The Good Girl's Guide to Murder: A Debutante Dropout Mystery

by McBride, Susan

  Prozac, Zoloft, Paxil, Effexor, Celexa . . . just about every antidepressant on the market was present and accounted for, not to mention Xanax, Librium, and Valium for antianxiety, Ambien and Soma for sleep, Prevacid for stomach acid, Lamisil for toenail fungus. I noted different doctors’ names on many of the bottles, each probably unaware of the other.

  Hell’s bells.

  It’s a wonder the girl wasn’t in a coma.

  If Justin’s herbal remedies had kept Kendall away from her well-stocked medicine cabinet, I could understand why Marilee had thought him a miracle worker. But what if Kendall needed to be medicated? What if she had clinical depression and her brain required a synthetic pill to fix an imbalance, to keep her wires uncrossed and prevent her from feeling such emotional extremes?

  Justin certainly hadn’t done either of them any favors in the end, had he?

  I shut the mirrored cabinet, turned off the bathroom light, and tucked the toiletries into the opened suitcase on the bed. As I zipped the bag closed, I glanced sideways and spied Kendall’s computer, a sleek Titanium laptop lying atop the wicker desk.

  Was I supposed to bring that back with me?

  I pulled the list from the handbag slung crisscross over my shoulders. Like Santa, I checked it twice, but “computer” wasn’t on it.

  Still, I sidled over to take a look, unable to resist stroking the cool metal cover as if it were a kitten. For the hell of it, I picked it up—wow, so much lighter than my Gateway model—then I set it back down and opened it, pressing the power button and giving it a whirl.

  The latest Windows program booted, and a photograph appeared to wallpaper the background. It was a young girl dressed as a princess with tulle skirt, glittering tiara, and silver wand. Kendall, I realized, at maybe eight or nine years old. Before her parents had divorced. She smiled, showing missing teeth, looking elated in the moment, blissfully unaware of her future.

  So sad, really.

  I thought of the pill bottles in the bathroom. The scars at her wrists. The way she’d starved herself with anorexia and purged herself with bulimia.

  The girl was not a happy camper.

  Calling Kendall “confused” didn’t even begin to describe her, and I wondered how she would come through this. She was already so fragile, psychologically.

  “Can you drive a tractor, Andy? Because I can. And I can milk a cow and muck a stall, too. Not something everyone knows how to do. Hell, I can probably do all the things Mummy professes to doing so expertly on her show. Except I’m the real deal. Don’t you think that’s kind of ironic?”

  Kendall would miss Marilee, despite their troubles. Sometimes I think people who fought the most, felt the void most.

  “You know, I could’ve done Mummy’s Web site, if she’d let me . . . I do all her research on the Internet, looking up recipes and stuff. I’m an expert at Googling. Can’t be much harder to put up web pages.”

  I was sorely tempted to get into Kendall’s files, but they were password protected. Not that I would have invaded her privacy anyway.

  But I did connect to the Internet, as her screen name password was saved. I was curious about Kendall’s research for Marilee, wondering what sites she’d recently Googled. I pulled down the queue from her cache and began clicking my way through them.

  The most recent links led to information about long QT syndrome and drug interactions, listings of potential fatally herbs, like ephedra. I ignored the prickle at my neck, telling myself it made sense that she’d delve into the subject after being diagnosed. It didn’t mean anything sinister.

  Then I clicked on the next page listed in her cache.

  And the one after that.

  My eyes widened, recognizing them.

  Society pages from papers in Texas and beyond with photos of Justin with his old paramours, or mere mentions of him attending a soiree “on the arm” of this socialite or that. The same ones I’d stumbled upon last night after Googling for Justin Gable.

  I went into the program files on the hard drive, checking the dates on the cookies left behind by Kendall’s visits to each site.

  My mouth dried to cotton.

  Kendall had viewed those pages weeks ago.

  How could that be? When I’d brought up his past with her last night, she’d denied knowing anything. Isn’t that what she’d told me?

