Say Yes to the Death

by Susan McBride

  “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 LINE 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?

  I started to wonder about the people around Olivia.

  What would happen to her business now? Would Terra inherit her clients? Would the business be sold? Who would benefit the most by wiping her off the face of the earth? Was she in a relationship that had soured? Did she have a vengeful ex? How many people were out there who had a motive to kill her?

  I simply didn’t believe Olivia’s death was a random act of violence. It was hard to imagine someone entering the upstairs suite on a whim and icing her with a cake knife. Her office hadn’t appeared ransacked by a thief, though her phone and her laptop were apparently missing. Why steal from a wedding planner anyway? Wouldn’t any of the posh stores that surrounded Olivia’s office make better targets for robbery? Or even the Starbucks around the corner?

  No, I firmly believed Olivia had been attacked by someone she knew. The key was in figuring out which of her enemies hated her enough to want her dead. There was only one big problem with my theory: Olivia La Belle probably had more enemies than most.

  I knew so little about Olivia’s life beyond Hockaday. If I wanted to learn anything about why she died, I was going to have to find out more about how my prep school enemy had lived. Luckily, I had someone in mind who could help me catch up on anything and everything to do with Olivia La Belle . . . someone who knew the deepest dirt on everyone who was anyone in the Park Cities.

  Honk, honk.

  A horn tooted loudly, and I glanced in the review to see the tow truck with Millie’s SUV idling behind me.

  I pulled back into the parking space and let the truck pass. While I did, I got my cell phone out and I called my pal from the Park Cities Press, Janet Graham.

  Chapter 13

  When I turned into the half circle in front of Cissy’s house on Beverly Drive, I saw her peering out from the doorway, waiting for me.

  As I exited the Jeep, the smell of roses filled the air, and I eyed the lush pink blooms as I ascended the stone steps. No matter the season, the grounds always looked so pretty, kind of like my mother. I’d always felt so rumpled in comparison.

  “Good, you’re here.” She put an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get you fed,” she said, and she ushered me inside, her Cole Haan loafers clicking softly on the marble tiles. “I found a dozen eggs in the refrigerator,” she remarked brightly, as if that was a huge accomplishment, though I guess it was for her since she so rarely set foot in the kitchen. “I located a small mixing bowl and a whisk but I’m not quite sure if I should use a skillet or the griddle for the actual cooking part, and I’m concerned about turning on the gas burner. I don’t have to light it with a match, do I? Heaven knows, I don’t want to set something on fire while Sandy’s away,” she remarked, guiding me toward the kitchen. “If you’d do me a favor, sweet pea, and pick out the right pan and get a burner going, I’ll start crackin’ the eggs.”

  Um, maybe I should just make the eggs myself.

  Martha Stewart she wasn’t. But it was sweet that Cissy was clucking over me like a mother hen. When I was growing up, it was more often than not Sandy Beck who’d assumed that role, bandaging my scraped knees and making me Toll House cookies when I’d had a bad day at school.

  I was about to tell my mother that cereal would be fine—­I wasn’t really that hungry—­and I opened my mouth to do just that. But as we neared the stairwell my mind suddenly shifted in a different direction entirely. I stopped at the base of the steps and reached for the carved wooden finial. What ended up coming out of my mouth instead was, “If you don’t mind, I think I need to go up to my old room for a while.”

  “What?” Cissy swiveled on a loafer. She looked equal parts relieved and concerned. “Andrea darlin’, do you feel ill? Would you like some tea? And, yes, I do know how to make that. Or how about a Xanax?” she asked, and she wasn’t kidding. “I would have fallen apart without them after your father died.”

  Like a tiny pill could rid me of all my worries.

  “No, thanks,” I said, because I wasn’t big on medicating myself when I didn’t truly need it. Plus, I was counting on my adrenaline to fire up my brain and help me figure out what to do next. “I just need to go upstairs for a few minutes if it’s all right.”

  “Do you want company?”

  I shook my head.

  “I understand.” Mother closed the gap between us and touched my cheek. “Take all the time you need. If you feel like napping, you should do it. I don’t have anything important on my schedule today so I’ll be around.”

  “Great.” I gave her a halfhearted smile.

  Then I wandered up the staircase, which creaked and groaned despite the thick Oriental runner. When I reached the first room at the top of the steps, I paused as I always did. It had been my father’s study, and Cissy had left it untouched through the years. If I sat in the worn leather chair behind the desk, I could still smell the Cuban cigars Daddy had given up after his first heart attack. My artwork hung on the walls between actual masterpieces. Old books with richly colored leather covers filled built-­in shelves.

  Would Stephen change things once he and Cissy got married? I guessed he could if he wanted to (or rather if Mother would let him). I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes, moving into a house that held decades of memories; taking over another man’s closet; trying to feel at ease while walking in another man’s indelible footprints.

  Much as I liked my mom’s fiancé—­and I did, I really did—­the idea of him turning my father’s study into his den made my heart hurt. But I couldn’t expect it to remain untouched forever. The house wasn’t a museum. It was for living, and my mother had done a bang-­up job continuing to live after my father had passed, despite how that loss had shaken her. It had shaken us both to the core.

/>   My heart heavy, I continued down the hallway to my old bedroom. With a flick of the switch, I lit up my childhood. Bypassing the canopy beds and rows of Madame Alexander dolls, I walked straight toward the built-­in shelves above my desk. First, I pulled out an old Hockaday yearbook, and I thumbed through the senior pictures, finding my own—­dear God, what was with the frizzy perm?—­and then homing in on Olivia La Belle’s.

  She wore pearls and had her blunt-­cut blond hair flipped up at the bottom. She smiled with perfect white teeth, and her pale eyes appeared so at ease with the camera. My picture looked like a Glamour magazine fashion don’t, while Olivia’s looked like an ad for Pantene. During our senior year, Seventeen magazine had come to Dallas searching for students for a special back-­to-­school issue. Of course, Olivia had been picked for the feature because she was tall and pretty in the way of Texas pageant girls who seemed to emerge from the womb leggy and slim and perfectly groomed. Janet Graham had been hanging out with me when the issue showed up in my mailbox. Surprise, surprise, Olivia’s face was on the cover. Janet had torn it off and set it on fire in my bathtub.

  Frowning, I stowed away the prep school annual and glanced up at the next shelf, which held my collection of Nancy Drew mysteries. I felt drawn to the row of yellow spines, and I ran my fingers across the titles: The Secret of the Old Clock, The Hidden Staircase, The Bungalow Mystery, and on down the line. My father had given me a complete set of the hardcover Nancy Drew books when I turned eight, and I had treasured them all. Someday when Malone and I had a daughter—­and I thought of it as when not if—­I would pass them down to her. I only hoped she would love them as much.

  How I wished I could channel Nancy Drew now and figure out The Secret of the Dead Wedding Belle. I had my own Ned Nickerson, didn’t I? And I had a widowed mother who stuck her nose into everyone’s business, which trumped Nancy’s father the lawyer who was always out of town, leaving Nancy alone with the housekeeper. I was just missing one thing—­

  I heard the distant ring of the doorbell, the tap-­tap of my mother’s shoes on marble, and then the front door coming open.