Say Yes to the Death (9 page)

“No,” I told her as I got up from the chair and walked toward the open doorway. “I'll wait for Brian . . . Brian Malone. He's my fiancé, and he's with Millie,” I started to babble. “He's a lawyer with Abramawitz, Reynolds, Goldberg, and Hunt—­”

“Good for him,” the deputy chief cut me off. “Do give your mother my best, Ms. Kendricks,” she added, then turned on a heel and walked off.

I let out a slow breath and headed in the opposite direction toward the station lobby, where I planned to sit and wait until Malone was done holding Millie's hand during her interview with the police. Or was it an interrogation? Would she be released? Would she have to stay in jail overnight until she had a bond hearing? If she needed me to pay her bail, I would do it in a heartbeat. I couldn't bear to imagine Millie in prison orange, locked behind bars with violent offenders. It wouldn't be like Martha Stewart's stint at Camp Cupcake.

I was about to text Malone, wondering how long he'd be, when I heard a voice say my name—­my
full
name—­in a horrified North Texas drawl.

“Andrea Blevins Kendricks!”

I glanced up from the screen of my cell phone to see Cissy striding into the station. Once she spotted me, she bypassed the desk sergeant with an impatient flick of her hand. Her steps didn't even stutter as he called out after her, “Ma'am!”

“Good Lord, sweet pea!” Cissy drawled dramatically as she approached with arms extended. “You couldn't call your own mother to say that you'd tripped over a dead body? I had to hear it secondhand?”

Chapter 12

“I
was just figuring out what kind of pastries to pick up for our girl-­talk this morning when your Mr. Malone phoned,” Cissy explained before I'd even asked how she knew. “And thank heavens he did, or I could have been waiting and waiting for you to show up after you dropped that dress off at Olivia's, and I wouldn't have known where you were. You certainly didn't see the need to inform your own mother that you'd been arrested.”

“Because I wasn't arrested,” I told her, sure that her fondness for exaggeration had confused the issue, not anything Brian had said. “I just had to answer some questions.”

Her fingers clutched at my upper arms. Her pale blue eyes were wide with fright as they wildly darted around the police station. The rest of her was impeccable as usual. Her hair was styled, her makeup subtle and done to perfection. She had on tan linen slacks, a pale pink shirt, and an alligator belt that made her waist look tinier than Scarlett O'Hara's eighteen inches. One of these days I wanted to see my mother race to my side with bed head and pajama pants.

“Oh, Andrea, why didn't you phone me yourself?” she asked, her drawl turned mournful. “I could have used my connections to spring you sooner. You know the mayor and I went to school together.”

I was about to remind her that I hadn't needed springing because I was never behind bars but I figured that to argue would be fruitless.

“There wasn't time,” I said simply, which was only partly the truth. “Brian shouldn't have dragged you into this,” I told her, and I so wanted to be ticked at him for pulling my mother into this black hole. But then again, she had dragged me into plenty of disasters, like the wedding yesterday. Maybe this would put us even.

“Your Mr. Malone did the right thing!” She bristled. “What if I'd had to hear about your bein' hauled down here in the back of a police car from someone else? Or, heaven forbid, what if I'd seen your mug shot in your friend Janet's column in the
Park Cities Press
?”

My best buddy Janet Graham was a society columnist for the
PCP
and usually wrote about socialites and their fund-­raising luncheons, debutante balls, and various art gallery openings. Although lately she'd been dabbling in more serious news stories, like a rather contentious debate over required reading for freshmen at the high school. (“
Romeo and Juliet
? They're teenagers who have unprotected sex, right? How dare that Shakespeare pen such filth,” Janet had mocked one parent's protest at the latest PTA meeting and rolled her eyes.)

“Janet doesn't write the police blotter column, Mother,” I said as she reached up to push bangs from my eyes. “Besides, I don't have a mug shot. I didn't commit a crime. I just happened to see Olivia's—­” I bit off the end of the sentence. I couldn't seem to get out the words “dead body.”

“Oh, sweet pea,” Mother moaned. “Brian told me that you found her. I hope it doesn't haunt you, seeing Olivia like that.”

“I didn't actually
find
her,” I clarified, “because Millie was already there. But I'm sure Millie had nothing to do with it.”

“Of course she didn't! Millicent Draper is a saint. I can't tell you how many times she's rescued me when I've needed pastry in a pinch. She's a treasure, that's what she is,” Cissy replied and leaned forward to whisper in my ear, “although I couldn't blame her for being upset after what Olivia did yesterday at the wedding.”

“Millie didn't kill her, Mother,” I insisted, but I got the feeling that wasn't Cissy's primary concern.

