The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club (7 page)

Get it?
I was trying hard to erase the mental image of a bare-nekked Bebe dangling from a windowsill.

“Someone must’ve done this to her, don’t you see?” Cissy insisted and tugged at my sleeve. “It’s like someone’s sending me a sign, and I’ve got to follow the arrow, sugar, wherever it takes me.”

“What arrow?” Oh, man, I wasn’t in the mood for one of her conspiracy theories. Not even close. “See
what
?”

She blinked, bemused by my lack of empathy. So she slowed her drawl to halftime, as if I were a dimwit with an IQ to match my hardly significant bra size. “It couldn’t have happened the way Annabelle said it did. Bebe wouldn’t have gone to bed in anything but her birthday suit, not in her own home. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?” I asked, on cue, fighting the urge to groan.

“Someone else must’ve been there, and whoever it was must’ve wanted it to look like she’d gone peacefully, only she was pushed.” As if I didn’t get what she meant, she drew a finger across her throat.

Her words made me dizzy. What was she saying? That someone shut off Bebe’s lights—permanently—dressed her in a pretty nightgown, then covered up by neatly tucking her into bed?

Ah, geez
.

If only Mother were a drinker, I could write this one off.

Instead, I took a deep breath, wishing I’d gone to Bubba’s for fried chicken.

Here Cissy was, talking murder, and we hadn’t even had lunch yet.

“M
other, promise you won’t mention this to anyone else, okay? Let’s keep it between us for now, our little secret, please?”

Oliver Stone had nothing on Cissy.

She and her clubby
compadres
had a fondness for coming up with flaky conspiracy theories to pass the time between bridge hands, cake and coffee. Though usually silly beyond belief, once in a while they’d concoct a real doozy that had a pinch of merit. Like the idea that e-mails were a plot to eliminate the writing of proper thank-you notes. I’ll bet the Cranes—that’s the stationery Cranes—wouldn’t disagree.

“But, Andrea, how can we keep such a thing secret if there’s a killer on the lam?” she said matter-of-factly. “Shouldn’t people
know
so they can protect themselves? What if he should strike again?”

Protect themselves?

I figured the folks who lived here had more protection than some mob families. There were cameras at the end of the drive, at the front door of the “manor house,” as it was apparently called, and probably elsewhere on the grounds. They had Bob and Sam on patrol, and magnetic key cards to gain admittance to the main building. Did Mother want the residents to take up arms, like aging Rambos jacked-up on Centrum Silver?

“Andrea, are you listenin’ to me? Don’t I have a responsibility to share what I know is the truth?”

I gnawed on my bottom lip, wanting to choose my words carefully. There were plenty of times when Mother and I debated politics or fashion, but wrangling over a touchy subject like murder left me feeling terribly ill equipped.

“Consider this, okay?”
Oh, my, where to begin?
“If there was any proof at all that an actual psycho attacked Beatrice Kent, I’m sure Annabelle would have been the first to inform all the residents.”
And call in the National Guard
. “But there isn’t any evidence, you see? If there were signs of an intruder, the security people would’ve summoned the police. If Bebe hadn’t gone naturally, the staff doctor would’ve flagged it. So if you go around insinuating that a homicidal maniac dressed Bebe in her nightgown and tucked her into bed after doing away with her, you’ll totally freak everyone out, particularly Annabelle, who’s clearly still shaken.”

Mother seemed to be paying attention, so I pressed on. “You’re grieving for your friend, I know, and it’s hard to think straight when your heart is broken. But, you have to accept that Bebe’s gone, and you can’t bring her back. You need to let go. Don’t read more into things and make it worse. It’s not good for you. You’ll make yourself sick. So, pretty please, drop it,” I begged, all but down on my knees.

Besides, if Cissy ran around the reception, crying “murder,” one of the white coats might decide to zip her up in an unfashionable wraparound jacket with extralong sleeves, tossing in a free trip to the local hospital psych ward as a bonus gift, which might interfere with the busy fundraising season ahead.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

“Are you?”

“For the moment,” she said, hardly reassuring me, and resumed walking, past the shipwreck painting and toward the door that Annabelle had slipped through a moment before.

