Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery

by McBride, Susan

  “Hot date?”

  “A prayer meeting,” she replied with a straight face.

  A prayer meeting?

  You’ve gotta be kidding.

  “It’s how I’ve been getting over Bud being gone,” she said as she wiggled her top off and pulled on a lacy black bra before I could avert my eyes. “Sometimes it helps to talk about your troubles, you know? Give them up to a higher power.”

  I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking if that “higher power” was named Jim Bob Barker.

  She shimmied into a purple spandex dress that didn’t look like proper attire for any Bible study I’d ever been to at Highland Park Presbyterian. In fact, it seemed to be made of the same material as the short-shorts I was wearing. Could be Bud had gotten a cutrate on the clingy fabric, had used at least a yard on fifteen pair of hot pants, and had enough left over to make Julie an outfit akin to colored Saran Wrap.

  “Yoo hoo, Andrea?” Julie wiggled her fingers in front of my eyes until I blinked. “You sure you’re all right?” she asked again.

  “Peachy.”

  “Well, then hasta la vista, mamacita,” she said and slammed her locker door shut. She waved at me over her shoulder as she sashayed from the room in a pair of high heels that would’ve toppled a lesser mortal.

  I lifted my head to the light fixture, wondering if a tape was running. On the off chance that it was, I stuck out my tongue for good measure before I left the room.

  The sun was setting as I drove up Belt Line toward Truluck’s Steak and Stone Crab, which wasn’t more than a mile or so west of the Preston intersection.

  The restaurant was casual upscale with dark wood, large booths, and a 1940s décor that, coupled with the dim lighting, felt more than a little romantic.

  Malone was already there when I arrived, and I was quickly led to his table.

  “Hey, Andy.”

  He half rose as I scooted into the booth on the opposite side, and I noticed he’d already ordered a beer for himself and an iced tea for me. I took a long sip before I even said “hello.” Then I cupped my hands around the cool glass and met his eyes.

  “So tell me about the search of Bud’s place.” I kept my voice low, and he leaned toward me. “Did the police find all his smutty tapes?”

  “He had shelves full of them behind the clothes in his closet. Hundreds, at least. It was unbelievable.” Malone looked flushed. Could’ve been from the heat. “There were dozens marked ‘Jugs’ that were dated, but nothing more recent than last week. Got a glimpse of one of ’em that Jed Lindstrom—he’s the assistant D.A.—played on Hartman’s VCR, and it wasn’t anything you’d show your mother.”

  “Never underestimate my mother,” I said to him, though I was thinking about the snowball’s chance in hell that Cissy Blevins Kendricks had ever seen a kinky movie (and, if she had, I surely didn’t want to know). Instead, I considered what I’d learned at Paciugo Gelato earlier that day. And I wasn’t about to tell him that my mother had asked J.D. Abramawitz to put him on Molly’s case because Cissy was playing matchmaker and that his skills as a litigator had nada to do with it.

  I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  He continued in a low voice, “They found some files on Bud’s computer and corresponding financial records that pretty clearly suggest he was marketing his homemade porn to subscribers on a web site he’d set up called HotLove.com. He kept a pretty detailed list of the ladies who are, um, shown in compromising positions with him.”

  “What a creep.” I felt my stomach lurch.

  “Lindstrom said they’d try to match up the women’s names to waitresses at Jugs, past and present.”

  “Molly’s name wasn’t there, was it?”

  Malone’s mouth pressed into a tight line.

  “It was?” My heart sank.

  “I’m sorry, Andy.”

  Molly said she’d slept with Bud once, had made a mistake, and realized it soon after. But even if she’d found out about Hartman peddling the sex tapes on the web—and surely she would’ve at least mentioned it if she had—it still didn’t mean she’d stabbed him to death.

  But maybe someone else had.

  “What about Sarah Carter?” I ventured to ask. “Was she on the list?”

  He took a sip of his beer, then ran the back of his hand lightly across his mouth. “Yeah, she was. Julie Costello, too.”

