The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club (31 page)

“That sounds dangerous,” I said. A little too much of your allergy meds and you were ready for the OR.

“No, no, the medication’s safe enough for babies, but at a low dosage. Particularly since geriatric patients may have increased reactions. We warn them not to drive when they’re drowsy, and not to use alcohol, which can heighten the drug’s effect.”

“So this hydroxy—whatever—that’s missing. If it’s not narcotic, why all the fuss?”

Patsy paused, and I saw her grip tighten on her husband’s shoulder. “The refills delivered to Mrs. Kent and Mrs. Sewell each contained a three-month dosage. We’re just concerned that those bottles haven’t turned up.”

“Three months? Is that enough to knock someone off her feet?”

“Enough to knock a horse off its feet,” Arnold Finch said with a snort.

Whoa. That didn’t sound good.

Tranquilizer. High sedative effect. Increased reaction.

The words went round and round in my head, and I was putting together a picture that I didn’t like at all.

“Okay, I have a question.” I wet my lips. “How big a dose would be fatal?”

Arnold worked his tie loose, like he was having trouble getting air. “Unfortunately, Miss Kendricks,” he intoned, “the PDR doesn’t cite a lethal dose.”

“What’s the PDR?”

“Physician’s Desk Reference,” Patsy explained. “Basically, the bible for approved drugs. Which is all to say, we don’t know how much is lethal. And it’d be impossible to find out, because there’s no way to assay the quantity of the medication in one’s system after it’s ingested.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

It was hard to imagine such a thing. I thought all drugs had some kind of limit, a point of no return that everyone agreed was dangerous.

The next thought that popped into my head: What if someone out there knew what that lethal limit was?

I hung on tightly to my purse, fully understanding why the Finches were so rattled. “You said the refills were delivered shortly before each woman passed away.” Dr. Finch was avoiding my eyes, so I looked squarely at Patsy. “Did you deliver them yourself?” I could still picture her on the bike, pedaling away from Bebe’s that morning. “Was there anything odd about their state of being? Did they seem despondent? Suicidal?”

Dr. Finch rolled his eyes, like I was an idiot.

“If they’d wanted to die by their own hands, Andy, they wouldn’t have gone for an overdose of antihistamines.” Patsy picked up a vial from the desk and shook it, so I could hear the pills rattle inside. Lots of them. “Not when Bebe Kent had Hydrocodone left over from a hip replacement in the spring, and Sarah Lee Sewell had a regular prescription for Xanax.”

“Hydrocodone. That’s codeine, right?” And I knew what Xanax was, considering Mother’s uptight crowd popped those babies like candy.

“Yes, it’s a codeine derivative.”

I squeezed my eyes closed then opened them, trying to get a fix on this. “You never answered me, Patsy. Did you deliver those refills? Or was it someone else? Was it Mabel Pinkston?”

Talk about hearing a pin drop.

“Please tell me you didn’t send her on any more deliveries today, not with any more of that drug, if she’s misplacing things.”

“Personnel matters are private, Miss Kendricks, and any conjecture about what happened to the hydroxyzine is best pursued by us. So I’d say we’re done here.” Dr. Finch shot up from his chair. “This discussion is over. I think you should go.”

Bing! A light went on.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?” I said. “Of getting sued.”

If Mabel Pinkston had anything to do with this mess, then they’d be in deep doo-doo, as would Annabelle and Belle Meade itself.

“Leave now, Miss Kendricks.” Dr. Finch had his hand on the telephone. “Or I’ll call security.”

“You’re not going to brush this under the rug, are you?” I looked at Patsy, pleading. “What if the medications were involved in those women’s deaths?”

Dr. Finch began punching buttons on his telephone.

“It’s all right,” Patsy said. “I’ll walk Andy out.” She came around the desk to take my elbow, forcibly guiding me from Dr. Finch’s office.

Lawsuits, missing meds, rinsed-out glasses, two women dead.

“Patsy, talk to me,” I begged her, as she ushered me through the “private” door and past several ladies perusing magazines in the waiting room. “You know about the lawsuits, about Bebe and Sarah Lee’s threats, so what if there’s some connection to the missing meds?”

She practically shoved me through the clinic’s doors, murmuring, “I’m sorry, Andy,” before she closed them in my face.

Well, I never!

Okay, maybe once or twice.

