The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club (6 page)

Why did her disapproving tone still get to me? Wasn’t that something you were supposed to outgrow before you hit thirty?

“For Pete’s sake, I was ten years old”—I started to defend myself, but Annabelle cut me off again.

“Really, Cissy, don’t be such a stickler. Who cares about a little fib? I don’t know what I would’ve done without your daughter all those years.” She clasped her hands between her breasts, and her dimpled chin trembled. “She was a lifesaver, truly. I tried and tried, but I never felt like I fit in. If it wasn’t for Sparky, I would’ve never gone back to face my fears, and I wouldn’t have made one of the best friends I’ve ever had in my whole life.”

Me?

My cheeks warmed, and I felt suddenly immeasurably guilty, for losing touch and for not realizing the importance she’d placed on our friendship, as we’d grown up and away.

“Closest pal” wasn’t a title I’d done much to earn, except for giving Annabelle whichever bunk she preferred and sharing my bug spray with her for four years straight. I’d always divided Sandy Beck’s care packages with her, since she’d never received any of her own. Annabelle Meade was the only girl I’d known who’d actually cried when she had to
leave
camp, rather than weeping from homesickness after arriving. What I recalled most was that she’d been a terrific storyteller, making up fantastical tales shared via whispers in the dark. I’d imagined she’d become a novelist or a playwright, not a nursing-home magnate.

“You put more stock in me than I did, Annabelle,” I told her, and her mouth broke into a goofy grin.

“Stop that!” She clapped me on the shoulder, hard enough to sting. “Quit being so modest, you silly goose. We were blood sisters, right? Pricked our pinkies and promised loyalty through thick and thin. The only soul I trust more than you is my guardian angel.”

Pricking pinkies to pledge our sisterhood?

I think not.

The sight of blood made me woozy.

That scene sounded right out of a movie, and I decided Annabelle the Storyteller had reshaped some camp memories to better suit her, because her real life had been so much more unpleasant. I couldn’t blame her a bit. She’d put up with a lot, that’s for sure, pretending she didn’t know that I’d become her bunkmate because no one else had wanted to sleep in the lower berth beneath her sagging cot; ignoring the muffled “oinks” when she’d passed, always refusing to rat out the offenders. Preferring to keep the pain tucked inside, even when I’d suggested nefarious pranks to get them back, like tossing all their underwear in the lake or putting frogs in their beds.

We’d shared a sense of being lost and out of place amidst the children of privilege who had all seemed cast from a mold, superficially perfect.

“Camp was a long time ago,” I said, hoping to shift the subject onto something more pleasant for us both.

But Annabelle hadn’t finished with me yet. “You haven’t changed much, have you? Still wear that same old ponytail and you’ve only got on a smidge more makeup than you did when we were twelve. I’ll bet your heart’s every bit as big as it was back then, too, am I right? I’ll wager she’s still picking up strays and taking them home, isn’t she, Miss Cissy?”

She turned to wink at my mother, who assured her that I was, noting that the latest “stray” added to my collection was a Yankee lawyer from Missouri.

“Oh, my, is that so?” Annabelle said with a wink. “Why didn’t you bring him with you, Sparky, so I could take a peek? I’ll bet he’s cute.”

“As a bug in a rug,” Cissy said, with a saccharine-sweetness to her voice that made me wince, particularly since I was fully aware of her disapproval at how close Malone and I had gotten without the benefits of holy matrimony.

Mind you, she’s the one who’d thrown us together, but now she wished she could keep us an arm’s length apart—or at least rig me up with a chastity belt—until wedding bells pealed. As soon as “I do’s” were exchanged, Brian would be one of her favorite people in the world again. But that wasn’t going to happen, not anytime soon, no matter how she looked down her nose at our “arrangement.”

My nosy neighbor Penny George—one of her church buddies—had spied Malone’s red Acura coupe parked in front of my condo overnight early on and had generously passed the news along to Cissy. If I got the “why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free” lecture one more time, I was gonna do more than moo.

“He’s in the middle of a big case”—I sent a warning look at Mother and turned the tables on Annabelle—“what about you? Did you settle down, get married?” I didn’t see a ring on her finger.

“Oh, heavens, no.” She twirled a strand of hair, an old habit she obviously hadn’t broken. “Been too busy these past years, building a company.”