  I had figured as much. That Sarah had gotten herself in deep with Bud, maybe deeper than she’d intended to.

  “She’s been taken advantage of enough.”

  I remembered what Peggy Martin had said and wondered if she’d meant the videotapes. If Sarah had found out that Bud had recorded their most intimate moments together and was offering them to a paying public on the Internet, would she have freaked out? Lost her mind for even the moment it took to pick a knife from the ground and lash out? Then what if she’d run to the Wellness Clinic for help, and Peggy had gotten her the hell out of Dodge?

  It wasn’t entirely inconceivable, was it?

  But the tapes also gave Molly motive. At least, the police would see it that way, I’m sure.

  Aw, cripes. The last thing I wanted to do was help the Dallas P.D. find more nails for Molly’s coffin.

  I didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t even want to talk about it any further.

  “You all right, Andy?”

  “Yeah.” Just depressed that nothing seemed to be going Molly’s way.

  “I’ve got more news about Fred Hicks, if you want to hear it.”

  I perked up. “Fire away.”

  “One of the paramedics drew blood for testing while he did the IV start in the ambulance, and one of the results came back abnormal.”

  “Did they find alcohol or drugs?” That’s the first thing that came to mind.

  “Nope.” Malone got a funny look in his eyes. “Acute hypoglycemia.”

  “Low blood sugar?” I shrugged. “Maybe he was diabetic.”

  “They searched his suitcase and his car, Andy. There were no prescriptions found in his belongings besides some arthritis medication.” He scooted forward, so his elbows crossed the center of the table. “They also ran something called an insulin C-peptide level, which showed the combination of very low blood sugar and a normal C-peptide.”

  “Which means, in plain English?”

  He gushed, “That someone likely administered insulin from an outside source, an IV or possibly a syringe. The police are investigating it as a suspicious death.”

  “So Hicks didn’t have a heart attack?”

  “No.”

  I shivered, knowing what that meant. And, just in case I couldn’t put two and two together, Malone said it outright: “Someone tried to kill him.”

  “Tried?” I sniffed. “He’s in an irreversible coma, for God’s sake. I’d say they did a bang-up job.”

  “But, Andy, you’re not seeing the bright spot in all this. Whoever murdered Bud Hartman likely went after Fred Hicks. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “If that’s true”—I looked him straight in the eye—“does it mean the police will let Molly go home?”

  He leaned away from me, settling back against the booth. “Not exactly.”

  “Then how does this help us?” I waved my hands at him, nearly knocking over my iced tea. “Another human being down the crapper, and we don’t even know who’s responsible or why.”

  Dammit.

  Tears pricked my eyes, and I fought them hard, pushed them back. I wasn’t going to cry in front of Malone, despite how utterly frustrated I felt.

  I picked up the menu, pretending to study it intently, but my mind was still miles away.

  “Andy?”

  When I didn’t respond, Malone reached across the table and slid the menu from my grasp. He turned it right-side up before he handed it back.

  “Maybe now it’ll make more sense.”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Molly’s case was really getting to me. My chest even felt heavy, like someone was press
ing a hand against my rib cage, making it hard to breathe deeply. What was next? An ulcer? Hypertension? Hives? “Can we talk about something else?” I pleaded. “Just for tonight?”

  “No problem.” Malone touched my hand, and I put down the menu and saw the worry in his face. “We could both use a break.” He smiled sympathetically, his expression sweet and concerned.

  I nodded, and his fingers tightened over mine. A ripple of electricity ran through me, lifting goose bumps on my skin. I only hoped my hair wasn’t standing on end.

  “Andy, I . . .”

  “Ah, are you ready to hear the specials?”

  The waiter appeared out of nowhere to hover above us.

  Brian’s hand left mine to slip back across the table, and I felt my cheeks warm.

  We listened to the specials, but neither of us ordered them.

  Crab cakes for me. Ahi tuna steak for him.

  The waiter gathered up our menus, then left us alone.

  Malone drained his beer.

  I pushed the lemon around in my tea with the straw.

