“No,” I said, a tiny pathetic squeak. “It wasn’t Brian.”
She laced her fingers through mine and squeezed.
“Whoever it was obviously scared you to death. You’re positively clammy.”
“I am scared to death,” I whispered, the blur of tears in my eyes. “I’m afraid for Brian.”
“Sweetie, talk to me, or I can’t fix it,” she said in that soft way of hers that could so often make me do things I didn’t really want to do. “Don’t shut me out.”
I could keep this to myself, try to handle it on my own, but I didn’t like that option because I wasn’t sure I could do it without sacrificing Malone. I couldn’t afford to screw up, or he might be sliced and diced.
As far as I could see, there was no choice but one. So I made the decision then and there to confide in my mother, to trust her, because I wasn’t sure what else to do and I couldn’t go through this alone. I needed guidance, a plan, some kind of strategy.
Though Cissy had done her fair share of playing diplomat and defusing potential blow-ups when it came to selfabsorbed socialites on committees, I wasn’t sure how much she knew about freeing a hostage.
But she was dating a man who might well have a smidgen of experience in that area.
“I think I should talk to Stephen,” I told her; hardly able to believe I was uttering those words, particularly after our uncomfortable conversation at brunch yesterday. But Mother’s beau had a military background, which doubtless had prepared him on how to get out of situations as
sticky as this.
Besides, I couldn’t fathom where else to go, who else I could turn to.
Stephen Howard was my only hope.
“You want to discuss whatever’s bothering you with Stephen? My Stephen?” She looked puzzled and pleased all at once. “Are you still upset about my traveling with him to Vegas? Because if that’s adding to the state you’re in, well then, my darling, consider the trip cancelled.”
Good Lord, did she think everything revolved around her?
Yep, my boyfriend was being held at knifepoint under threat of death, yet I was more miffed that my mummy planned to fly to Sin City with a man she wasn’t hitched to.
Okay, that was probably an unfair assessment, but I was feeling pretty discombobulated at the moment, so forgive my snarky mood.
I managed to answer calmly, “Mother, no, it’s not about you at all. It’s about Brian and what he’s gotten himself into. He’s in real trouble.”
“I know, darling.” She cocked her head. “They found a murdered girl in his car trunk, which I’d hardly call a picnic.”
“Brian didn’t murder that woman, and just because she was found in his car trunk with his business card doesn’t prove a thing, no matter what the police seem to think,” I sniveled, whining like a three-year-old.
“I’m sure he didn’t kill that girl, my goodness,” she said, all wide eyes and fluttery lashes. “Though his being innocent doesn’t explain why he’s hiding, which tends to make one wonder what kind of situation he’s tangled up in. Not that I’m implying anything.”
Whoa, Nelly.
What had happened to He’s an upstanding young man and a fine lawyer at one of the most respected firms in the city?
In addition to wanting to cry, I suddenly felt the urge to kick something, and I didn’t even have PMS. Everything was such a freaking mess.
“Mother, Brian’s not hiding, he’s been kidnapped,” I wailed in a most indelicate manner, not caring about the sobs that shook my voice. “So, it’s not fatherly advice I want from Stephen, and I don’t need you being judgmental about what they found in Malone’s trunk. Someone’s got him, and they want a wad of cash by midnight or they’ll cut him up in a million tiny pieces!” I finished with a strangled cry, which is when the tears began to fall in earnest.
“For heaven’s sake, Andrea, why didn’t you say so in the first place? You do tend to run in circles sometimes.”
I ran in circles?
Oh, boy.
I couldn’t even manage a biting retort, not in the midst of my meltdown.
For a minute or two, I boohooed with the best of them, before the waterworks started to dry up and I wiped my nose on my cuff.
“Oh, Andrea, honey, no.” My mother promptly withdrew a clean and pressed (and monogrammed) handkerchief from her bag, handing it over. “Now blow.”
In my family, a proffered hankie was often given in lieu of a hug.