“My dear, sweet Andrea,” she let out in a rush of breath. “What if something had happened to you? I couldn't have survived that,” she added and looked me over from head to toe as mothers were wont to do. I half expected her to put a bit of spit on her thumb and wipe my chin. But instead she hugged me hard against her slight bosom. She was thin enough that I could feel bones.

“You need a sandwich,” I grumbled, fighting the sudden rush of tears. But I hugged her back and briefly closed my eyes, letting the gentle cloud of Joy wash over me along with the ever-­present scent of Aqua Net.

“I need a sandwich? But it's not even noon,” she countered, missing the point entirely.

I laughed into her shoulder, feeling strangely glad that if Brian was going to be delayed with Millie, he'd phoned my mom. She was good for the comic relief alone. It had been a long, difficult morning, and I was ready to go home. Maybe I'd even crawl back in bed and hide under the covers for the rest of the weekend.

“Andrea, are you truly all right? You're shaking like a leaf,” Cissy said.

I wasn't sure how I was exactly, but it was far from all right. Part of me still felt like I was caught in the midst of a bad dream. With a sniffle, I drew apart. “Can we get out of here?” I asked, looking into her concerned face, and she didn't argue.

Although I hadn't been inside the DPS for more than an hour, it felt like days. I blinked at the brightness of the sun as we exited the Spanish Colonial building with its stucco walls and red-­tile roof. I glanced at the neighboring Town Hall, which housed the library, admiring the convenience of being able to get an occupancy permit or vote and check out a book all in one fell swoop.

Cissy had parked her Lexus in the slot reserved for the chief of police. I almost called her on it but reconsidered. I happily slipped into the sedan when she unlocked the doors and I sunk into the leather seat, clicking my belt into place.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” I said, and I meant it. Maybe my relationship with Cissy didn't involve lots of warm and fuzzy moments, but this surely counted as one of them. “Can you take me to my car? It's still in the parking lot at HPV.”

Mother frowned as she started the engine and the Lexus began to purr. “How about we go back to the house for breakfast first? Sandy's not there to whip up waffles, but I can still scramble an egg when I have to.”

“Can you really?” Did my mother even know how to turn on the stovetop in her kitchen? “I would pay to see that.”

“Andrea, for goodness' sake,” she said, shaking her head.

“How about this?” I searched for an alternative, otherwise I had a feeling my mother was going to chauffeur me straight to the house on Beverly Drive no matter what. “How about you take me to get the Jeep first? I promise to follow you home and stay there until I hear from Brian.”

Mother had slipped on her Jackie O sunglasses and was about to shift gear. But she hesitated, leaving the car in park. Her face tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the nips and tucks she discreetly had done during periods when she claimed to be on vacation. “You promise you'll go directly to the house?”

“Cross my heart,” I said. I was about to add
and hope to die,
but decided that wasn't wise, not after what had happened that morning.

“All right,” she agreed, but sounded reluctant. “It's a deal.”

“Great.” I tried to sit calmly in the car seat and look out the window. I sought out the same beauty in the clouds and sky that I'd seen upon first walking out my front door nearly two hours before. But instead all I saw was Olivia on the rug bathed in red as though the image had been carved on the back of my eyeballs. “It's just so weird,” I said, speaking my thoughts aloud.

“What, sweet pea?” Cissy asked.

“I just can't believe Olivia's dead.” My brain still hadn't quite digested the fact. “I saw her yesterday afternoon for the first time since graduation. Now she's in the morgue.”

I never even found out what she'd been trying to tell me. Had she wanted to apologize? I'd like to believe that was the case. Or maybe I was just being a Pollyanna to hope so.

“I got the impression that you didn't like her,” my mother replied as she drove toward Mockingbird Lane.

“I didn't,” I admitted as I gazed out the window. “That's why it's weird. I should feel all torn up inside, shouldn't I? Someone I know was just killed. But I mostly feel bad for Millie getting caught up in a murder investigation, and I'm a little freaked out that I could have been there when the killer showed up to stick Olivia with the cake knife—­”

“Don't say that!” my mother cut me off. She diverted her attention from the road and stared at me from behind those big sunglasses. “Thank God you didn't get to Olivia's office any earlier. There are plenty of crazy folks out there, Andrea. It was hard enough for me to fall asleep at night knowing you were living alone in that condo in North Dallas before Mr. Malone moved in. If he wasn't staying there now I'd insist you come home until this blows over.”