  “So,” we said at the same time.

  We both laughed and smiled awkwardly.

  “Cissy tells me you went to Columbia,” he started off, getting the “where’d you go to school” thing right out in the open. “I love New York City.”

  I sighed and pinched my fingers together. “Mother’s fudging the truth just a smidge.”

  “So you didn’t go to Columbia?”

  “Columbia College, yes,” I told him directly. “Columbia University, no.”

  Malone scrunched up his nose. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of it.”

  “It’s a small art school in Chicago.” I fiddled with the straw again. “I studied graphics and computers, so web design seemed a natural evolution. It’s what I love to do, though my mother thinks it’s a hobby, something to keep me busy until I’m properly married off. Little does she know, I don’t intend on walking down the aisle anytime soon. Though I have the perfect white dress hanging in the closet, never been worn.”

  “A wedding gown?”

  I shook my head. “It was for my debut, which never happened.” He didn’t ask why, and I didn’t explain. “Just one more thing my mother holds against me.”

  Brian chuckled. “So you’ve been bucking the system your whole life, huh?”

  I liked the way he put that. “Yeah, I guess I have.” I figured it was his turn for the third degree and asked, “Tell me about your family. I mean, you must know everything else about me already, what with the firm practically having a dossier on my parents.”

  Abramawitz, Reynolds, Goldberg, and Hunt had been counsel of record for my father’s pharmaceutical company before he’d died and, after, when Mother had sold it but remained on the board, they’d continued to manage her legal affairs. Only the staff at Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door day spa knew her more intimately. So I wasn’t stretching the truth by much.

  “You’re not originally from Texas, are you?” I asked him.

  “What, did my Midwest twang give me away?” He pushed at his glasses in what I’d already come to learn was a nervous habit. “To make it short and sweet, I grew up in Chesterfield, which is a western suburb of St. Louis. Did my undergrad work at Washington University, so I didn’t venture too far from home.”

  So I was right when I’d figured him for a “Show Me” kind of guy.

  “How’d you get from there to Harvard Law?”

  “By plane,” he said and grinned.

  “Very funny.” I nudged him under the table with the toe of my pink high-top sneaker, and he wagged his eyebrows.

  “Okay, I worked my ass off.”

  “So how did you get from Harvard to Texas? And be serious, would you?”

  He shifted in his seat and made a show of putting on a straight face. “J.D. Abramawitz brought me to Dallas, and that’s the truth. He recruited me after I’d been working for a few years in Boston. I’d always wanted to come down this way, ever since I was a kid and saw J.R. Ewing shot on Southfork.” He ignored my groan and continued. “I had envisioned wearing a cowboy hat to the office.” He lifted his hands to adjust an imaginary Stetson. “But I’ve only seen a few of ’em around. Nobody rides a horse to work, either. Mostly everyone’s very friendly, and the weather’s great.”

  “If you like it hot.”

  “I had more than my share of snow in April, so I’m not gonna knock blue skies and sun.”

  “What I wouldn’t give for snow in April,” I remarked, and he looked at me as if I was bonkers. “Hey, I grew up here. I’ve had my share of sun. When I was in Chicago, I got to see the four seasons, which is two more than we get in these parts. Don’t you miss them?”

  “If I want the four seasons, I’ll listen to Vivaldi.”

  “Good to know, since Mother has tickets to the symphony for a Vivaldi tribute next month. Should I have her call? I know she has your number.” I tried not to sound snippy, but maybe I did, just a little.

  He crooked a finger at me, and we bent nearer over the table, so near I breathed in the smell of him, the warmth of male mixed with lemony aftershave. “No offense,” he whispered, “but I’d rather go with her daughter.”

  “No offense taken,” I whispered back.

  I marveled at the black of his eyelashes, the curl of chestnut brown on his brow, and I realized I’d stopped breathing for an instant.

  Right on cue, the master of bad timing—our waiter—appeared, bearing a tray of steaming dishes.

  Malone and I drew apart, settling back into our seats, barely glancing at each other until the clattering had stopped and our meals were presented. I inhaled deeply, thinking I’d died and gone to heaven.