  I tried to remember her reaction, after my stating, “He was a con man, Kendall. A gigolo. He slept with rich, older women to get money and cars and whatever else they’d give him. He’s done it all over the state, maybe beyond the border. He’s the male equivalent of a bimbo . . .”

  She had told me to “stop.” She’d said she didn’t want to listen to me.

  But she hadn’t denied it, hadn’t insisted I was lying.

  Because she already knew, I realized.

  “I make sure Kendall’s lies don’t get out of hand. . .”

  “. . . she did this to hurt me . . . to pay me back . . . what am I going to do with her? What?”

  Who was Kendall Mabry, really? What did I truly know about her? Had my sympathy for her clouded my judgment? Was I missing something?

  If I hacked into her files, maybe I could learn more about . . .

  No.

  I shut off the laptop and clicked it closed.

  “Used? How do you know I’m not the one doing the using, huh?”

  Who was using whom?

  Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure.

  I walked to the windows that overlooked Marilee’s backyard farm. Figures in blue conversed with a man in coveralls by the edge of the fishpond, the smooth gray surface of the water like an animal skin, bouncing the sun off its back.

  From where I stood, I couldn’t see much of anything, not with the glare.

  I closed my eyes, and I heard Kendall’s voice:

  “There’s nothing wrong with the pond . . . nothing wrong. Why can’t you just leave it alone? Why can’t this all just go away?”

  Why so panicky?

  What about the pond made her so nervous? The poor little catfish floating to the surface?

  For some reason, I didn’t think that was it.

  “We also located his passport and around a thousand dollars cash stuffed down into a pair of Tony Lamas in the closet.”

  That had never made sense to me. Why Justin had run off without his passport and a wad of cash. Why throw your underwear into a duffel bag and leave your ticket out behind?

  “Justin killed my mother? No, there’s no way.”

  Maybe Justin was a lot closer than anyone realized.

  A thought flashed in my head, a “what if” so horrific, I quickly pushed it aside, a shiver running through me.

  I touched my fingers to my temples, rubbing, wishing for once that I didn’t have that “vivid imagination” I’d been accused of having throughout my life.

  For once, I wished I’d been dull.

  Then I wouldn’t have had the knot in my stomach.

  The pain in my chest.

  I wouldn’t have had this awful suspicion that I’d been taken in as much as anybody. That I’d been deceived without being told a single lie.

  I had to get back to Mother’s.

  Without further hesitation, I scooped up the suitcase and hauled it to the Jeep, stuffing it behind the seat before I hopped in.

  My heart beat so fast and so loud, it was all I could hear as I drove.

  I think I’d known what I’d find well before I ever walked through Cissy’s front door and saw my old bed upstairs empty; before I woke my mother from her Cognac-induced nap to discover her car keys were missing, the Lexus vanished from the garage.

  Kendall was gone.

  And I knew exactly where she was.

  Chapter 26

  Ring around the rosey, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

  I’m not sure why that childish refrain kept running through my head as I drove to Marilee’s studio in Addison, but it did. Maybe because it’s how I thought of Kendal
l: going round and round in circles before falling so fast she had nothing to grab to stop herself from hitting rock bottom. She’d been trying to tell us all along what she’d done—without exactly saying it—and, like so many other times in her past, no one had listened.

  When I pulled into the parking lot off Midway, the neat square building with the green awning stood alone in the sea of black asphalt. How odd to see it so deserted, especially after the pandemonium of the party and the glut of repair trucks that clogged the lot just yesterday morning. I found myself wondering again if the show would continue in some other format or if all of Marilee’s crew would lose their jobs.

  One woman’s death—even a woman not well liked—had affected so many.

  I steered the Jeep around the back and spotted Mother’s champagne Lexus, tucked close to the rear exit that I’d become so familiar with since Marilee’s bash.

  After I slotted the Wrangler beside it, I shifted into Park and stayed put for a few minutes, getting my thoughts in order and making a few phone calls. I couldn’t do what needed to be done alone. I needed help.

