Too Pretty to Die (4 page)

That was the first chance I’d had to get a good look at Miranda’s tear-stained countenance. She was still slightly bruised and puffy around the eyes and mouth, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Her left eye had a chronic tic, and her mouth drooped noticeably on one side.

No wonder she’d been off the air for a couple weeks. Anchor babes were required to look perfect, even if their male sidekicks had receding hairlines and age spots as big as Australia.

What exactly had happened to Miranda? I’d wondered. Were the ill effects permanent? Could she ever return to TV?

And was Dr. Sonja truly to blame?

If so, why didn’t Miranda just sue her, instead of coming after her with a small caliber weapon in front of witnesses? For Pete’s sake, people sued over coffee that was too hot. Having your face screwed up by a dermatologist who played God with people’s exteriors would hardly be considered frivolous.

Still, we were in the great State of Texas, and some well-armed Texans thought with their trigger fingers instead of their common sense. Following that rationale, I could fathom why a beauty queen who’d lost that which was most precious to her—namely, her beauty—might go ballistic. It was the sort of scenario I could picture playing out in a TV reality show.

Only this was real life. Or as close to reality as life got in Big D.

Poor Miranda, I mused, as I glanced aside at the passenger seat of my Jeep, thankful to hear her loud snores, after listening to her cry for the first five minutes and moan about being too ugly to get a TV gig anywhere but Dog Bite, Alaska.

Was there really such a place
?

Part of me had wanted to slap her, telling her she was lucky she had all her limbs and her senses (well, except the one that would’ve helped her out most about then, namely the common type), and that folks with eye tics and mouth droops could live perfectly normal lives.

Though I knew I’d be wasting my breath.

Thankfully, after she nodded off I didn’t have to listen to her blubber about her disfigurement, nor did I need to make futile attempts at idle conversation. I mean, what did one talk about with a woman who’d just tried to shoot someone? Something like, “Hey, Miranda, did that OPI nail polish chip at all when you tried to mow down your dermatologist?” Or how about, “Is it harder to keep your balance when shooting a gun if you’re wearing Jimmy Choos?”

Stop it Andy
, I told myself.

I’m sure Miranda didn’t find anything about this evening remotely amusing.

She looked almost angelic with her blond head tilted back, her mouth wide open, blissfully passed out.

I wondered if she’d even remember what she’d done in the morning.

At least she wouldn’t be waking up in jail, I mused, figuring Miranda was lucky that Delaney Armstrong hadn’t called the police, luckier still that Dr. Madhavi hadn’t wanted to press charges, considering she’d been the target of Miranda’s tiny black .22. The only real damage was to the frame of a Picasso print hanging above the fireplace mantel . . . and to Miranda’s reputation.

Though I begged Janet Graham to be kind to Miranda in whatever ink she splashed across the
Park Cities Press
, I had no doubt my friend’s mind was already at work, mentally penning a juicy column headlined in bold with something notorious, like: Pageant Princess Plugs Picasso at Pretty Party!

The rest of the party guests hadn’t seemed frazzled so much as titillated.

If we were anywhere but Texas, the sight of a firearm might’ve inspired swoons and heart attacks, though I’d wager half the women in the room owned a pistol and knew how to use it. I knew for a fact that Delaney Armstrong used to go hunting with her daddy and had bagged a twelve-point buck when she was still in a training bra.

Carrying concealed was almost as common these days for Dallas ladies as carrying concealer. “Don’t leave home without it” didn’t mean your American Express card. No, siree, Bob. It meant your Smith & Wesson, baby.

Though I don’t think I’ve ever been to a private party where anyone had been shot at before.

Oh, wait, except for Dina Willner’s birthday in fourth grade when her brother and his friends played Commando Ninjas and popped out of the bushes, tossing Japanese throwing stars at us girls as we rode in circles on rented ponies. I wasn’t the only one who had emerged with at least one black eye.

Speaking of black eyes—the metaphorical kind—I gently shook Miranda’s shoulder and told her, “Wake up, we’re here.”

She grunted, then let out a cat-sized yawn.

I had parked smack in front of Miranda’s duplex, and noticed that the windows were lit and her garage door wide open. I wondered if she’d even had the presence of mind to lock up before she’d torn over to Delaney’s and parked her Jaguar cock-eyed: half on the driveway and half on the lawn.