But still, how rude to throw me out like that when I’d done them a favor, scrounging through dead people’s medicine cabinets.

My cell rang in my purse.

I snatched it up and flipped it open.

“Yes,” I snapped, my hackles up, whatever hackles were.

“Andrea?” The voice was tentative. “Andrea Kendricks?”

“Mr. Howard, is that you?” I was heading down the hallway, toward Annabelle’s office.

“My friend got what you were looking for. Those names you gave me? They belong to the same person.”

“The same?” I stopped, listening as he filled me in.

“You’re sure?” I asked when he was done. “No doubt about it.”

“Thanks, Stephen. You’ve been a big help.” I ended the call and dropped the phone in my purse, not certain of what to do.

Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear
.

It was starting to make sense, things that were said, gaping omissions. But I hadn’t put all of it together before, couldn’t have pieced it together until Stephen’s call.

And still I wasn’t sure.

What came to mind, strangely enough, was Mildred Pierce reciting the promo blurb from the movie posters, all those years ago:

“A mother’s love leads to murder.”

Maybe it had.

And maybe Annabelle knew it.

I kept walking, passing people and doors and framed oils on the walls, hardly aware of my surroundings.

When I reached the door to Annabelle’s office, it was shut, but I went in without knocking.

She hung up the phone abruptly as I entered, eyes wide when she saw who it was.

“Great balls of fire, Andy, I just heard from Arnold Finch, who said you were in his office, throwing around words like ‘lawsuit’ and ‘liability.’”

“What about murder and missing sedatives? Did he mention those, too?”

“I’m worried about what being here is doing to you, Andy. I think you’re starting to believe in Cissy’s mixed-up theory.” Annabelle chewed her lip. “You know, perhaps it’s best for all concerned if you and your mother leave Belle Meade tonight. I’ll call you when the blood tests on Mrs. Sewell return. So could you turn in your keycard and badge? No hard feelings, right?”

She wanted to kick us out?

Without hearing a word I had to say?

Well, damned if I were going anywhere until she listened up.

“You asked me before if I thought something was wrong . . . even
you
had a feeling there might be something to Mother’s suspicions. Well, guess what? I think so, too. In fact, I’m almost sure of it.” I marched up to her desk, slapping my palms down hard enough to set her pencil holder rattling. “The worst part about it is what’s wrong begins and ends with you.”

Her cheeks turned scarlet. “What’s that supposed to mean, Andy? You think I’m responsible for what happened to Mrs. Kent and Mrs. Sewell?”

I looked her in the eye without flinching. “What it means, is that I think you know who is.”

“You’re nuts,” she said and laughed. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Two words,” I told her, straightening up and holding up a pair of fingers. “Mabel Pinkston.”

“What?”

“Oh, wait, you’re right. That’s not it. Two more words,” I said. “Em Albright. Although it’s
M
, short for Mabel, not for Emma or Emily, like I originally believed. They’re the same person, Annabelle, but then you knew that, didn’t you?”

She stared, unblinking. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I? Then maybe you can explain why Mabel Pinkston Albright files tax returns but no one named Emma or Emily Albright does, huh?” I nodded. “Yeah, a friend of mother’s checked it out. So no more lies.”

“Don’t do this, Andy, I beg you,” she whispered, her face pale as an eggshell. “Stop this, before you hurt someone.”

Stop? I was just getting started.

I went over to the bookcase with the photos of Annabelle and her so-called guardian angel. “She’s lost a bunch of weight since the fire, hasn’t she? But it’s still Mabel, isn’t it?” I faced her. “Why did you hide this, Annabelle? Is it because she’s hiding behind you?”

“She’s a good woman, and I won’t hear you bad mouth her, okay? So don’t go dredging up things that can’t be changed.” Her eyes welled, but I felt no sympathy. “The fire scarred her forever, can’t you grasp that?”

“When she pushed up her sleeves while we were packing, I saw those awful scars on her arms, and I told her I knew a fabulous plastic surgeon who could do wonders for her. But I think I embarrassed her.”

“The scars, yes.” I stared at her. “From the burns that she suffered when she supposedly tried to save your parents. But that’s not really what happened, Annabelle, is it?” I was fishing here, but I had a big fat worm on my hook, and she bit.

