The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club (29 page)

“Where are you, Mother?” First things first.

“Still at Sarah Sewell’s, but I have to leave soon. Mabel said she’d stay and keep working so I can dash back to the house and freshen up.”

“Freshen up? For who?”

We’d mentioned having lunch, but surely she wasn’t this worked up about eating a sandwich with her daughter.

“What’s going on?” I pumped her.

“I’ve got a lunch date, sweetie . . . actually, two of them, and I haven’t much time. So would you rather I go alone, or would you like to come?”

“I have to drop off this stuff for Patsy at the pharmacy first,” I told her, “so if you can wait a few minutes . . .”

“Yes, yes, I’ll wait, because I’m thinking a chaperone’s a good idea,” she drawled, “after all, one of the men I’m meeting could very well be a homicidal maniac.”

I’m sorry, but I grinned despite myself.

My daddy was right. Life did go in circles. My mother had arranged so many blind dates from hell, fixing me up—often unwittingly—with the loser sons of her rich friends, and now she was finally getting hers, going out with men she thought could be serial killers.

Gas to drive Cissy to restaurant: Around two-fifty a gallon.

Payback: Priceless.

“H
ow does my hair look, darling?”

“It’s not your hair, Mother, it’s a wig.”

“But is it too big? I teased it up this morning and gave it a little extra oomph.” She put a hand to the black mushroom cloud atop her head, which I duly contemplated, figuring there was enough nesting material there for a small hawk to rest comfortably.

But I didn’t want her to be self-conscious about it. Besides, this was Texas, where larger than life was the rule, not the exception. I’d seen bigger hair on the cashiers at Tom Thumb. “It looks fine,” I said.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

I leaned back against the blue bench at the IHOP on Mockingbird Lane, Cissy across the table, nursing a cup of coffee while we waited for Bachelor Number One to arrive. Cissy had asked the waitress to pull up a chair, so we could keep an eye on the guy without either of us having to sit next to him.

Mother had allotted each gentleman twenty minutes, and it looked as though the first dude was already three minutes late. The way Cissy kept glancing at her watch, she wasn’t pleased.

I was merely enjoying the fact that my upscale mama had her butt planted on a bench upholstered in a man-made substance from which syrup and jelly could be easily expunged, a far cry from silk damask. It would likely be the first and last time I’d ever see Cissy Blevins Kendricks in such a plebian haunt. She’d already frowned disapprovingly at a baby in a highchair across the aisle that would spontaneously release the most ear-splitting shrieks. Like that never happened in the dining room at the Four Seasons.

“Who’s on first?” I asked to distract her.

“Thomas Walcher,” she said and not very happily.

“The whale watcher?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s on second?”

“My word, Andrea, but you sound like that old comedy sketch.”

Well, why not, when I felt like I was
in
a comedy sketch, sitting in the pancake house, playing chaperone to a woman who looked like a downsized Dame Edna.

“So who’s after the whale watcher?” I tried again.

“Stephen Lloyd Howard.”

“The IRS agent?”

“The
retired
IRS agent,” she corrected.

Which left a bachelor unaccounted for.

“What happened to the football player?”

“He declined my invitation for a meeting.” Mother sniffed, stirring more cream into her coffee, so I noticed her bare hands, free of all but her wedding and engagement rings. Maybe she’d snagged the QVC jewels on one too many of Sarah Lee’s gowns while packing. “Apparently, Mr. Andrews didn’t see a need to answer any questions about Bebe Kent, because he swore he’d never even met her. Said she stood him up last Wednesday, and he’d made reservations for dinner at Sevy’s Grill.”

“Nice,” I said, as it was an elegant spot for a blind date.

“Not so nice,” Mother finished, “as Mr. Andrews ended up eating his steak alone. He said the wait staff would vouch for him. He was there from eight o’clock until nearly ten, when he finished his apple pecan chimichanga.”

I sighed. “You called the restaurant, didn’t you?”

“
Mais oui
.” The French phrase seemed so out of place, coming from those burnt-umber lips. “They confirmed what he said. He didn’t leave until after dessert.”

Oh, boy. I knew where this was going.

I fiddled with the straw in my half-drunk orange juice, wishing I didn’t have to say this, but I did. “So you think someone else waylaid Bebe at her townhouse and that she didn’t show up for her date with Mr. Andrews because she was already dead, or at least entertaining her killer? Let’s not forget, she’d used the cheap wine glasses, so she couldn’t have liked whomever it was very much.”