I found my answer soon enough, as I pried Miranda down from the Jeep’s passenger seat and maneuvered her toward the door.

Funny how a 110-pound woman (max) could feel like a ton of bricks when you were propping up every ounce of her and dragging her forward. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get her inside without dropping her on the sidewalk, though somehow we made it.

Lo and behold, the front door wasn’t locked—thank God, because I’d left Miranda’s keys with Delaney—so I flung it wide and drew a staggering Miranda through it. I guessed the bedrooms were upstairs, but had no desire to push or pull Miranda up the steps.

So I propelled her as far as the powder-puff-pink living room and plunked her down on the sofa, where she collapsed like a spineless jellyfish.

I eased off her pink blazer and propped her up with pillows, urging her to stay conscious until I could get her to swallow two aspirin and a little water. That had been the cure-all for hangovers during my college days, though I won’t claim it was a sure-fire remedy. Besides, I didn’t know how to make coffee, and I didn’t figure that caffeine would be the best thing for Miranda at this point. I wanted her to sleep it off, not stay awake all night, beating herself up for losing it in front of a dozen of the Park Cities’ mouthiest females.

When I was done with my Florence Nightingale routine, Miranda looked at me, her eyes fluttering—well, the one eye did that nervous tic—then grabbed my hand and started babbling.

“If I’d really wanted t’do it, I could have,” she confessed, slurring the words, and I squatted down closer to listen. “I could’ve nailed her in the heart, if she had one.” She paused to lick her lips, and I noticed again the droop of her mouth, like an upside-down sneer. “But I’m not gonna shoot bullets into her . . . or any of them. That’s not how I wan’ this to end.” She laughed, but her eyes welled with tears. “How does that go, somethin’ about how the truth will set you free? If I go down, I’m taking them with me. Then it’ll be all over, Andy. And I mean, all over. You’ll see.”

“Shhh,” I said. “Try to sleep, okay? You’ll feel better in the morning.”

My God, I sounded like my mother.

But she seemed to listen. She nodded groggily and shut her eyes, pushing her cheek into the sofa pillow.

I did my best maternal act and pulled a fuzzy throw around her, jostling her laptop in the process and causing the screen to glow with a photograph of Miranda and some faceless dude in a big-time clench, the sun setting behind them so they were little more than dark silhouettes.

But will he still love her tomorrow? I mused as I put the computer in sleep mode, which turned the monitor black.

I went around dousing enough of the lights so Miranda could resume snoring. If she could sleep this one off until morning, it would be best for everyone.

After I’d waited all of fifteen seconds for her to drop off, I phoned my mother, hating to ask her for any kind of favor, even if it wasn’t for me. It would mean that I owed her. And owing Cissy Blevins Kendricks was akin to indentured servitude. She’d call in her marker, and I’d end up peddling cookbooks in the Junior League’s booth at their Christmas bazaar.

Again.

I sucked it up, regardless, and hit her number on my cell phone’s speed dial.

She answered somewhat breathlessly after four absurdly long rings.

“Yes, yes, what is it?” came her familiar drawl, albeit sounding less than pleased to hear from me.

Heck, it was barely nine o’clock on a Friday night. Surely, I hadn’t awakened her. What grown-up went to bed before the evening news on the weekend? Maybe she wasn’t feeling well, I decided, though she’d looked just fine the other evening when Malone and I had gone out to dinner with her and Stephen—her former IRS agent and ex-Navy boyfriend.

“Mother? Are you all right?”

It sounded like she had to catch her breath before she told me, “Yes, dear, I’m fine and dandy. Just, ah, in the middle of something rather sticky.”

“Is Stephen there?” I took a guess.

“Why, yes, he is,” she said, and I heard a muffled noise (grunting?) on her end. “He’s assisting me with this little, ah, project, as a matter of fact. Hang on a minute.” The phone clattered, as if she’d dropped it, then I caught her advising, “Ah, no, no, darling, you’re too far to the left. Move it more to the right. Oh, yes, yes, perfect . . . right there. Now hammer it home.”

I couldn’t help wincing. “Um, Mother?” I tried, but she wasn’t listening.

“Yes, yes, that’s it! Glorious!” she cooed to someone other than me.

What the heck was going on
?

Heavens to Betsy, had my impeccably coiffed, Chanel-and-pearl-wearing mother just gotten down and dirty?