  Then I gathered my purse and my wits, turned off the car and headed in, prepared to face the ghost that Marilee had left behind.

  The back hallway was dark, though a light streamed from the door to Marilee’s office. I had no misgivings as I moved toward it. I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d find, but I was determined to do this part alone.

  “Kendall?” I called before I entered the room. “It’s Andy. Are you here?”

  I looked around, but didn’t see her. Clothes were scattered on the carpet, and I toed a familiar-looking sweatshirt left in a heap. One of mine. A pair of paint-splattered sweatpants and tattered Stan Smith sneakers lay on the floor, closer to the bathroom.

  “Kendall?” I knocked at the door, hoping to God I wouldn’t spot her sprawled on the tiles. But I needn’t have worried. Except for the strong smell of disinfectant, the space was empty.

  When I turned around, Marilee’s computer monitor flickered as the screen saver came on, the sudden change of color and motion catching my eye. I felt myself drawn toward it.

  When I touched the mouse, the screen came alive, and I realized the web cams were switched on, though the live video stream was off. I studied the monitor, checking through the different zones, noting that the lights were on throughout the studio, everywhere but the kitchen set where the fire damage was done.

  I stopped the slide show of frames, seeing something.

  Seeing someone.

  There on the living room set, seated on the sofa, gesturing in a way that suggested a conversation . . . only no one else was around. Just a slender figure in tan slacks and blouse, ash-blond hair barely touching her shoulders.

  Marilee?

  My throat closed up.

  No, that was impossible.

  I blinked, but she was still there.

  Then I saw the silver bracelets, both forearms were thick with them. Bracelets that covered old scars on her wrists.

  I walked over to Marilee’s closet and opened the doors to reveal the rows of mannequin heads topped with various ash-blond wigs.

  One head was bare.

  I glanced back at the computer screen and swallowed, that figure-eight knot tying itself in my gut again.

  “I want to go back . . . take me back.”

  Back in time.

  But Kendall couldn’t erase the damage she’d done. She couldn’t bring her mummy home. So she was doing the only thing she could to make her live again.

  She was trying to be Marilee.

  I dried sweaty palms on my jeans, wishing I could wipe away my nerves so easily. I left the office and started up the long hallway, past the unmanned cubicles, past the test kitchen and into the studio.

  The sound of Kendall’s voice floated toward me as I approached, carrying on a dialogue that only she could hear. Every now and then, laughter punctuated her words or the pause in between, and I felt my heart wrench.

  I paused at the edge of the living room set, squinted up at the spotlight shining down upon the young woman—the girl—dressed in her mother’s clothes, wearing a wig so like her mother’s hair.

  “. . . well, I agree, Nate,” she was saying. “When you’re decoratin’ your bedroom, it should reflect who you are, and you should surround yourself with colors and things that reflect your personality.”

  I took a step up, onto the stage, the boards creaking.

  She clammed up suddenly.

  “Kendall,” I said. “Please, don’t do this.”

  She turned her head, her dark eyes brightening at the sight of me. She grinned, her mouth painted with Marilee’s red lipstick. “Andy! Did you come to watch the taping? I’m rehearsing for a show about decorating bedrooms.”

  “No, I didn’t come to watch a taping.” I moved closer, stopping behind an armchair and gripping it hard. “I want to talk, about your mother.”

  “Mummy?” Beneath the wig, her forehead crinkled. “But Mummy’s gone, Andy. You said so yourself, remember? That’s why I’m taking over now. Because there’s no one else to do it, and I know everything. I know better than anyone.”

  Slowly, I circled the chair, my hand on the armrest, needing the support it gave my wobbly knees.

  “How did it happen?” I asked her. “Did you mean to hurt her, Kendall? Did you rig the boom mike to fall that day? What about the brown recluse spider in your mother’s shoes? Or the ma huang in the champagne? It was meant for her to drink, because you knew how even a little caffeine made her jittery. Did you imagine it would knock her off her feet for a while? Hold up taping? Only you ingested the ephedra and ended up in the hospital. Then you found out about your heart ailment, and you must’ve realized she had it, too.”

