The Good Girl's Guide to Murder (17 page)

My right eyelid twitched.

Like the night hadn’t been long enough already
.

“It’s GHB,” I told her. “Not PHD.” Though, come to think of it, I had once gone out with a PhD whose tales of academe nearly rendered me unconscious.

“You sure it’s not GHP?”

“Yes, I’m sure. That’s my health insurance company.”

“GHB. Okay, yes.” She whispered like we were coconspirators. “I’ve seen warnings about it on TV. I even watched an A&E special about that Max Factor heir who went around sprinkling it in women’s drinks so he could”—she frowned—“have his way with them. All that money and not an ounce of charm.” She clicked tongue against teeth. “Such a waste of a trust fund.”

As if she wouldn’t have been matchmaking up a storm had the guy lived in Big D, at least before his mug shot appeared on
America’s Most Wanted
.

“I don’t trust Justin Gable, not as far as I can spit.” Mother was on a roll. “Marilee thinks Kendall’s jealous of her relationship with that boy, but what if Justin’s equally envious of Kendall? She stands to inherit when Mari goes. So perhaps Justin wanted to get the girl out of the way, so he could be first in line if anything happened to Mari?”

“You think Justin spiked the champagne . . . or whatever . . . so Kendall would be out of the picture for good?” It was hard to say without laughing. And people thought I had a vivid imagination. “Look, Mother, this isn’t an Agatha Christie novel. Regular people don’t do that kind of stuff.”

Not the people I knew.

“I am well aware of the difference between reality and fiction, thank you very much, Andrea.”

“You sure?”

I was tempted to remind her of a certain “Count Vladimir from Romania” whom she had entertained and introduced around on the party circuit last spring before he was arrested for fraud. Turns out he was a bankrupt day trader from Baton Rouge pulling a con.

Surprise, surprise.

“The world is a far different place than it used to be, so much more violent,” Mother said, a reminder of why I avoided watching the nightly news. “It’s enough to make you want to stay home with all the locks bolted and the alarm set.” Lines puckered around her mouth. “Why, last week, Buffy Winspear was robbed, for heaven’s sakes.”

“What?” I hadn’t seen that one coming. Buffy Winspear was a sixty-year-old perennial fundraising chairwoman who ran with Mother’s crowd, so the fact that she was victimized didn’t exactly put me at ease. “Geez, Mother, was she hurt?”

“She had the DVD player stolen right out of her Escalade while she was at Pilates.”

“Her Escalade?”

“Fresh off the lot and loaded.”

I struggled to keep my eyes from crossing.

Slowly, I exhaled. “Buffy’s
car
was burgled?”

“They broke a window, but they didn’t take anything else. Luckily, her Liberace CD collection was untouched.”

Luckily?

A tiny ache tweaked my temples.

“Listen to me, Andrea,” she said in a hushed voice. “Men are ruled by testosterone, not common sense or reason.”

Was she talking about Buffy’s burglar or Justin?

“They do things out of anger when they’re pushed too far, usually by a woman.”

I pressed my fingertips against the throbbing above my eyes.

“Think of that case in California, where that husband bought a boat, killed his pregnant wife, and dumped her into the bay. Fool claimed to be fishing on Christmas Eve.” She flipped her head. “Good Lord, who goes fishing on Christmas Eve? He should have said he was doing some last-minute shopping, because he surely couldn’t use golfing as an excuse. It’s what OJ told the police, so that alibi was taken.”

“Mother, you can’t copyright an alibi.”

“Just listen to me, Andrea.”

I gritted my teeth.

Good God.

Calgon, take me away. And make it ASAP
.

I
squished my eyes closed and opened them again.

Even took off my glasses and rubbed the lenses with the hem of my T-shirt. Pinched the bridge of my nose before I put them back on. Unfortunately, nothing had changed—Marilee was crying into Justin’s shoulder and Cissy was yapping about the shortcomings of homicidally inclined husbands, though at least the smudged fingerprint was gone from my peripheral view.

“You would have thought he’d learned from OJ, but he tried to run to Mexico with $10,000 in his pocket, his hair dyed blond, and with that awful beard. If he’d lain low, maybe someone besides his own poor misguided mother would have believed him. Good heavens, Andrea, have you paid attention to a word I’ve said in the last five minutes?”