“I still can’t believe it. Have you really been in town for months, AB? When did you first bump into Mother? Why didn’t you call me?”

Annabelle glanced at Cissy. “I ran into your mama a few weeks ago, actually. I’d been going back and forth a lot to Austin. Transitioning, you know. And I was usually busy in the office when she came on Wednesdays for her bridge group. But I took a breather and wandered over to the recreation room, and my eyes nearly fell out of my head when I saw her. She looked exactly as I remembered.”

“Oh, go on,” Cissy said, a glutton for flattery if ever there was one.

“It was like coming home, truly. I asked about you, Andy, and she gave me your number. But things have been crazy around here, getting everything up and running, settling the residents in, and then losing Bebe like that.” She kept twisting the hair until it tangled. She uncaught herself and dropped her hand.

“It’s all right,” I said, not wanting to make her feel worse. Besides, I’d been busy, too, designing Web sites for fun (and nonprofit) and grabbing time with Malone whenever he wasn’t buried in briefs at Abramawitz, Reynolds, Goldberg, and Hunt, better known around these parts as ARGH.

“Why don’t you show Andrea around Belle Meade, Annabelle?” my mother suggested, and I looked at my old camp comrade expectantly.

I was actually dying to get the scoop on why she’d come back to Dallas to build and run a swanky retirement facility. I recalled that her parents had lived on one of the lakes near Austin, which is why she’d gone to school at UT, to be near home after years away in boarding school and a smorgasbord of camps during summer breaks.

“Well, goodness’ sakes, I’d love to give you the grand tour, Sparky . . . in a little bit, all right? First, let’s head into the dining room, shall we? That’s where we’re holding the reception in honor of Miss Bebe. Some of the folks couldn’t make the memorial service this morning. It’s not easy for all of ’em to get around,” she remarked, herding us through the foyer, toward the sound of music. “But they surely loved Mrs. Kent, and they wanted to put together a fitting tribute for her. I’d like to think it’s just what she would’ve wanted . . . especially since she left us such detailed instructions, which we followed to the letter.”

Ah, now that sounded like something my mother would do. Leave me explicit directions on how to arrange her send-off, from start to finish, as well as how to live my life each day thereafter.

Cissy took that moment to clear her throat gently, and I braced myself. Mother’s throat clearings were often a warning sign in the vein of a tornado siren; a portent of bad things to come, like breaking a mirror or stepping on a crack.

All hands on deck! Lower the rowboats! Grab your life vests!

“Speaking of Bebe,” she began, benignly enough, “I have a few questions about what happened, if you don’t mind.”

We had passed a pair of elevators with polished gold doors and walked down a hallway lined with wrought-iron sconces that illuminated gilt-framed oils of landscapes and seascapes.

Annabelle didn’t slow down, merely inquired over her shoulder. “What kind of questions?”

“How exactly did she die?” Cissy asked without further preamble, the directness of it apparently catching Annabelle off guard. She stopped in midstep, swayed, and paused before a large painting of a shipwreck.

The music seemed louder where we stood, and I could hear the murmur of voices, the clinking of silverware, so I figured the dining room wasn’t much farther. My stomach must’ve heard as well and started grumbling.

Annabelle hesitated, gnawing on her bottom lip a moment before she answered my mother. “When she didn’t show for her water aerobics class on Thursday morning, I called to check on her, but got her voice mail. I didn’t think too much of it, knowing what a busy woman Bebe was, until she missed lunch as well, and she never misses the Niçoise salad. It’s one of Chef Jean’s specialties.”

“Go on,” Mother prompted.

Annabelle fidgeted, fussing with the oil, straightening a corner that didn’t appear to be crooked. “Well, I tried calling again to no avail, and I got worried. I was heading over when I was paged by Elvira from Housekeeping.” The pitch of her voice fell. “Elvira was babbling that she hadn’t known Mrs. Kent was home and had let herself in, not aware that anything was wrong, until she went up to the master bedroom and found her. It must’ve happened in her sleep, because she never rang her panic button.

“Oh, dear.” She pressed fingertips to forehead, as if to clear her mind of an unpleasant image. Then she went on, more slowly. “I got over there as fast as I could. Bebe was lying in bed, neat as could be, with her eyes closed and in a lovely nightgown with lace trim on the neck and sleeves. I immediately phoned our doctor—Arnold Finch, you’ll meet him at the reception, Andy. There wasn’t a thing he could’ve done. Our Bebe had gone quietly while she dreamed.”