  The grin died from her lips. Her dark eyes darted about. “Why are you saying these things, Andy? Don’t embarrass me,” she whispered. “Not in front of the crew.”

  “But no one else is here, Kendall,” I said and swung my arm around me. “There’s no one but us.” I squinted against the spotlight, seeing only shadows beyond the stage. “So you can be honest. You don’t have to lie. Tell me what really went on. Convince me it was an accident. Don’t let me believe you’re a killer.” I swallowed, wishing my mouth weren’t bone dry, making it even harder to get the words out. “You didn’t mean for it to happen. It was a mistake, right?”

  “Yes.” She grew rigid, sitting ramrod straight. Except for the hands in her lap, which kneaded together. “It was a mistake.”

  “She wasn’t supposed to die, was she?” I lowered my voice, keeping it soft, as if speaking to a child, a little girl who’d erred gravely.

  “I just wanted Mummy to be sick.” Her chin trembled, and a rush of tears spilled from her eyes. “Sick enough so that I could take care of her. I wanted her to need me, for once. To rely on me. Then everything else would disappear. I wanted to make them all disappear, so she would finally have to see me.” Her eyes narrowed, jaw clenching. “If I didn’t do something, she would’ve pushed me even farther away. She would’ve let him come between us forever.”

  “Justin?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes, Justin!”

  “I’ll bet you wish you’d never brought him into your lives, don’t you? After you’d met him at the gym, after you’d brought him home, you thought he would romance your mother and then leave her, like he did all those other women. You’d researched his past on the Web, and you knew what he’d done. You wanted to be there for Marilee when he broke her heart. But instead, he decided to stay.”

  “Mummy didn’t love him, not really, but she liked having him around,” she whispered, her fingers curling into fists. Trails of black and blue from her makeup bruised her eyes, left dark streaks on her cheeks. “Justin liked the celebrity of being with Mummy. He liked hanging around the set and running errands for her.” She wiped a silk sleeve across her face, only making more of a mess. “He said he might even ask Mummy to marry him someday, that they had fun togeth
er and he was tired of moving around. When I told him we could be together, he laughed and said he didn’t want me. That I was just a diversion.” She jerked up her chin, and I read the rage in her eyes. “He left me on the floor of her bathroom when I got sick that night . . . he left me there, Andy. I would’ve died if you hadn’t found me. He would’ve had her all to himself.” She drew in a deep breath and shook her head. “That’s when I knew . . . when I made up my mind.”

  “So you took care of him.”

  “Yes.” She seemed to calm down as she said it. Her hands relaxing in her lap.

  She had murdered Justin, I told myself, only now truly believing it. And it had been no accident, not from what Deputy Chief Dean had relayed, only minutes earlier.

  The police had sent a diver into the catfish pond and found the silver BMW Roadster, Justin belted into the passenger seat, and the tracks of the tractor indicated the car had been pushed the final few feet into the water. They were awaiting the crane when I’d spoken to Anna Dean from my cell in the studio parking lot. An autopsy of the body would doubtless show he’d been drugged. I had a feeling Kendall had made him a sleeping pill smoothie, maybe even here at the studio, when everyone else had packed up and gone to Mother’s for the taping. She had already decided then that he had to go, even before she made her mummy “sick” with the ma huang in the chocolate cake.

  “Mummy, come back, please,” Kendall breathed and pulled the wig from her head and cradled it, her own dark hair falling to her shoulders, the streak of white-blond catching across her face. “I’m so sorry . . . so sorry . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you, Mummy, believe me.” She drew her knees to her chest and started sobbing in earnest, vicious shuddering sobs that broke my heart.

  I wanted to reach for her, to hold her, but I couldn’t.

  Not this time.

  Instead, I wrapped my arms around myself and closed my eyes, sick with disappointment and anger and guilt. Disgusted at Kendall for what she’d done and at the people who’d surrounded her, wondering how many times she’d cried out for their attention and had been ignored.

  She had needed love and had killed to get it.