The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club (16 page)

“Mother, how could you scare us like that?”—I began my rant, only to find my words clogging up in my throat like a verbal logjam. “Oh, my gosh,” I said, inching my way backward until I bumped into Annabelle’s desk and couldn’t go any farther. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. But I thought you were someone else.”

Egads, what had I done?

I’d screamed at a stranger.

Because the woman in the wing chair wasn’t Cissy, unless my mother had been reincarnated into someone totally unrecognizable to me, her only child, the fruit of her loins.

For starters, this gal had inky black hair cut off sharply at the jaw, teased into oblivion, and bangs that sliced straight across her forehead, nearly masking darkly penciled brows. Black cat’s-eye glasses with glittering rhinestones at each point sat firmly on a slim nose, distorting the kohl-lined eyes behind the thick lenses. The apples of her cheeks sported way too much rosy blush, and the color on her lips was equally garish, a cross between brown and orange that reminded me of a burnt umber Crayola crayon. Never my favorite color.

Her jewelry was less than subtle, with way too many carats of tinted CZ that looked straight out of the Susan Lucci collection on QVC. (No disrespect intended.)

As if that didn’t seal the deal, she wore a warm-up suit, something Cissy wouldn’t zip on even if she did work out. This one appeared to be put together with patches of animal prints connected by zigzagging lines of bric-a-brac and glittering with billions of tiny crystals.

Bewildered didn’t begin to describe how I felt. If Sandy’s car was out front and a suitcase that could be the twin of Mother’s Tumi was parked near enough for me to kick it, then where the devil was Cissy?

Was I already two steps behind?

“I apologize,” I said again to the woman, then turned to Annabelle. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I thought you were still meeting with Mother . . .”

“I am.”

“You are what?”

“Meeting with your mother.”

Okay, I’d lost my mind. It was official.

Annabelle batted her lashes coyly and lifted a hand from the papers on her desk to point at the woman in the wing chair. “Andy Kendricks, this is Miriam Amanda Wallace Ferguson, our newest resident. She’ll be moving into Bebe’s place for a spell. Though I
do
believe you’ve met quite a few times before, as a matter of fact.”

Er, I didn’t think so.

Miriam Amanda Wallace Ferguson?

Why was that name so familiar?

I swung around yet again, keeping a palm flattened on Annabelle’s desk because somehow I needed to hang on to it, and I squinted at the stranger I’d been gawking at only moments ago.

Nope, I still didn’t know her from Adam.

She smiled at me.

Grandmother, what shiny white teeth you have.

Then a heavily magnified eye winked, and I cocked my head, studying this Miriam woman more carefully and wondering what the heck she had to do with my seemingly absent mummy.

I leaned in a bit nearer.

The subject of my scrutiny whispered, “You figure a microscope would be of any help in solving this riddle, sugar?”

I swallowed.

No, it wasn’t possible. Uh-uh, it couldn’t be.

Oh, dear. Was it
her
?

“Yoo hoo, yes, it’s true.” Fingers lifted to wiggle as the burnt umber mouth let loose an overblown Texas twang, totally confusing me. “Well, good mornin’ to you, too, sunshine. What’s with the bug eyes? Don’t you like the ensemble? Why, sweetie, it’s the new me. Though I’ve got to give a lot of credit to Mary Kay and Mrs. Coogan.”

Mary Kay Cosmetics—
that
, I understood—since it appeared she had enough goods on her face to fill the trunk of a pink Caddy.

But Mrs. Coogan?

She was the retired drama teacher from Hockaday, formerly the director of our school plays, mistress of sets and wardrobe.

“Oh, no,” I breathed.

“Oh, yes,” she assured me.

This woman . . . my mother . . . they were one and the same.

I felt like a guest on
Rickie Lake
, and I’d always wondered where they found their continual supply of weirdoes. Turns out, I need only have looked in the mirror.

“Andrea, sugar, don’t swoon on me now.” The exaggerated drawl settled back into the soft, cultivated strains I knew so well, confirming my worst fears.

My dignified Mummy Dearest had morphed into a combination of Mr. Magoo and Peg Bundy.

Clearly, Armageddon was near.

I
staggered against Annabelle’s desk, grappling for something solid to clutch, because my knees were caving in. I caught her pencil holder and sent it soaring to the floor, scattering pens and No. 2 lead tips in a dozen different directions.