“And your father didn’t think hiring a tutor for you when you were three would pay off,” Mother said dryly, and I stuck out my tongue.

She reached across the table to gently slap my hand, though I pulled it back fast enough to evade her . . . and in the process knocked the rest of my orange juice straight into my lap.

“Ah, geez.” I slid out of the bench, grabbing up the napkins to press them into my crotch, while Mother took a kerchief from her purse and dabbed it in water, offering help that looked almost obscene.

Which was when Bachelor Number One showed up, opportunely.

He cleared his throat, and we both stopped what we were doing.

“I’m Tom Walcher,” he said and looked us over, sweat popping out on his broad forehead. “Which one of you is Miriam?”

“She is.” I pointed to my bewigged Mother, who awkwardly smiled at her bow-tied suitor. “If you’ll excuse me.”

I slipped away, dashing off to the ladies’ room, where I spent a good ten minutes standing in front of the hand dryer, the warm air aimed at the wet spot on my jeans. It hardly earned me a glance from the two women who entered after.

You didn’t need cable TV anymore to see weird things.

By the time I was dry enough and had made my way back to the table, Mother sat alone.

“Where’d he go?”

“Home,” she said, matter of fact.

“What’d you do to him?” I asked as I slid back into the bench. “And where’d this come from?”

Mother must’ve ordered me another juice, because a fresh glass sat at my place, along with a recently delivered stack of pancakes dressed up with chocolate-chip eyes, a whipped-cream smile, and a maraschino-cherry nose.

“I told the waitress my little girl was hungry,” she said, explaining the food I hadn’t ordered. “As for Mr. Walcher”—her cheetah-printed shoulders shrugged—“he couldn’t have killed a fly, much less Bebe and Sarah Lee. When he’s not running the winery he co-owns in Grapevine, guess what he does?”

“Mystery conventions,” I recalled from his bio.

“Besides that.”

“I haven’t a clue,” I said, adding copious syrup to my fat stack of flapjacks before I shoveled in a forkful and mumbled with my mouth full, “raises orchids?”

She took a sip of coffee, and I wondered if she was working on the same cup she’d started with. “He founded a group that rescues horses about to be sent to the Alpo factory. Puts them out to pasture on some of the acreage he owns that doesn’t have soil fit for growing grapes. They call it ‘Save a Nag,’” she said.

“Of course they do.” Sounded like an organization to spare the lives of desperate housewives.

Mother sighed and did a watch-check. “Anyway, Mr. Howard should be along any moment. Let’s hope he shows more promise than the first gentleman.”

More promise in the homicidal maniac department
, I knew she meant, and I had to fight to keep from snorting orange juice through my nose. When I finally swallowed, I rubbed my sticky fingers on a paper napkin and told her, “Look, Mother, if it were as easy as
CSI
, everyone would be doing it.”

That didn’t wipe away her frown. “I did talk to Sarah Lee’s neighbor this morning. Helen something or other. I asked if she saw anything suspicious on Saturday night. She remembers taking her dog for a walk about eight o’clock, which was her usual routine, but everything was quiet, she said. Didn’t see a strange car in front of Sarah Lee’s place, or notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“Maybe the killer rode a bike and stashed it in the bushes.”

“Or else he parked the car elsewhere and walked.”

Something tugged at my brain, but I couldn’t shake it loose. Whatever it was, I’d realize it sooner or later. Usually later, like in the middle of the night when I’d shoot up in bed and find my answer. Only it was too late to ever share with anyone . . . except a barely conscious Malone.

“Oh, sweetie.” She sighed. “What if I’m on the wrong track?”

“You thinking about calling it quits?” I said, setting down my fork and sitting up straighter, feeling strangely ambivalent. “If you’re ready to go home, I’m sure Annabelle would understand.”

Hell, she’d be grateful as all get-out.

“That’s not what I meant!” The pointed toe of her boot nudged my shin. “I’ll just have to broaden my scope, consider other suspects, like the mailman or Elvira . . .”

“The housekeeper?”

“Well, she has a key to the residences, doesn’t she? And so many of those chemicals she cleans with could be lethal.” Her magnified eyes didn’t reveal fanaticism so much as desperation, which almost worried me more. “There’s always the meter reader and the exterminator.”