Call us sentimental.
So I honked my horn into the hankie and blotted at my soggy eyes, pulling myself together so I could repeat the kidnapper’s ransom demand.
Cissy kept her lips zipped as I rambled; though, when I’d finished, she further cranked up the heat in the Lexus, as if she could sweat the fear out of me. Then she unsnapped her rarely used cell phone from its compartment in her purse.
“What are you doing?” I asked, hoping to God she wasn’t calling Anna Dean, the deputy chief of the Highland Park Police, or one of her society reporting cronies at the Dallas Morning News.
She gave me a “hush” look as she dialed before she uttered sternly but sweetly, “Hello, Stephen? Can you meet me at the house in, say, twenty minutes? Andrea has something serious to discuss with you . . . Oh, you did? On the radio?” She lowered her voice, as if I wouldn’t hear. “Yes,
it’s about that. And thank you.” She blushed, the flicker of a smile on her lips as she added, “Yes, me too. See you soon.”
I stared at her for the longest moment, thinking that in the good old days it would’ve been my daddy she’d been talking to in such an intimate tone. It would’ve been my father whom I’d run to, since he could solve any problem, no matter how big.
But Daddy was gone, and I needed a cooler head to prevail.
Stephen Howard would have to do. “Better now?” she said, and I nodded, pressing the used kerchief back into her hand. “Good girl.”
Be a good little girl, and he won’t get hurt, okay?
I recalled the mumbled voice again and shut my eyes, pressed my hands between my thighs to still them.
Mother put the car in gear and started driving.
All the way south to Highland Park a million questions flitted through my mind. Why would someone do this to Brian? How could I get $212,000 in cash—and Benjamins, mind you—together before midnight? Would they
really kill Malone if I couldn’t?
“Who would want to hurt Mr. Malone?” my mother said at one point, surely sensing the direction of my thoughts.
“Perhaps he helped send some nasty fellow to jail and the family wants revenge.”
My God, did she think this was a rerun of Law & Order?
Or a late night showing of The Godfather?
“That doesn’t happen in real life,” I told her, leaning my forehead against the cool window. “Not unless you’re in the mob.”
“He’s a defense attorney, isn’t he?” she replied, doing her superior mother thing again. “Surely he’s dealt with his share of lowlifes.” She tapped a finger against the steering wheel, ticking off: “Murderers, killers, rapists, kidnappers, embezzlers, child molesters. Could be that one
of them wasn’t happy with his work.”
“You watch way too much cable,” I groaned.
“Well, it’s too bad you don’t have cable,” she came back at me. “Because if you saw a few episodes of Court TV, you’d realize I was right. It happens all the time.”
“I have better things to do than flip through four hundred channels of television.” I sat up straight and sniffled. “Besides, there’s never anything worthwhile on.”
“I think you’d take back that remark if you ever watched the History Channel or A&E,” my mother insisted.
“And Oprah. That woman can make finding the right bra seem fascinating, although I wish they’d quit
dressing her in such tight pants. Sometimes she looks like a stuffed sausage.”
/>
The world’s richest woman looked like a stuffed sausage?
Lord have mercy.
I laughed, despite myself.
Sweet black-eyed peas, the things that came out of Cissy’s mouth! The unbelievable non sequiturs! Someone should bottle it and offer it up as a substitute for antidepressants.
“What’s so funny?” she asked as I suffered through a fit of giggles.
“You,” I said when I’d settled down enough to speak.
“My dear,” she said, completely serious, “I think you need a Valium.”
I wanted to hug her, throw my arms around her and squeeze, although I didn’t, and not only because she would’ve lost control of the wheel and driven us into a fence.
Instead, I sighed and leaned back in the seat, listening as she began to hum a tune I didn’t recognize at first, then realized it was Patsy Cline’s “Crazy,” which made me grin on the inside.
If “crazy” didn’t define my life—heck, my entire world—I didn’t know what word would.
