Too Pretty to Die (5 page)

“Why don’t you call one of Miranda’s friends?” my mother suggested, and I groaned.

“That’d be great, if she had any pals after tonight,” I said. “No one wanted anything to do with her after she took a potshot at Dr. Sonja and hit the Picasso instead. What’s even more shocking is that Miranda’s not sleeping it off in a jail cell.”

“Oh, dear, yes, she’s very fortunate indeed”—my mother sniffed—“if anyone had put a bullet in my Picasso I’d have them arrested in a blink. Unless it was one of his napkin doodles, which aren’t worth the price of framing, if you ask me.”

Which I hadn’t.

“It wasn’t a napkin doodle, and besides, it only damaged the frame. The sketch is just fine,” I said, and realized I was basically making excuses for a crazy woman whom I’d never even liked. Ah, well, someone had to do it, right? “I don’t imagine anyone really believes Miranda wanted to kill the good doctor.” Not on purpose, anyway. “She just needed to release some steam.”

Some people did yoga. Some got drunk and threatened their cosmetic dermatologists with loaded .22s.

“Why don’t you stay with her, Andrea?” the Ann Landers of Beverly Drive advised, and I sat upright in the pink seat, about to howl in protest. Before I had a chance to put the kibosh on that swell idea, she continued, “Or better yet, bring her here. Sandy and I can look out after her, at least for one night. The poor girl sounds like she could use a little mothering.”

Smothering
sounded more like it.

Sandy Beck was my mother’s personal secretary and had been with her for as long as I’d been alive. Sandy had her own suite in the house on Beverly and pretty much supervised operations there, and I knew Cissy would rather die than do without her. As would I, since Sandy was as much a part of my family as any blood relation.

Miranda might benefit from Sandy’s homemade pancakes in the morning; if she could keep them down.

“Stephen’s just about finished with the rod, and then he’s leaving, so anytime you want to come by with Miranda is fine. So long as it’s soon. I’ll likely make it through the ten o’clock news and then it’s lights out.”

It was a lovely idea and very generous, and I nearly accepted, just to give her a kick. More often than not her cockamamie schemes had me rolling my eyes. Well, come on now, who would’ve ever truly thought that cockroach races would be such a hit as a fund-raiser? Okay, besides the Orkin man, waiting at the finish line.

Only I couldn’t imagine how I’d get Miranda back into the Jeep, when it had taken every ounce of strength I had to bring her inside.

Oy.

So I weighed Cissy’s suggestion, making a decision fairly quickly.

Miranda wasn’t going anywhere.

Really, she wasn’t.

She was passed out, drooling on the sofa cushion, dead to the world.

Did she truly require adult supervision while she slept?

Because I’d rather bunk with Brian Malone if I had a choice. We didn’t spend nearly enough time together as it was, and each moment we could was too precious to squander, particularly on a woman who was more longtime acquaintance than lifelong pal. I didn’t feel like I owed Miranda any more than a safe ride home and a few kind words, or was that selfish of me?

“Andrea, dearest, I’m sure Miranda will be perfectly safe in her own home,” my mother assured me, echoing my own thoughts.

So that settled it.

“She’s definitely out cold,” I said, “and I figure she’ll stay that way for a good eight hours. I’ll make sure the doors are locked then I’m heading to the condo. Oh,” I added, “thanks for the nice offer, though.”

“You’re welcome, sweet pea.”

Miranda let loose a few rip-roaring snorts and curled into the fetal position beneath the fuzzy afghan, and I added, “I’ll come by and check on her first thing in the morning.”

“How did you ever get so soft-hearted, Andrea, really?” But it was said with kindness, uttered gently.

“I must’ve inherited that from my mother,” I quipped, hearing her laughter before I told her “Good-bye” and hung up.

It was nine-thirty, I realized, looking at the time on my cell before I stowed it away inside my purse. I had no reason to linger, did I? Not with Miranda snoring on the sofa, looking peaceful as a baby.

I did a quick tour of the first floor, jiggling all the doorknobs and giving the windows the once-over to make sure the house was secure. I shut off all but the kitchen lights, leaving Miranda a note on the granite counter, telling her I’d be back tomorrow and asking her to call my cell if she woke up alone and wanted someone to talk to (since she likely wouldn’t be able to ring her mother in Brazil).