Holy Mother of Pearl!

“Oh, honey, did I really startle you like that?” Cissy said, her familiar voice coming from this other woman’s exterior. “I didn’t know how you’d react, but it’s nice to see I had you fooled. Because I did, didn’t I? I’ll bet you didn’t know I took a few drama courses back in college, did you?”

She sounded so pleased with herself.

I wanted to puke, but that would be redundant since I’d been there and done that yesterday afternoon. I saw no need for an encore.

My jaw moved, but aphasia set in, depriving me of any response whatsoever. So I dropped to the carpet to clean up the mess I’d made, my heart and stomach changing places, as I fought to make sense of this upside-down situation.

Could it be an early Halloween prank?

A segment for
Candid Camera?

Until I remembered Alan Funt was pushing up daisies, so no chance of him jumping out from behind a piece of furniture.

There were so many danged reality shows these days, it could be anything, I decided. Were they shooting a pilot titled
My Deranged Mother?
Only I didn’t see any cameras or a TV crew. Maybe they were hidden in a secret room behind the bookshelves.

“Andrea, come up off your knees and sit down, so Annabelle and I can explain this to you.”

Explain?

How could there possibly be a logical explanation for my dyed-in-the-wool couture-wearing mummy to be dressed up as someone else . . . someone with a diametrically opposed fashion sense? A made-up person named Miriam Amanda Wallace Ferguson, for Pete’s sake.

Snap, crackle, pop.

My synapses fired again.

On shaky legs, I rose and plunked the pencil holder back on Annabelle’s desk, more or less intact.

“Ma Wallace aka Miriam Amanda Wallace Ferguson,” I said, voice shaking, as it all came back to me, and I stared at my mother in costume. “The first woman governor of Texas and nearly as big a crook as her husband, Jim, also a former governor, who got himself impeached. It’s in every textbook in every school across the state.” I shook my head, incredulous. “So you’re impersonating a dead politician and moving into Bebe Kent’s place with a carry-on bag. Just what the heck are you trying to pull here? And, please, tell me it’s not what I’m thinking.”

Annabelle and Cissy shared a glance.

“Well, that depends,” my certifiable mother quipped. “What exactly are you thinking, sweetie?”

“Besides the fact that at least one of us is clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown?”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Cissy chided.

“Do have a seat Andy,” my old campmate jumped in. “Let us fill you in on what you missed.”

“I was only late by fifteen minutes!”

How on earth could I have skipped enough to amount to . . .
this?

“Ah, but your mother was early, and she knew exactly what she wished to say . . . and do.” Annabelle picked up a silver pen that had rolled across her desk and tapped it in the air, toward the empty wing chair. “Sit,” she said again.

So I sat.

“We’ve figured out a compromise,” Annabelle announced, though such an agreement seemed hard to fathom. Rather like selling one’s soul to the devil, which was lose-lose any way you looked at it.

“And it involved her wearing a costume?” I balked.

“Well, I am going undercover, darling,” Cissy said, as if her over-the-top attire wasn’t indication enough of that. “Which means having a
cover
to hide
under
, you see. And it’s not like you haven’t done it before, so why can’t I do it, too?”

“Um, because you’re a grown-up?”
I itched to scream at the top of my lungs.

But I couldn’t, not when she’d thrown my own act of lunacy in my face. Lord knows I’d like to forget pulling a Nancy Drew to help a friend, a sacrifice that had involved wearing lavender hot pants and a stuffed bra. Hey, at least Mother was more covered up than I’d been.

Do as I say, not as I do
. That’s what I needed to get across in this crucial moment.

“What I’ve done in the past has no bearing on this,” I insisted, but Mother’s look of dismissal had me quickly turning to Annabelle. “You’re really and truly letting her into Belle Meade, dressed like
that
, so she can play snoop?
Hello?
What’s wrong with this picture? Because I’m thinking along the lines of Picasso on acid. It’s so surreal it’s laughable,” I said and guffawed to show I meant it.

I didn’t sway Annabelle, either. “It’s her call, Andy.”

“Because she’s twisting your arm?” I knew how frightened Annabelle was about Mother going to the media with her suspicions about murder. Still, this scheme of theirs seemed entirely too risky. “Seriously, you
cannot
do this. Call in a private investigator if you must, but don’t go through with this charade. I beg you. Someone could get hurt, or very seriously annoyed.”