“Hey, hold on!” I had to do a little jig around her, stopping her just before the entrance to the dining hall. I held out my arms like a traffic cop, blocking her way, unwilling to go any farther unless she agreed. It had been a trying enough day already, and it wasn’t quite noon.

I hadn’t exactly gotten the go-sign from her that I’d needed, and I certainly didn’t want her to cause a scene at the reception, simply because she was on serious emotional overload and her mind was playing games with her common sense. Even in lesser moments, Mother tended toward the dramatic, making molehills into Greek tragedies; this morning, she’d cranked her paranoia into high gear.

And people told me that I had a vivid imagination.

Clearly, it was inherited.

“Promise me you’ll behave?” I asked again when she didn’t respond, merely skewered me with a piercing stare, her lips pulled taut. “Did you hear me, Mother? If you don’t swear you’ll put the kibosh on your
Twilight Zone
scenario about how Bebe died, I’ll march you out the front door and have Fredrik drive you home right this minute.”

“And will you count to ten in French and give me a time-out?”

“
Mu-ther
. Stop kidding around.”

“Don’t worry, Sparky, I’ll play nice,” she said dryly, shifting her gaze toward the dining room doors.

I was tempted to check her hands to see if she were crossing her fingers.

Why didn’t I believe her?

“All right.” I let out a breath, still uneasy, because my instincts were screaming that I should march her back out the front door and get her home pronto.

Bebe’s death had obviously discombobulated Cissy more than I’d imagined, and it troubled me, even scared me a little. She’d lost lifelong friends before, and it had knocked her for a loop each time; but she had never reacted like this. Never insisted one of them was liquidated.

If she didn’t regroup in a couple days, I might have to call Dr. Cooper and make an appointment for a physical. I didn’t want her making herself sick.

“Stick with me, will you, please?” I implored and caught her elbow as she brushed past me, heading toward the French doors. I wanted to keep her within shouting distance until we could leave. “We’ll only stay long enough for you to see the rest of your bridge buddies and get something to eat”—at least, I was getting something to eat—“then we’re out of here. Annabelle can give me a tour some other day.”

“For heaven’s sake, Andrea, I’ll stay as long as I want to stay. I’m not a child, I’m your mother.”

As if I could ever forget.

She brushed off my grasp. “And would you please stop talking to me this way. It’s condescending.”

“It’s for your own good,” I told her, and I meant it. She was behaving like a sixty-year-old with adult ADD.

“My,” she drawled, “but that sounds awfully familiar.”

“I’m just concerned about you.”

“Why on earth?” Her brows arched, and she gave her hair a toss, though her blond coif barely shifted. “Darling, I’m perfectly fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well”—she tugged on the cuffs of her jacket—“maybe I’m a wee bit tired after everything. This hasn’t been easy.”

Ah, there it was. She’d admitted all wasn’t right with her world. As long as I’d known her, she’d rarely confessed to any weakness, so this was encouraging. Perhaps she even realized how paranoid she was behaving.

Still, my brain was already making plans to accompany her back to the house on Beverly, feed her a Valium (or two), and put her down for an afternoon nap, leaving her under Sandy Beck’s watchful eye thereafter. I figured it’d just take some time for her to feel like herself again and get this silly idea of murder out of her system.

Murder.

The word prickled my short hairs.

I rubbed the tight tendons at the back of my neck, telling myself the very thought was preposterous.

Bebe Kent had been a serious player on the Dallas social scene for far too many years. Surely if there’d been any sign of foul play when Annabelle had discovered the woman in bed, dead to the world, she would’ve called the police. The doctor wouldn’t have signed the death certificate if everything wasn’t kosher, would he?

Uh-uh. No way. No how.

This wasn’t a TV show for the Lifetime cable channel. No physician in his right mind, in the real world, would risk losing his license—or going to prison—by falsifying information on a legal document, I consoled myself, nor would Annabelle conspire to commit any kind of crime that would put her reputation and her business on the line. Not unless she was aiming for professional suicide.

Somehow those thoughts reassured me.

Mother cleared her throat ever so delicately, drawing me back to our conversation. “Am I allowed to go, Warden,” she asked, “or do I need a pardon from the governor?”