“It wasn’t her fault. She was tired and she was cleaning up dinner and she left a rag too near the burner. So what?” Tears streamed down Annabelle’s cheeks. “She never meant for anyone to get hurt. But the smoke alarm didn’t work, and they never woke up.”

“Was it really an accident, AB?” My heart pounded as I said it. “Or did she do it because she loved you and hated them? Hated how they’d treated you all your life. How they’d treated her.”

Annabelle had set the stage.

“. . .
I was there the day it happened. I had dinner with them both, and it turned into a row, as usual. I can still hear the screaming in my head. God, they could be vicious. The last words I uttered that night before I ran out, slamming the door, were that I hated them. Despised them to the core. ‘I wish you’d die!’ I told them both. The next morning, they were dead
.”

Had her guardian angel granted her wish?

I wet my lips. “And what about Mabel’s husband? Do you really think he died a natural death, and such a convenient one, too, since he wanted to take her away from that place . . . away from you.”

“Frank is dead. The poor man wanted to get out of Austin after everything, but he never got the chance . . . He went to bed one night and never woke up again.”

Annabelle rose from the chair on legs so shaky I felt sure she’d fall. She felt her way around the desk, keeping one hand on the edge, then stood but a foot away. I could see the terror in her face.

Was she so scared of what I was saying? Or of what she’d ignored for so long? Two women might be alive if she hadn’t put her blinders on.

“Let this alone, Andy, I beg you.” Tears splashed down her cheeks, onto the silk of her blouse, leaving splotches that wouldn’t go away. “She wouldn’t hurt anyone, not even for me.”

“She told me herself that she’d do anything for you.”

“She wouldn’t kill for me, Andy!” She angrily swiped at damp cheeks. “She wouldn’t.”

“But I think she did,” I said softly.

“Who knew about their threats, Annabelle?”

“The lawyers for the corporation, of course. Some of the staff I worked most closely with, like Patsy and Arnold Finch. I might’ve told a few others . . .”

Mabel knew. Annabelle would never have been able to keep something like that from the woman who’d raised her.

“She delivered the drugs to Mrs. Kent and Mrs. Sewell before they died,” I went on, because I had no doubt it was the truth. The Finches’ silence when I’d posed the question had been more telling than words.

Had she mixed the drops in tea for Sarah and wine for Bebe, knocking them cold, once and for all? Afterward, once they were still and unbreathing, she’d even rinsed out the glasses so there’d be no trace of a crime.

I suddenly realized my mother wasn’t so crazy.

Mabel Pinkston was.

Crazy like a fox.

“Were there others, Annabelle? In Austin, before you brought her here?” I asked, my voice hoarse, incredibly drained. “Is that why you wondered about connections, because you feared the worst, but you couldn’t make yourself believe it? You couldn’t believe Mabel had killed for you, because then it would be over. You’d lose her forever. You’d be all alone.”

Annabelle shook her head violently. “No, Andy, no. You’re twisting this, seeing things that aren’t there. You’re doing this because your mother wants you to take her side. She’s out to get me, like the others.”

“No, AB, that’s not it at all . . .”

Then I stopped. Realized what she’d said. And raw panic struck.

My mother.

Oh, God.

“I like you better as a blonde.”

“That’s what Mabel said this morning.”

My blood iced over.

I grabbed her by the arms, ignoring her wince. “Did you tell Mrs. Pinkston who Cissy is and what she’s doing here? Did you tell her my mother was out to get you? Please, tell me you didn’t.”

“She wouldn’t hurt her . . . she wouldn’t.” But there was fear in her eyes behind the tears, and I knew even she wasn’t convinced.

“Where is she now?
Where, Annabelle?”
I was shouting, and I didn’t care.

“I don’t know, I don’t know. She said she had some deliveries to make after lunch and then she was going home early. She wasn’t feeling well.”

“You’d better hope she went home.”

I let her go, and she hugged herself, shivering. “She wouldn’t harm Cissy. I’m sure of it.”

“You’d better be right,” I said, backing up toward the door, watching her weep and knowing there was nothing more I could do for Annabelle Meade, not like in our camp days, where it had taken a few words of compassion or cookies from my care pack to make her smile.

I hightailed it to my car, desperately wanting to get back to Bebe’s house, collect my things—and my mother—and get as far away from Belle Meade as possible. If I never saw the place again, it would be too soon.