My eyes had glazed over, so numbing was her monologue. If I never heard another word about OJ—other than the indisputably innocent breakfast juice—I could die a happy woman.

Cissy cocked her head and stared at me. “Sweetie, you don’t look well. Perhaps you should sit down.”

If I didn’t look well, it was because I felt like a zombie. Too much bombardment of external sensation and not enough chance to absorb it.

“Come along.” She took my arm and led me back to the chair with the blue vinyl cushion. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure sweep past us and charge up to the nurses’ station.

A trim fellow in khakis and a Polo tee, brown hair curling at the collar.

He leaned against the counter and rattled off quite plainly to a ponytailed woman in scrubs, “I was told the victim from the Addison fire was transferred to a room on this floor. I think it might be someone I know . . .”

Even if I hadn’t heard his voice, I would’ve recognized that backside. Like an in-season plum, small but firm.

“Brian?” I called out, getting to my feet, despite Mother’s attempts to keep me glued to the chair. “Hey, Malone?” I tried again and, this time, he turned around, giving me a full frontal of the concern on his bespectacled face.

He rushed over with all the eagerness of a puppy whose owner has returned from an extended vacation. “Oh, my God, I was so worried,” he said, grabbing my arms and pulling me close. His chin caught my glasses, knocking them askew.

Grace was not his forte any more than it was mine.

“I saw on the news about the fire at the studio,” he went on in a rush. “They mentioned a woman being transported to Medical City by ambulance, and I tried to call your cell. Then I tried your condo. When you didn’t answer either phone, I panicked.”

“I’m okay,” I assured him as he rubbed his hands over my shoulders. “It wasn’t me. It was Marilee’s daughter, Kendall.”

“I’m so relieved I could kiss you.”

“So, what’s stopping you?” I quietly asked.

He caught his hand at the nape of my neck and bent toward me, his mouth on a direct trajectory to mine.

Mother cleared her throat.

A foghorn could not have given off a louder warning.

Abort, abort
.

Abruptly his lips changed course and landed on my forehead. He clumsily patted my arms before stepping back to introduce a couple feet between us. He brushed his palms on his trousers and uttered, “Uh, hello, Mrs. Kendricks. How’re you doing, ma’am? I’m sorry, but I didn’t see you there.”

I straightened the glasses on my nose and frowned, finding it hard to believe that a man who spent his days learning the ropes as a defense attorney for one of the most powerful firms in Dallas could be so cowed by a woman wearing size-six Chanel.

It’s not as though she was packing heat. The only concealed weapon she carried was a Charles of the Ritz touch-up stick. Though she did carry a good deal of weight with his bosses, which might well account for his awkwardness around her.

“I’m sorely offended by your remark, Mr. Malone. Didn’t see me, hmm? And with me dressed to the nines. Perhaps you ought to have your vision checked. You may require a stronger prescription,” Cissy said, sounding miffed.

I could tell she was toying with him, but I’m not sure it was all that clear to Brian.

This was her “alpha belle” routine, a test she put each man through with the balls to date me, which doubtless had something to do with my still being single.

Brian ran a finger under the collar of his shirt, eyes bugging at me, pleading silently for help.

Unfortunately, I was running low on ammo at the moment, so I did what I could, which amounted to giving my mother the evil eye. For all the good it would do. At this point in our lives, she was used to my dirty looks.

Footsteps sounded on the floor, and a sturdy female in a white coat strode into the waiting room. She clutched a rather substantial manila folder in her right hand. A badge was clipped to her breast pocket, and a stethoscope coiled around her neck. The overhead fluorescents lent a yellow tinge to cocoa brown skin, but otherwise her attractive features appeared rather stoic. She looked cool and composed in contrast to the frazzled state of everyone else in the room.

She also looked vaguely familiar, though I didn’t know why.

“Mrs. Mabry?” she asked, glancing about the room with dark eyes. For a moment, her gaze settled on my mother, and her mouth parted slightly.

Cissy nodded.

What was that about?

“Over here.” Marilee quickly rose to her feet, Justin propping her up with his hand beneath her elbow. “I’m Marilee Mabry,” she said. “How is Kendall, Doctor . . .?”

“Taylor.”

“Dr. Taylor, yes, where is Kendall? What’s going on? When can I see her?”