The Woman Formerly Known As Cissy ignored my concerns, recrossing her legs and lifting a shiny black cowboy boot loaded with rhinestones so she could study it with great intensity.

Annabelle rapped her desk with the pen to get my attention. “Listen up, Andy, and listen good. The last thing I want is a private eye poking around, asking questions and making everyone nervous. I don’t know that the lawyers for the corporation would be any too happy about it, either, and I don’t want to bring them into this. Besides, what harm can your Mother do in a few days’ time, if that’s what it takes to put her mind at ease?”

How do I count the ways?
I mused, but didn’t interrupt.

“If she hasn’t found whatever she’s looking for by next Sunday, she’s agreed to move out and drop her accusations. She’ll also politely decline further invitations to play with the Wednesday bridge group, and she’ll return Bebe’s borrowed passkey.”

“That’s your compromise?” I scoffed openly. “She’ll pretend to be Jessica Fletcher for a week and then fade away like an old soldier?”

“I think it’s bloody
marvelous
that Annabelle would give me such an opportunity!” my nut-ball Mother crowed, as if she’d been offered the part of Auntie Mame on Broadway.

Marvelous
was not the word I would have chosen to describe the situation.

“She initially wanted to stay through the end of the month,” Annabelle explained, and I groaned, because a week seemed too long as it was; three weeks would have been unfathomable. “But I agreed to have Finch order some blood tests on Mrs. Sewell. Whenever the results return negative—and they will—the jig is up. So Miss Cissy’s excellent adventure could very well be cut short if the lab works fast.” She pressed her palms together, prayerful. “Until then, the staff will know
nothing
except we have a new resident on Magnolia, and Cissy has vowed not to call any of her contacts at the papers or in the mayor’s office. So, you see, this solution is a happy medium for all of us.”

Medium meant average, which implied normal, and I didn’t detect an iota of that here. As for the “happy” part, I certainly wasn’t smiling, although my mother seemed unduly perky.

I cocked my head, squinting hard at Cissy in the wig and vintage glasses, deciding I’d have to be extremely drunk to find this amusing.

If I’d had any sense, I would’ve booked her a room at the loony bin. Instead, I continued to pursue the matter, asking them, “What if Bebe Kent’s surviving relatives want to dispose of her townhouse, so another qualifying Belle Meade resident can assume the lease, or however that’s done? What if they’d like to get rid of her furniture in an estate sale? You can’t just move into the home of a dead woman without some kind of . . . I don’t know . . . legal maneuvering”—I swiveled toward Annabelle—“can she?”

But Annabelle was beaten to the punch.

“Oh, I can and I will, because Bebe’s cousins agreed to let me do it.” Mother patted the arms of her chair, her bracelets clanging like the bells of Notre Dame. “When I got home yesterday, I phoned Jillie’s cell before she and Stella flew back across the pond. Since Bebe had paid her monthly fees through September, the surviving family members have an option to serve out her month’s occupancy, as per her contract. They’ve spoken to Bebe’s lawyers about appointing me some kind of guardian of her property, if need be, so I can help sort through her clothing and personal effects, weeding out whatever the cousins don’t want to keep. Most of the furniture will stay, as her upfront fee was for a furnished residence.”

“Stella and Jillie . . . you didn’t tell them you thought Bebe was murdered, did you? Please, say you didn’t mention wanting to stay over at Mrs. Kent’s so you could hunt down her killer?”

Annabelle twirled a hank of hair around her finger.

“No, Andrea, of course I didn’t.” Mother looked indignant. “I merely suggested I could be of assistance, since I’m here and they’re out of the country. They won’t have to leave the townhouse vacant while Bebe’s things are still there, and I’ll keep on top of things until the contents can be properly dealt with. The cousins were delighted and Jillie called Annabelle this morning to make the arrangements. So, she’s stuck with me, whether she likes it or not.” Her cat’s-eye glasses fixed on Annabelle, who was busy unraveling her finger from her hair. “Isn’t that right, dear girl?”

“Stu-uck,” I heard Annabelle drawl.

“So, as long as I’m at Bebe’s, I’ll make a list of Bea’s possessions that remain, mostly her clothing and less valuable baubles, which I’ll donate to charity, as Jillie and Stella suggested. Oh, and I’ve promised to hand over any mail that arrives while I’m the occupant.”