Sprayed Stiff (10 page)

Huh? “Oh? I thought she had a nice family life.”

“That son of hers, he was always her favorite, and always such a perfect angel as a child. To have him be what he is now…well, it’s just sacrilegious. Wilma doesn’t deserve this. And that girl. She breaks her mother’s heart. She won’t do anything she was raised to do. You know, she even refuses to…” She paused for dramatic effect. I leaned in for the great sin, which I was sure would be not wearing underwear or something like that. “Refuses to join the League.”

“No!” I shuddered in mock horror. They all nodded solemnly.

“Poor Wilma. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d killed herself, with all the burdens she had to shoulder.”

I couldn’t even conjure an image of dictatorial Wilma as a pitiful victim of circumstance. The only way that woman would have killed herself would be to get someone else in trouble. Hmm. I hadn’t considered that.

“And that husband of hers.”

I perked up, temporarily abandoning the suicide theory. “Percy?”

“He’s a flirt. After he hit middle age, he became quite the ladies’ man, that one.”

For what kind of ladies was the unibrowed, garlic-scented troll a flirt? Blind ones born without olfactory nerves?

“So he had girlfriends,” I offered.

All their hands went to their chests. They did a silent vote, and the one who’d spoken first shook her head. “No, but his roving eye, well, that did weigh on poor Wilma’s heart.”

I was just glad to hear Wilma had one. “Did she ever do anything about it?” Maybe the eye candy got even when Percy couldn’t do any more roving.

“Oh, no,” said Silk Hanky with a sniff. “She just suffered in silence.”

Apparently not too silently, because these old gals knew all about it. I suppose everyone’s character was automatically elevated upon death by those feeling guilty about not treating her well enough in life. I reviewed the assembled matrons. Hmmm.

“Thank Gucci, Reyn! I thought you’d never get back with the ever-important
documento,
” Daffy sang in my ear. I noticed the matrons had recoiled. I’d guess Daffy wasn’t their sort of woman, since from a distance she could pass for Trudy’s younger sister instead of her mom. Besides which, she wasn’t wearing support hose or carrying a Coach bag. For an instant I was proud of Daffy for being different. It only lasted a moment. “Look at you,” she fussed. “You lost your barrette. Your fur is ruffled and I daresay you’ve scuffed my Manolos.” Heavy, ominous sigh. “You’re going to need a lot more work than I thought before we can take you anywhere and claim you.”

Snatching the paper out of my hand, she hooked her three-inch nails in my raccoon cuff and dragged me away from the gaggle of grannies.
“Excusez-mois,”
Daffy called back. “I’ve got to make this provision-al offici-al.”

Oh, dear. This was worse than that year my friends dared me to try out for a part in the school production of
National Velvet
and I didn’t make it, which was probably a good thing because Midge Cassidy who got the part of Velvet tripped on her cardboard horse and broke her leg in four places. Had it been me, I probably would’ve broken both legs. I hadn’t wanted the part then, and didn’t want to be in the Junior League now, but I have this irrational fear of rejection. Even when it involves things I don’t want. I took a deep breath and reminded myself how all usually works out for the best.

Except maybe for Wilma.

The membership chair took the application with a fake smile that made me want to yank it back out of her hands. I resisted the impulse and left Daffy to talk me up. “Reyn is world-renowned for her creativity as a beauty consultant…”

Hey, Daff, I just dye, cut, and curl hair.

“…and is incredibly eloquent…”

Especially with those four-letter words.

Thankfully, I got out of earshot before I could elaborate eloquently about my worldwide renown. I’d negotiated through the maze of fiberglass nails, David Yerman jewelry, and Chanel No. 5 and was almost to the front door when Charlotte caught me. Damn.

“Reyn, you can’t leave yet!” She was holding a cup of cappuccino and nibbling a biscotto. “The party’s not over. There’s some pâté left.”

“Charlotte, I have to go see a friend of mine.”

“What friend could be more important than this?”

I hated to burst her bubble and give her just a glimmer of painful life perspective, but, hey, I was in a hurry. “Alexandra Barrister is the friend I have to go see.”

“Oh.” Charlotte swallowed the biscotto whole. I wondered if it would travel down her throat like a snake’s dinner, but I couldn’t see a thing. And I looked. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, Charlotte, that won’t be necessary.”

“I refuse to let you go alone.”