Then I let myself out, making sure the lock on the knob clicked, as I had no key to turn the dead bolt. I gave the duplex once last glance, telling myself Miranda would be just fine. I highly doubted she’d take another potshot at Dr. Sonja that night. She didn’t even have her gun, right?

So what could possibly go wrong?

Feeling better at the thought, I started up the Jeep and drove home, to my own bed, and to Malone.

I
t wasn’t the sun that woke me, nor an alarm clock, just a heavy sense of obligation knotted in my gut.

After I’d forced my mind awake, I remembered what that obligation was.

Miranda DuBois.

I closed my eyes again, wishing I could forget.

Because, really, did I
want
to get up first thing on a Saturday morning to head back to Miranda DuBois’s place, when I could have stayed beneath the covers snuggled up beside my sweetie, listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing and thinking how earnest he looked with his eyes closed and lips parted, brown hair tousled around his sleeping face?

If I answered “Hell, no,” would that sound shocking?

Did that make me suddenly coldhearted and less the compassionate marshmallow who rescued stray pets and gun-toting beauty queens?

If it did, it was way too early in the day—and I was way too crabby—to worry.

With a grunt, I swung my legs to the side of the bed and deposited my bare feet on the floor, shuffling groggily toward the bathroom.

I hurriedly pulled myself together, nixing a shower and slipping into my sweats. I brushed my hair, scrubbed my face, and put in contacts so I could see a fair piece beyond my nose.

After I’d tracked down my keys and grabbed my cell, I was ready to go. Five minutes in all, and I hadn’t woken up Malone.

Not bad.

I thought about writing Brian a note, but figured I’d be back before he cracked a lid. Heck, it was just 7:30
A.M.
, according to the mantel clock, an ungodly hour for normal folks to get up on a weekend. He’d had a deposition until fairly late last night—which is why I’d gone out with Janet—and needed all the shut-eye he could get.

If I was lucky, I could crawl back in bed with him and catch a few more winks myself after I’d run this morning’s errand.

Once in the Jeep, I turned on the radio to wake myself up, yawning all the while. I passed a smattering of other cars on my way south to Miranda’s—and my mother’s—turf of Highland Park. Correction: they weren’t cars so much as those Urban Assault Vehicles, as Malone liked to call them; mammoth SUVs that guzzled gas and usually had only one occupant instead of the armies they could hold.

I missed the good old days, when cars were cars, and my Wrangler could see over all of them.

As the sun teased the treetops, sending dappled light dancing off my windshield, I tried to better my frame of mind, not wanting my trudge down to the Park Cities to muddy the rest of my day.

So I focused on the pleasant things: the colorful mums and petunias planted along the landscape; the plentiful garage sale signs; and the slow turn of leaves from green to reds and umbers. I even cracked my window to allow in the early November air. Crisp enough to warrant a sweatshirt, but not downright chilly. The kind of weather I loved best and didn’t get for long in Texas. Even less these days with global warming threatening to drag our Indian summers into winter.

The joggers and dog walkers were out in full force, and all seemed rather ordinary for a typical Saturday morning.

And that was fine with me.

I had enough craziness in my life to appreciate the quiet when I could find it, which was never enough. Maybe it just had to do with getting older, but I dwelled less on grandiose dreams and more on the here and now: on the people I loved who loved me back, on doing what made me happy. The rest was like fat on a T-bone. It might give the meat flavor, but you weren’t missing squat when you cut it away.

I was singing along—loudly and out of tune—with Geddy Lee and Rush as I neared the Dallas Country Club. Miranda’s place wasn’t far, though it might take a bit longer to get there than I’d imagined.

Spotting congestion ahead, I slowed the Jeep to a crawl. From the look of things, there’d been an accident, as several Highland Park police cars sat cattywampus on the street, bubble lights rolling.

Had a pedestrian been struck? Or had someone’s pet run into traffic and gotten clobbered by the grill of a Beemer?

Ugh.

My voice caught in my throat, putting an end to my dreadful rendition of “Fly by Night,” and I switched the radio off.

People drove so damned fast these days, and those humongous SUVs plowed through neighborhoods like tanks. It was even worse when the driver from Hell had a cell phone in one hand and an Evian in the other.

Yeesh.

Rolling the window all the way down, I stuck my head out to better see. I didn’t spot an ambulance or fire truck, so I hoped whatever had happened wasn’t fatal.