My mother was clearly insane (okay, eccentric, at the very least).
I couldn’t call myself “rational” or “grounded” without crossing my fingers behind my back and hoping my pants didn’t ignite spontaneously.
But then again, how could I keep a sense of humor—and a sense of hope—with all that was going on if I weren’t a little nuts?
“Thank you,” I whispered, though I’m not certain she heard me.
She hummed like a fiend, absolutely unaware of what she’d done for me, just by being there.
When we finally pulled up in Cissy’s driveway, I had pulled myself together.
I didn’t necessarily feel able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but I could handle this. I could do what must be done to set things straight.
Stephen’s blue Chevy pickup sat near the pair of whitewashed terra-cotta lions that perched upon the front stoop, and Mother settled her car in behind his. The front door came open as we parked, and I saw Stephen step outside, hands on hips, waiting.
I stared at him and swallowed hard, deciding he looked as capable as anyone. Maybe not as physically sturdy as my father (whom I’d never have called slim), but someone used to being leaned on, just the same.
And, boy, did I need to lean.
Cissy came around to my side of the car. As I shut the door, she took my arm, guiding me toward the house.
She said hello to Stephen, as did I, and he didn’t ask any questions, not then, but merely fell into step behind us. My lifelong fairy godmother and Mother’s long-time social secretary Sandy Beck popped into the foyer as we entered, and Cissy suggested she bring us a tray of hot tea and cookies.
I guess it couldn’t hurt to have a little Pepperidge Farm fortification before the powwow.
Mother shepherded Stephen and me toward the downstairs den, a warm room with high beamed ceilings, dark patterned rug, and overstuffed furniture that looked like it could swallow you whole. There were books filling shelves that lined the walls, ones I knew had been selected more for the color of their leather spines than for their contents. Cissy’s decorator had basically bought them by
the foot.
The “real” books, the beloved tomes my father had often read from aloud at night before I went to bed, those were stored upstairs in his well-preserved office, a room my mother hadn’t touched since he’d died except to allow the housekeeper to clean it.
Mother took off her cloak and settled me down beside her on the sofa, while Stephen perched on a nearby club chair, its cushions so plump they nearly engulfed him.
Cissy and her beau engaged in small-talk, at first, about how much we’d needed the rain and how nice it was that the Dallas Zoo would be borrowing a pair of pandas from China in the spring.
I sat and listened, doing my best just to breathe; to demonstrate a calm I didn’t feel, like sitting around, plotting a way to get my boyfriend out of his kidnappers’ clutches was an everyday thing.
When Sandy brought in the tea and cookies, my mother and her dude got suddenly quiet.
“I’ll leave you all alone to talk,” Sandy said, drawing her pink cardigan closed, her comfortably creased face turning briefly to me. “If you need an ear, Andy, I’m always here.”
“I know, thank you,” I told her, realizing full well that my mother would fill her in soon enough on all the details.
Sandy knew more secrets about my family than anyone, and she would take them to the grave, I was sure. Another reason we adored her.
She shut the heavy paneled door on her way out, and Mother poured a cup of tea and passed it over. Earl Grey.
Straight up. No sugar, no cream. Just the way I liked it.
The first sip warmed my insides, all the way down to my belly, and I appreciated the heat of it, despite how damp I felt on the outside, with the rain and my nervous sweat.
Once Stephen had a cup, too, and Cissy had prepared one for herself, she verbally nudged me. “Go ahead, Andrea.
Tell him everything and don’t leave anything out.”
So I set down my tea, afraid my hands would shake too much not to spill, and wiped my palms on my thighs, before I raised my gaze to meet the man’s weathered face and calm blue eyes.
“It started on Saturday night when Brian took Matty to the strip club for a two-man bachelor party . . .” I began, and I didn’t stop until I’d gone over every detail I knew of what had transpired since that fateful evening.