“Geez, um, you do sound busy, and I don’t want to be a bother,” I babbled, squishing my eyes closed to cleanse thoughts that had ventured into an icky place I didn’t want to go. “If you’re otherwise occupied, I can call back. . . .”

Because that’s exactly what I wanted to do. One more of her double entendres and I’d never be able to look her or Stephen in the eye again without blushing.

“What?” she piped up, finally tuning back in. “Oh, no, sweet pea, we’re almost done, although it was trickier than I’d imagined. I’m so out of practice, doing anything so hands-on.” I winced, afraid to hear more, but Cissy continued. “Particularly since Stephen’s drill ran out of juice, and he had to do the screwing manually—”

“Stop, please, stop,” I begged, not even wanting to know what that meant, though wilting flowers and Viagra came suddenly to mind.

I plunked down into a puffy pink chair, feeling like I was drowning in a sea of Pepto-Bismol; though I could probably have used some to settle my queasy stomach. First, I’d had to endure the Gun Fight at the Botox Corral, and then I’d been forced to listen to my mother as she and Stephen reenacted an unedited sex scene from
Cocoon
?

Help me, Rhonda.

“Andrea, you sound odd, dear”—Cissy sounded more her normal self—“whatever’s going on with you? Have you been drinking?”

Don’t I wish.

I cleared my throat—and rid my head of the nightmarish vision—and managed to squeak out, “I just wanted to ask you a favor. You see, I’m at Miranda DuBois’s duplex, and she’s in bad shape after she fired a gun at Dr. Sonja over at Delaney Armstrong’s, but if you and Stephen are busy—” Um, how did I put this? “—playing ‘hide the monkey wrench,’ I’ll figure things out by myself.”

“You’re at Miranda DuBois’s?” she asked, more akin to a gasp, as I imagined that was something she’d often wished to hear me say. She’d always wanted Miranda and me to be tight friends, the way that she and Miranda’s mother were. “What do you mean she shot at Dr. Sonja at Delaney’s? Did Delaney leave her off the guest list? Hell hath no fury like a woman snubbed.”

Close, but no cigar.

I sighed, about to explain further, when Mother sputtered out another question.

“Did you say ‘hide the monkey wrench’? For heaven’s sake.” She made those
tsk-tsk
noises that every mother does so well. “If you’re implying that Stephen and I were engaging in an act of intimacy when you called, you’re way out of line.”

“But—” I started, wanting to add,
You were the one babbling about Stephen’s drill and manually screwing
. But she didn’t let me finish.

“Goodness gracious, he was helping me put up a new curtain rod in the sun room, but his drill broke and he had to use the Phillips,” she explained, and not sounding at all happy at having to do it. “You young people today”—she sighed—“you have such one-track minds. Too much smut on MTV.”

“I don’t even watch MTV,” I said in my own defense, wanting desperately to get off the subject of rods and drills altogether. “Miranda DuBois,” I reminded her. “She’s passed out drunk and all alone, and I don’t want to leave her, not after the episode at Delaney’s. I was hoping you could phone her mother and get her over here. . . .”

“No can do,” Cissy said in Southern singsong.

No can do
?

Those were words I didn’t often hear from Her Highness of Highland Park, the woman I always thought could do
anything
. Was she being snippy because I’d jumped to the conclusion that she and Stephen had been canoodling?

“Mother, if you don’t want to help, just say so,” I ran off at the mouth, my cheeks flushed. “I’ll phone Mrs. Santos myself.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” Cissy said, “because she’s not home. She’s not even in the country. Debbie’s in Brazil, incommunicado, taking a two-month vacation. She’s at Club Suture. She needed some time to relax in the sun.”

Ah, Club Suture
.

The code for “having some work done.”

’Tis the season, I mused.

And Brazil was a hot spot for those wanting a face-lift, liposuction, rhinoplasty, or boob job on the QT. It ranked up there with Dallas and L.A., vying for rights to the title of “Plastic Surgery Capital of the World.”

If you were lucky, your Brazilian surgeon would give you a face-lift for half the cost of having it done in Big D; then he’d arrange for you to recuperate for a month afterward at a spa on a beach without the noise of TVs, laptops, or phones, being waited on hand and foot by dark-skinned boys in Speedo bikinis.

Those South Americans knew how to do it up right, I decided. If I were wrapped in gauze from head to toe, drinking liquid meals through a straw and too bruised to move, I’d at least want something nice to look at through my swollen peepers.