Cars approaching from both directions stopped at the bottleneck, though a gesticulating cop did his darnedest to keep traffic moving.

I figured it wouldn’t do much good to try to drive any closer to Miranda’s. So I aimed for a place on a side street, doing a passable job parallel parking the Jeep. Walking a few blocks would hardly kill me.

My cell and keys squirreled away in the pockets of my zip-up sweatshirt, I headed toward the police cars, noting how neighbors had begun to congregate on the lawn in front of Miranda’s duplex.

What the devil was going on? I wondered, picking up my pace.

My stomach pitched as I had a terrible thought: Dr. Sonja had decided to press charges after all, and the police had trotted over bright and early to make an arrest.

And, selfish me, I’d ditched a depressed and boozed-up Miranda, leaving her to fend for herself.

Oy vey.

Talk about guilt.

If I’d felt any more like a heel, I’d have been glued to the sole of one of Mother’s Stuart Weitzmans.

I quickened my steps, imagining the cops were about to drag Miranda down to the station to book her for attempted murder, or at least aggravated assault on a Picasso.

I prayed that wasn’t it. Miranda DuBois was tough, but she was no Martha Stewart. She’d been raised on Egyptian cotton sheets, weekly mani/pedis, and five course meals. She couldn’t survive two weeks in Camp Cupcake, much less a life sentence in maximum security.

Another thought came to mind, and I glanced toward the curb and then the driveway alongside the duplex; but I saw no sign of Miranda’s Jaguar.

I almost wished it had been there, maybe backed into a tree. Though I guessed Delaney Armstrong hadn’t had the chance to send a lackey over with it yet. Delaney probably didn’t awaken at seven-thirty on weekdays much less the weekend.

Rats, I mused, my hopes dashed, as I preferred to think a hung over Miranda had banged up her pricey automobile en route to Starbucks for her morning coffee as opposed to imagining her posing for her mug shot.

When I reached the sidewalk in front of the duplex, I forced my way between a white-haired man holding tight to a wriggling beagle and a woman in black Lycra with an iPod Nano banded to her forearm and tiny earphones looped around her neck.

From there I could see the door of Miranda’s duplex standing wide open and uniformed officers moving in and out.

Uh-oh
popped into my brain. Something clearly wasn’t right.

I wondered where Miranda was and if she was scared out of whatever wits she had left.

“What’s with the swarm of blue?” I asked, feeling like I’d wandered into a play where everyone knew the plot but me.

“I dunno,” Beagle Man offered. “I was out walking Waldo when I heard the sirens, but I haven’t seen anyone come out of the place. I’m betting it’s a burglary. We’ve had a few too many of ’em in these parts the past few weeks.”

Burglary
?

So all this brouhaha might be because a thief had broken into the duplex and made off with an armload of rhinestone tiaras while Miranda slept off the gin? Was I warped because that sounded better than picturing Hockaday’s “Most Likely to Shag Johnny Depp”—well, the title was unofficial—in prison stripes?

Call me a fair weather friend.

“Is Miranda okay?” I finally asked the pair on my either side, having seen no sign of Miranda.

“Who’s that?” Beagle Dude looked puzzled.

You mean there was an actual living and breathing male who didn’t watch “Five at Five”—the Channel 5 News at five o’clock—so he could check out the low-cut blouses that showcased Miranda’s infamous bosom?

God bless the ignorant.

“Miranda DuBois. She lives there.” I pointed at the open doorway, just as a familiar face appeared and glanced out.

The woman didn’t appear to notice me, but I recognized her quickly enough. She had the same salt-and-pepper hair cut boyishly short and wore a blue uniform and badge with a small brass name tag that read: DEPUTY DEAN.

Anna Dean, to be precise, deputy chief of the Highland Park police.

My throat closed up and a shiver zipped up my spine.

The last time I saw Deputy Dean was at my mother’s house, when a woman lay dead on Cissy’s Persian carpet.

Had death brought Deputy Dean to the duplex?

If so, I wished I’d stayed in bed.

Death wasn’t one of my favorite things to deal with, not first thing in the morning, and definitely not if it meant Miranda had been in jeopardy.

“Excuse me,” I said, my heartbeat twanging as I drew away from Beagle Man and Lycra Woman as the latter was explaining to the former, “Miranda DuBois’s the gal on the Channel 5 News who looks like that old movie star, only more stacked. . . .”