I shared the fact that I’d gone to The Men’s Club myself to talk to Lu McCarthy, the barmaid who’d known Trayla Trash and who’d supposedly witnessed Brian leaving the place with the stripper. I noted the piece on the news about Brian’s Acura being found at Love Field with Trayla wrapped in a tarp in his trunk, and how I was sure that his business card being found with her meant someone was trying to frame him.
I explained that Brian was a wanted man and that I’d dragged Mother over to his apartment so I could comb the place for clues, resulting in an invitation to the Addison P.D. for a chat when we got caught red-handed.
If Stephen was shocked by any of it, he didn’t show it. His expression remained sober; I didn’t ever see him flinch.
I mentioned that Allie had been looking for papers from the office Brian had taken with him regarding a criminal case they were helping to prepare for trial.
Ultimately, I spilled all about the phone call on my cell, the one with the garbled voice demanding $212,000 in Benjamins by midnight or else Malone would be chopped into a million pieces.
When I was done, Stephen unloaded some follow-up questions, as in, “Who did you talk to at the strip club?”
I told him: the hostess inside the front doors, the bouncer, Lu McCarthy, and Cricket the bartender.
“Did Brian discuss this latest case with you?”
No, he hadn’t.
“Did his alleged kidnappers let you speak to him?”
No, they didn’t.
“Did they offer any proof they’ve got him?”
That one made me squirm.
Okay, they obviously knew I was his girlfriend, which wasn’t something they would’ve found out about on the news. Either Brian had to have let the cat out of the bag or else they’d done a fair amount of digging.
I was about to tell Stephen Nope, no proof when I remembered the remark about getting blood on his pink shirt.
“They know what he was wearing that night,” I said.
“That doesn’t mean they have him, Andy.”
Surprise, surprise. The ex-IRS agent was a pragmatist.
Only I wasn’t feeling all that practical at the moment. I was running on high octane emotion.
“Where else could he be?” I said, not a little impatiently, because the idea that someone had snatched Brian from The Men’s Club explained his absence, and it was far better than believing he’d left me for a stripper whose head he’d later bashed in before stowing her in the trunk of his il
legally parked car, for Pete’s sake.
“Andy, we should take some time and look into this,”
Stephen said, but I wasn’t having it. I wasn’t risking Malone’s life for mere money.
“I want him back,” I insisted, “so help me do that, Stephen, please.”
He glanced at my mother before giving me a slow nod.
“Okay.”
“Where do we go from here?” I demanded, the pitch of my voice strained. “What do I say when they phone again?”
My fears out in the open, I sat still and waited.
“I could hire someone,” my mother said to Stephen, barely raising the soft drawl of her voice. “A private investigator.
This kind of thing is too dangerous for Andy to be involved in.”
“I don’t think we should bring in an outsider,” I said, rejecting her very generous offer. “Besides, they want me to deliver the cash, not some stranger.”
“The girl’s right, Cissy,” Stephen agreed. “They obviously know who she is and what she looks like.”
My mouth went even drier at the way he put it so bluntly, and I imagined the evildoers spying on me, maybe even hiding behind the bushes and taking pictures of me and Malone.
Stephen went on: “If they’ve really got Brian, we’ve got to play by their rules, within reason.” He proffered his palm. “Let me see your cell, Andy.”
Without hesitation, I removed it from my bag and handed it over. He squinted at the tiny screen, obviously hunting down my recently received numbers, before he hit a button and held the phone to his ear. Doubtless doing what I should have done: dialing back the phone the kidnappers had used.
I scooted to the edge of the sofa, hands between my knees, holding my breath.
“Gotta be a pay phone,” he said, frowning, and took a moment to pull a tiny pad and pencil from his breast pocket to jot down the number. “I’ll see if I can’t find out where it’s located. A reverse directory should do the trick.” He returned the phone, which I set in my lap.
“What should I do now?” I asked him. “Shouldn’t I be working on getting the money, or boning up on ransom drop etiquette?”
Night of the Living Deb Page 14