“You found her on Thursday, you say,” Mother repeated, shaking her head. “I don’t understand because she was absolutely fine at bridge on Wednesday. No complaints about anything except the bad cards we were dealt and needing a refill of her allergy prescription because the mold count was up.”

“That’s how it happens so often, without a warning to anyone.” Annabelle wrung her hands. “Just nature running its course and us powerless to change it.”

“But she looked well, except for the ragweed . . .”

“Looks can be deceiving, Miss Cissy,” Annabelle snapped; then seemed to realize her bad manners. She sighed. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t easy to discuss. I wish we could’ve done something for Bebe, I really do. But the Man Upstairs must’ve called her back so she could be with her beloved Homer again.”

Mother didn’t seem at all convinced, if the hard set of her jaw was any indication. “So you discovered her on Thursday, and she was buried on Friday.”

“Yes, those were her own instructions, to be interred beside Homer in a speedy fashion.”

“So speedy that no type of . . . physical examination was done,” Mother said delicately, and Annabelle shook her head. “If that’s the case, how can anyone know for sure that what happened to Bebe
was
entirely natural?”

“Dr. Finch made that determination, of course, and our security team found no signs of foul play, no indication of a forced entry. Nothing in the house was disturbed or appeared to be missing.”

Security team
, I mused, as in the white-haired Bob and his cohort Sam? Were they certified in crime-scene investigation by AAA or the AARP? I wondered.

“What if they missed something subtle?” Mother pressed. “Were blood tests run? Did she have a fatal disease? Was it salmonella or food poisoning?”

“It was cardiac arrest, Miss Cissy. Her heart just stopped beating, that’s what Dr. Finch said.” Annabelle reached for Mother’s hand, clasping it hard enough to make Cissy flinch. “Please, don’t do this. It doesn’t help Bebe any for us to ponder why she left us. Just accept it, and let’s move forward. She would’ve wanted that.”

Not for the first time since we’d run into her, tears sprang to Annabelle’s eyes, glistening on her lashes, and she sniffed as she let go of Cissy’s hand. “Let’s not talk about this anymore, shall we? I’m sure y’all are hungry, and Chef Jean has laid out quite a spread. Let’s go enjoy ourselves. Bebe would’ve expected it.”

With that, she pivoted and strode forward, up the hallway, not waiting to see if we followed, obviously sure that we would. Or maybe hoping we wouldn’t.

I took a couple steps forward, hesitated, and turned around.

Mother hadn’t budged an inch.

She snapped open her purse and removed her compact, popping it wide and glancing at herself in the tiny mirror, snatching out the powder puff and blotting at her cheeks a little too ferociously.

I walked back to her.

“It can’t be,” she murmured. “It’s absurd, really. I heard what Annabelle said, but I’m not at all convinced.”

“What’s wrong?” A knot of worry gripped my chest. Cissy was taking Bebe Kent’s death awfully hard, it seemed, as if she were looking for someone to blame or a way to find fault. Like she needed to point the finger at something or someone before she could put her grief to rest.

She clamped the compact shut and shoved it back inside her tiny bag. Her jaw betrayed a vague tremor as she looked me squarely in the eye and proclaimed, “Beatrice Kent was one of my dearest friends for thirty years, and I knew things about her that even her doctor didn’t.”

Oh, boy. I crossed my arms. “Like what, Mother?”

“If Annabelle found Bebe lying in her bed, neatly tucked in and wearing a frothy nightgown, then something funny’s afoot.”

Something funny’s afoot?

Are you kidding me? She sounded like Angela Lansbury in an old episode of
Murder, She Wrote
, and I would’ve laughed except she looked so dad-blamed serious.

“What’s so strange about that?”

Didn’t lots of older folks pass away peacefully in their sleep? It sounded pretty reasonable and not a bad way to go if the Big Guy was pushing your punch card.

A spark lit her eyes, and she raised her chin, the very image of defiant. “Bebe never wore a nightgown to bed, not unless she was visitin’ friends or had overnight guests. She once told me that she’d slept in the buff for as long as she’d been alive. Naked as the day she was born. Homer used to joke that he made her keep a robe at the foot of the bed just in case there was a fire and she had to jump out a window. Don’t you get it?”