“Perhaps you’d like to talk privately,” Dr. Taylor suggested, the cue all too clear to me. “I can find an empty room.”

I gently prodded my mother, thinking we should go. “C’mon, let’s go check out the vending machine,” I said, though Cissy didn’t budge an inch.

“Would you like us to leave, Mari?” my mother asked.

“No, no, please, stay,” she said, then faced the doctor again. “I want them here, if you don’t object. They’re as close to family as I’ve got.” She clutched at Justin, and her eyes moistened. Her mascara had further smeared after her latest histrionics, giving her the appearance of a rabid raccoon. “So, you may talk freely about my daughter. Will she be all right? Did you find out what caused her to pass out? Where is she?”

“Let’s take it one issue at a time, Mrs. Mabry.” The doctor raised a pink-palmed hand. “First off, your daughter’s on her way up as we speak. Her vital signs are weak but stable, and she is conscious, though she’ll be extremely groggy when you see her. I won’t allow visiting for long. She needs to rest. She’s had a rough evening.”

Marilee nodded. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

“As far as what happened”—Dr. Taylor crossed her arms over the manila file, her brow crinkling beneath tight brown curls—“we’re still piecing that together. I’m hoping you all can help us figure out some of the puzzle.” She glanced our way again. “Are you certain you want me speaking openly? There are privacy rules that I’m supposed to follow . . .”

Mother sniffed. “Here we go again.”

“I don’t give a damn about the rules!” Marilee bristled, clutching her hands to fists. “For God’s sake, get to the point. What’s wrong with my child? Why did she collapse?”

The ponytailed woman in scrubs watched from the nurses’ station. She picked up a telephone receiver then put it down again.

“Let’s start with Kendall’s medical history, or at least what we have from the records available,” Dr. Taylor resumed in a soft, controlled tone. “Though it doesn’t appear she’s been seen here recently, she was examined in the past by several different specialists—most notably, a psychiatrist, a podiatrist, and a gastroenterologist—at this facility. We don’t have all the notes at our disposal, but we have enough.” She paused, pursing her lips, before she went on. “There are well-healed scars at her wrists which indicate a suicide attempt . . .”

“That was years ago,” Marilee cut her off, sounding tearful. “Kendall was out of control then, torn apart by the divorce and feeling neglected. She only wanted my attention.”

Scars at her wrists
.

My God.

I pressed my eyes closed and envisioned the silver bracelets lined up on Kendall’s forearms. Put there to hide the evidence of a failed suicide attempt? I never saw her without rows of bracelets, wrapped around her like Slinkies, and now I knew why.

“My daughter has not tried anything of the sort since,” Marilee insisted. “So I won’t believe it if you tell me that’s what this episode was. She’s thrilled about my show. She loves being at the studio. She’s as happy as she’s ever been.”

Thrilled? Happy?

Kendall?

I considered the young woman with whom I’d argued in Marilee’s office. “Thrilled” and “happy” were definitely not words I’d use to describe her. I could think of others that suited her better: sullen, moody, confused, and manipulative.

“Hold on a minute, Mrs. Mabry. I’m not implying that Kendall’s collapse was self-inflicted, perhaps not intentionally. Please, bear with me.” The doctor shifted on her sensible pumps, gripping Kendall’s records with both hands. “The notes show that your daughter was diagnosed with depression and an eating disorder . . .”

“Again in the past,” Marilee interjected. “She’s cured of those.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Doctor, really.”

I rolled my eyes, wondering how a mother could think her daughter was “cured” when she looked like a human toothpick.

“She reportedly suffered from bulimia.” Dr. Taylor flipped open the chart in her hands and glanced at the pages within. “Which caused erosion of the esophagus and decay to her tooth enamel. About six months ago, her gastro prescribed Prevacid for acid reflux, at the same time her podiatrist placed her on an antifungal for an infection . . .”

“Because of her ugly toenails,” Marilee jumped in. “But that was all before.”

“Before what?”

Marilee turned to her blond beau and stroked his arm. “Before Justin. He weaned her off her prescriptions, you see. All the pills she used to take for her stomach, for her nerves, and to get to sleep. She said they made her feel funky, like her heart was jumping out of her chest.” Justin stood like a mannequin, his chiseled features impassive. “Jussie’s a certified personal trainer, and he’s studied ancient Chinese nutrition.”