And she considered
me
the smart aleck in the family?

“Be my guest,” I said, and stepped aside so she could walk past me, through the French doors. I was right behind her as she entered the dining room.

The zippy sound of swing swept through me, something along the lines of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” with Andrews Sisters harmonies and a bopping melody that had me itching to snap my fingers and tap my toes.

Not your typical mourning music
, I mused. It certainly wasn’t Mozart’s
Requiem
, but what did I know about postmemorial service etiquette? Considering my motto was “color outside the lines,” it was hardly my place to comment. I’d once joked to Malone that I wanted my own will to have a clause requiring that the entire song list of Def Leppard’s
Hysteria
be played at my send-off. But that kind of thing went right along with my debutante-dropout image, so it would hardly be shocking.

This reception was a tribute to the venerable Mrs. Beatrice Kent, so hearing swing seemed out of place. I would’ve expected something moody and baroque, like Handel or Beethoven. Maybe even Elvis singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Though Willie Nelson’s version would’ve worked, too (hey, this was Texas—country music
was
our blues).

“Does anyone need a refill of bubbly?” a high-pitched voice asked, rising above the music.

Champagne?

Okay, that did it. Suddenly, I was the one who felt totally discombobulated. I’d expected an air of solemnity at this reception, with lots of sober faces, like at the church, but I was way, way off.

Belle Meade’s tribute to Bebe was something else entirely.

I glanced around, having pictured black wreaths over mirrors, even black crepe paper dripping from the ceiling, sort of like Halloween without the orange.

But there was nothing somber about the dining room with its bright yellow drapes, Chinese patterned wallpaper, and blazing chandeliers that touched light upon silver place settings at the dozens of linen-clothed tables. Mirrors with carved gilded frames hung everywhere, adding the illusion of more space, so it felt as big as a ballroom. Wildflowers like the ones in the foyer, only scaled down from supersized, served as centerpieces for the tables and anchored the tremendous buffet set up smack in the midst of it all.

Color photographs of the woman I’d seen in the portrait at Highland Park Presby had been blown up and tacked to the walls, so that Beatrice Kent’s smiling countenance surrounded me, every which way I turned.

It was Bebe-palooza.

Out of nowhere, I heard laughter erupt from the buzz of voices, and my antennae went up. I had flashes of that
Mary Tyler Moore Show
episode where Mary has a laughing jag at the funeral of Chuckles the Clown. Well, people grieved in their own fashion, I rationalized, even if that fashion seemed a mite too perky for me.

Unless the group had been reading
Stress and the Single Girl
and had decided to embrace their anxiety with grins and guffaws.

Still. . . .

The Big Band soundtrack. The bubbly. The laughter. The bell-like clink of crystal. The colorful décor.

If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn it was a birthday party. Only the guest of honor wasn’t around to blow out the candles on the cake.

I scanned the dozens present and realized something else: not a person, beyond Mother and myself, was actually wearing black or gray. Annabelle was in navy, but the rest of the Belle Meade folks gathered in the dining hall wore breezy outfits in summer pastels and prints—I saw plenty of Lilly Pulitzer—though no white, of course, as it was after Labor Day and this was Dallas, not Miami. Of the paltry handful of men congregating with the overwhelmingly feminine crowd, one had donned a plaid shirt and kelly-green golf pants, like he’d strolled in off the fairway.

After the solemnity of the morning’s service, that seemed . . . I don’t know, too festive. Too cheery. Where were the tears? The glum faces?

“Stop looking so disapproving, Andrea,” Cissy scolded. “Bebe wanted a bash, not a wake. So that’s what she got. She lived a wonderful life, and that’s what we promised to celebrate. Now, go on and get some food, while I look for Sarah Lee and say ‘hello’ to some of the others I know from bridge.”

“So long as you tell me where you’re going, so I can keep tabs on you.”

“Keep tabs on me? Pish!” She sniffed. “Sweetie, I ran your daddy’s company for six years after his heart attack, until I sold it to a global giant in pharmaceuticals whose annual profits are larger than most countries’ gross national products, and I still sit on the board with some very high-powered gentlemen and hold my own very well, thank you very much.”