She had said “North Dallas” as though it were the projects when it was anything but. Still, I knew what she meant because I worried about her, too, living by herself in such a big house in Highland Park (which was
so
not the projects). Okay, she wasn't even really by herself, because Sandy Beck was there most of the time and Mother had other help that came part-­time. And once she and Stephen, her golf-­playing, former IRS agent fiancé, tied the knot—­whenever that might be—­he'd be moving in permanently.

“So even though you know I don't approve of Mr. Malone stayin' over at your place until he's your husband . . .”

“Yes, I know,” I said during her very pregnant pause. I'd heard her entire
cow giving the milk away for free
lecture a dozen times already.

“. . . these days I think it's safer for a woman to have a man around because the world has gone berserk. Everyone's angry about something and no one takes responsibility for anything. It's not like it was before I met your daddy,” she said, finishing her thought. “People used to talk to one another, face-­to-­face. Now everyone just Tweets and takes those selfish pictures.”

Selfish pictures? Did she mean
selfies
?

“It's definitely a different world than before you met Daddy,” I agreed. My mother had lived at home with my grandparents until she married my father when she was twenty-­two and fresh out of SMU. I wanted to remind her that it was the twenty-­first century and lots of women lived alone despite the world being bat-­shit crazy. Though I didn't think it would do any good.

“I like your Mr. Malone, I truly do,” Cissy went on, “but it'll be so much better when you two are married and find a place to raise a family, perhaps somewhere closer to me. Highland Park has a fine school district, Andrea. If you didn't want to go private with your children, I wouldn't raise a stink . . .”

Here we go again.

As she rambled on about how to rear the gang of imaginary children Malone and I would have, I sighed and gazed past her, out the windshield to the left.

The Lexus sailed past the Dallas Country Club, and I was a bit surprised the car didn't automatically steer itself onto the grounds.

Soon enough we were turning off Mockingbird into the lot at Highland Park Village. As we approached where my Jeep was parked, I noticed the police still working the scene. Millie's SUV had been loaded on top of a tow truck. Would they put it in a police impound lot and scour it for evidence? What would they find, I wondered, except perhaps a trail of flour or fondant fingerprints?

Yellow tape that declared
POLICE LIN
E DO NOT CROSS
boxed off the front doors of Olivia's building. Early shoppers and restaurant patrons out for Sunday brunch collected on the sidewalk and in the lot, watching the goings-­on. Through the plate glass of the nearest boutique, I saw several officers in their blue uniforms talking to shop owners. Had anyone else seen anything?

“Oh, my,” Cissy said and removed her sunglasses as she took a gander. “This is just like one of those
Law & Order
shows, isn't it?”

“You watch
Law & Order
?”

I thought of my mother as more of the
Downton Abbey
type, not police drama. Maybe she was merely mortal after all.

“I used to watch the new episodes but not anymore.” Cissy made a face. “It hasn't been the same since Jerry Orbach died. Did you know your father and I saw him on Broadway in
42nd Street
?”

I shook my head.

“He was brilliant. What a versatile man. He could make you believe anything.”

“He sounds like your buddy Senator Ryan,” I cracked.

“Oh, Andrea, stop.” Mother gave me a look.

At least I could count on her to distract me, if only for a moment.

“I'm getting out now,” I said.

“Are you okay to drive?”

I inhaled deeply before I answered, “I am.”

“Meet you back at Chez Kendricks?”

“I'll be right behind you,” I said and opened the door. My mother's house was practically around the block. “I won't even drive-­through Starbucks for a latte.”

“Oh, Andrea.” Mother breathed my name and glanced over at the building with the crime scene tape fluttering near its doors before replacing her sunglasses on her slim nose. “It's just so unsettling. Things like this shouldn't happen here.”

Things like murder shouldn't happen anywhere, I thought. But they did and would continue to as long as Homo sapiens roamed the earth.

I ducked out of my mother's car and headed over to my Jeep. I kept my head down as though that made me invisible, and maybe it worked. No one seemed to pay me the least bit of attention. Within a minute or so I had my car unlocked and climbed inside. Thankfully, the late morning sun hadn't made things too steamy, so the interior felt more like a tepid bath than an oven.

As I backed out of the space, I turned to look at Olivia's building and saw her assistant, Terra Smith, standing in front of the police tape. She was talking to a reporter who had a microphone stuck in her face. Her blond-­on-­black hair blew in the slight breeze, and she kept pushing it back behind her ears. She wasn't smiling but she hardly looked distraught. Then again, Olivia had called her a Hoosier and implied she wanted to can her, so maybe she wasn't that shaken up. I remembered, too, that Olivia had said firing Terra could get “messy,” so was this the kind of mess she'd meant?