  The waiter mercifully disappeared.

  And we grinned goofily across the table like a couple of teenagers out on a first date before we picked up our forks and dug in.

  Chapter 23

  The night was sultry, no other way to describe it. Or maybe I was just in a generous mood. The sky was dark as velvet with the twinkle of stars above and the shimmer of neon signs creating a glow over Addison, all the way up Belt Line as far as the eye could see. Restaurant Row seemed alive with color and motion, cars zipping to and fro.

  At that moment, there wasn’t anywhere on earth more lovely.

  I didn’t even mind the sweat slipping down my back, and I had no fear of oregano in my teeth as I’d done a quick inspection in the ladies’ room mirror before we’d left. A Tic-Tac took care of the rest.

  Brian walked me to my car, his hand brushing mine, our voices low, and our laughter a gentle ripple across the still air.

  Made me sorry I’d found a spot to park the Jeep so near the entrance to the restaurant.

  He held open the Wrangler’s door as I climbed in, and he hung there a minute before he pushed it snugly closed. I rolled down the window and he leaned in.

  “This was nice,” he said.

  I agreed. It was. Though I’d be damned if I’d tell Cissy.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “In the morning?”

  “At Jugs,” he reminded me. “The police should have their warrants in order to search the place. Lindstrom said they should be there by ten.”

  “Okay.”

  I didn’t tell him about my conversation with Julie, the one where she’d claimed I was acting weird and should take a few days off. If she fired me before I’d found what I needed to clear Molly—and I wasn’t even sure what that was—then all my efforts would be for naught. I had to move faster, dig deeper. Like where Julie and Jim Bob were concerned. If I didn’t get to the bottom of their relationship, it might be too late to do Molly any good.

  For nearly two hours, I’d barely thought about the case or what might happen beyond this evening. I felt the knot in my stomach return. My shoulders tensed. A second earlier, I’d been wishing Malone would kiss me. Now I had other more important things on my mind.

  “Sleep tight,” he said, brushing my cheek with h
is fingers.

  “You, too.”

  I watched him walk across the lot. He gave a wave before getting into an Acura coupe, and I sighed with relief that he didn’t drive anything more pretentious. Brian Malone was no showoff, and I liked that about him.

  One of the reasons I didn’t want to disappoint him.

  I decided to drive for a bit before I went home. I was suddenly keyed up. Malone had gotten me thinking about Bud’s murder again, and I needed to unwind.

  There was something about a car ride that had always soothed me. Mother had told me stories about nights when I’d howled from the crib so that she and Daddy couldn’t catch a wink even with pillows over their heads. They’d finally taken me out in the Cadillac, and Cissy had held me in the back seat while Daddy had made several slow trips through the Park Cities. It had put me out like a light. So, any time I didn’t fall asleep like a good baby, into the car I went. Better than Sominex. I still had trouble staying awake on road trips if I were a passenger.

  When I was driving, it was a different story. Instead of knocking me out, the rhythmic thunk of the tires on the pavement and gentle motion of the shock absorbers somehow relaxed me, made my thoughts more clear, convinced me that I could sort out any problems in my life between traffic signals.

  So I drove west on Belt Line from Quorum, where Truluck’s was located, heading slowly toward Midway. Checking out other cars at the light at Inwwod/ Addison and listening to Sheryl Crow croon while my fingers tapped a beat on the steering wheel.

  I looked around me as I surged forward on green, traffic amazingly heavy at ten o’clock on a weekday evening. Countless cars moved around me, everyone in a hurry to get where they were going. Wherever that was.

  I hit another red light at Beltway Drive and glanced to my right, over into the next lane.

  A white Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows idled, the streetlamp picking out the pockmarks on the hood. I could see them even better from my elevated position in the Jeep Wrangler, and it took but an instant for recognition to dawn.

  My heart accelerated, like I’d put my foot on the gas for my pulse. I slunk back against my seat hoping the driver couldn’t see me.