’t have a key to the place, so you’ll have to let me in.”

“Oh, sweetie, get one from Annabelle this morning.” She removed the black glasses to rub the bridge of her nose. “Because I might be here all day,” she told me. “Depending on what gets done. I know I should be focused on my undercover work, but I did promise Sarah Lee’s sister, and I can’t go back on my word.”

“Why don’t you call my cell whenever you’re ready to take a break. I can come pick you up.” I didn’t want her wandering around the grounds alone, but I wasn’t about to say that to her.

Cissy nodded. “Yes, I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

“Then I’m off to the library,” I said, grabbing my purse and hearing the rattle of pills in tiny bottles—the bag from Bebe’s house—that I’d promised to drop off later at the pharmacy. Which got me to thinking I should pick up Sarah Lee’s leftovers as long as I was here, save Patsy the trip. “Does Mrs. Flax want her sister’s prescription meds?” I asked Mother. “Because Dr. Finch’s wife, who’s the pharmacist, usually collects them. She was by Bebe’s this morning and brought up the subject.”

Among other things.

“No, I’m sure Margery doesn’t care what happens to Sarah Lee’s old drugs. The only things she’d like from the bath are the linens.” Mother slipped her glasses back on. “Go ahead and take them.”

So I stepped over to Mrs. Sewell’s bathroom and switched on the lights. As I tentatively approached the marble-topped vanity, I caught a whiff of rosewater and talc.

It was disconcerting, the way bits and pieces of a life stayed behind, well after someone had gone. I could still stand in my father’s study, draw in a deep breath, and smell his Cuban cigars. Maybe it was a way of reminding us they weren’t so far away after all.

Forgive me, Mrs. Sewell
, I thought, before I pulled open the mirrored cabinet and added her cache of goodies to Mrs. Kent’s. The plastic bag barely held all the labeled vials and bottles, but I managed to zip the thing closed and shove it back in my purse before I shut off the lights and ducked out.

“All right,” I told my mother, “I’m off.”

I pulled open the door and came face to face with Mabel Pinkston.

Her false-lashed eyes and sagging features cheered when she realized who I was. A grin twitched on her rouged lips.

“Hello, Andy,” she said, hands clasped at her belly, below the appliquéd teddy bear on her long-sleeved pink shirt. Pink tennis shoes poked out beneath the hem of her tan slacks. She was really into this “pink for Pinkston” thing. “What a pleasant surprise to see you. Were you helping your aunt? Annabelle sent me over, thinking Miriam was at it all alone.”

“I just dropped by for a minute.” I glanced back at Cissy, who I saw quickly hiding the papers I’d given her beneath a stack of clothes on the bed. “You caught me leaving,” I said, easing myself—and my bulging bag—past her, afraid she’d try to convince me to stick around and pack boxes all the livelong day. “Go on in. You girls have fun,” I called in parting, before I left Mabel to Mother.

At least Cissy would have someone with her, which made me feel a whole lot better—and less guilty—about dashing off to the main house.

I took the stairs down two-by-two and skipped over the black tube in the doorway, not decelerating until my butt was in the driver’s seat of my Wrangler.

Then I followed a pack of three-wheeled scooters going two miles an hour over to the Manor House. Before I got inside, I remembered to put on my name badge, and I used my keycard to get in without having to intercom Annabelle.

Since I hadn’t exactly studied the brochures with the map, I paid careful attention to signs and arrows, managing to make my way to the library without having to ask for help. (Yes, I was proud of myself.)