“The exterminator?”

How apropos.

I think she would’ve listed the carpet cleaner and the chimney sweep next if the tall, ginger-haired gentleman with the easy smile hadn’t come around the corner and made her lose her train of thought.

“Mrs. Ferguson?” he said, his eyes on Cissy. “I’m Stephen Howard. Your one o’clock appointment.”

He extended his hand, and she lifted hers, rather limply, I thought, as if she expected him to bend over and kiss it rather than shake it. Though shake it, he did.

“I’m Andrea,” I volunteered and stuck out my hand, too. His grip was firm and dry, which scored him at least a point. How I hated sweaty palms. “I’m Mrs. Ferguson’s, er, niece.”

“Is that right? Well, I’m pleased to meet you both.” Without prompting, he took a seat in the extra chair and drew it up to the table.

The waitress passed behind him, and he flagged her down. “Start me off with an iced tea, if you would.” He turned to Mother first, then to
moi
. “Can I offer either of you anything?”

I shook my head. “I’m good.”

Cissy slipped the black-rims from her nose and batted her overpainted eyes at him. “Why, since you’re takin’ charge, Mr. Howard, I’d appreciate an iced tea as well.”

The waitress waddled off, scribbling on her pad, and I settled back to watch Mother put her Mata Hari
mojo
into action.

She started off engaging him in pleasantries, with talk of the weather—“well, it’s the usual Indian summer, isn’t it?”—and how traffic had been coming over—“did you hit any of that awful construction driving in from Plano?”—all the while, surreptitiously scrutinizing the cut of his jib and the fit of his clothes.

The man wasn’t holding up too badly for a sixty-two-year-old, I had to admit, though gray had crept into his red hair and lines of age carved his sun-freckled skin.

If I didn’t know that “Miriam” was merely on the prowl for a killer, I’d say my mother found Stephen Howard attractive, the way she leaned toward him and smiled coyly, laughing a little too loudly when he joked about the sad state of his golf swing.

“I’m more into hunting and fishing than whacking a tiny ball around eighteen holes,” he confessed, which Mother seemed to find charming, judging by the google-eyed look on her face.

I, however, remained unimpressed, particularly when he went into a narrative about his last deer-hunting trip.

Killing Bambi for sport?

Blech.

My father had only shot at clay pigeons, and I had respected him for that. No real man needed to kill a living creature to prove he was macho.

So why was my mother acting all goofy over Stephen Howard’s meandering tale of the misadventures of tying a fourteen-point buck to the grill of a truck? Unless it was part of her plot to nail him for murdering Bebe and Sarah Lee, I certainly didn’t get it.

“So how big did you say your shotgun was, Mr. Howard?”

“Call me Stephen.”

“All right”—lashes batting—“Stephen.”

If they kept this up, I’d have to order a barf bag.

The tea arrived, and their scintillating discussion moved onto the merits of real sugar versus Sweet ’N Low.

“Aspartame gives me headaches,” Stephen declared, and Mother cooed, “Oh, goodness, me, too!”

I nearly choked. I’d witnessed my mother dumping
beaucoups
of Sweet ’N Low into her coffee not twenty minutes before.

Could she behave more like a teenager?
I covered my face with my hands, peeking through my fingers as though I were watching a scary movie.
My gosh, get to the point
, I wanted to holler.

Finally, Cissy did a quick Texas two step, dancing the conversation toward Bebe Kent and Sarah Lee Sewell, asking Mr. Howard dead-on about his meetings with them, when they’d occurred, where they’d gone, if anything unusual had happened.

She wasn’t throwing any Barbara Walters softballs, for sure.

I half-expected her to grab the dude by his collar and demand to know whether or not he’d poisoned the wine he’d shared with Bebe before sliding her into bed in her nightie . . . and if he’d done the same with Sarah Lee’s tea before she’d succumbed on her sofa, after leaving her lipstick on the tainted mug (which he’d then washed and left to dry on a dishtowel).

But Cissy didn’t get that far before Stephen Howard raised a finger and politely requested to cut in.

“You’d like to hear the details of my dates with your two friends?” he reiterated.

Mother nodded. “Yes, please.”

At which point her gentleman caller did a very odd thing.

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, a truly enigmatic grin on his face. “Well, before I kiss and tell, I have a question for you, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Ferguson.”