Swell. I wish I were meaner and tougher, but the truth is, when it comes to hurting someone’s feelings, I am an absolute wuss. Sighing, I opened the door and let her bounce along next to me, talking a mile a minute about everything and nothing.

I was sure Lexa wouldn’t open up to me with Motormouth around. Oh, well, I’d go by and see how she was doing, and then maybe drop Charlotte off and go back to the House of Horrors.

We pulled out past the limestone barrier that rivaled the Great Wall of China, and I negotiated the twenty thousand stop signs in the one-point-three miles between the two homes. We were almost to Guaraty Road when I heard Charlotte say, “…works for Percy Barrister.”

“Who works for Percy Barrister?”

Charlotte looked slightly miffed, her expression telling me I’d missed a lot of the conversation. “One of my friends from high school, Annette Hastings. She took a year off before law school and is working as his paralegal–slash–executive assistant to make sure she wants to specialize in tax law when she graduates. And to ensure she gets a scholarship. Mr. Barrister is a big alum at St. Mary’s Law.”

“She’s smart,” I said, and Charlotte brightened with the knowledge that I’d actually started to listen to her again.

“She says Mr. Barrister has been so edgy lately, and he’s overtired, falling asleep in his office.”

I thought about his arrival time that morning. All those late nights. Hmm.

“And then he started getting weird packages.”

“What kind of weird packages?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

Even if Charlotte had asked, she probably wouldn’t have shut up long enough for poor Annette to answer. She must have seen the look on my face, because she rushed to trivialize it.

“Come on, it’s a tax law office. After all, anything not shaped like an eight-by-fourteen-by-three legal document is probably considered weird.”

“Probably, but you really should tell Annette to talk to the police about the packages.”

Charlotte whipped out her phone and dialed while I negotiated the Barristers’ intercom. Maria Carricales had doubts about letting the woman she’d last seen being led out by the cops back into the compound, but her husband prevailed on her to have mercy on me. Meanwhile, Charlotte held her finger over the receiver, her smooth, guileless face rumpled in worry.

“Annette says she can’t talk to the police. Mr. Barrister ordered her not to tell the cops anything or else she’ll lose her job and her chance to get back into law school. And, worst of all, her scholarship.”

Percy, not a smooth move.

“But she says she’s worried enough about what’s gone on that she’ll tell you what she knows.”

Enough to worry Percy.

“You have to swear not to tell anyone where you found out. I told her you were the most loyal person I knew, that if you made her a promise, you’d keep it to the death.”

I repressed a shiver as I noticed Wilma’s luxury sedan parked in front of the house. How odd. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

Charlotte had the grace to look embarrassed that her runaway mouth had added that tidbit.

“Tell her to meet me at the salon in an hour.”

As we pulled even with the Jaguar, the front door flew open. Lexa skipped down past the bloodthirsty lions, waved at us, flashing a diamond-studded Rolex, and hopped into the front seat.

She was wearing Chanel.

She was carrying a Prada purse.

And in her hair was a jeweled barrette.

I’
D HAD TO NEARLY THROW MYSELF
in front of the silver Jag to keep Lexa from driving off. Now she refused to get out of the damned car.

“Come on, Alexandra. Let’s go inside and have scones.” Charlotte almost licked her lips. “And a cup of Earl Grey.”

“Or a brandy,” I offered, figuring that’s the type of thing they likely had in this Scottish barbarian knockoff. With the white-knuckled way Lexa was gripping the steering wheel, it looked like she needed something stronger than tea, too. “Or a shot of tequila,” I added, ever helpful.

Lexa shook her head. “I’m not hungry or thirsty. I’m fine. Just fine.”

Uh-huh.

“Well, I need something. Something
strong,
” I emphasized, and, after the last twenty-four hours I’d had, that was no lie.

“Make yourselves at home, please,” Lexa said, turning the key in the ignition, staring hard out the windshield. “The bar is fully stocked. Dad’s out, but the Carricaleses are in.”

I wondered where Percy could be during what my gran calls “dark-thirty,” the night after he came home to find his wife had been murdered. Hmm.

“Lexa,” I said, putting my hand on her forearm. She jumped like I’d scalded her. She’d never been a touchy-feely person, but that reaction was extreme. “You need to talk, to cry, to grieve and be around people who care about you.”

“Actually, I think I need to let loose on the road. Alone. That should clear my head well enough.”

“Your head doesn’t need clearing. Your emotions do.”

“How would you know what I need?” she snapped, still staring straight ahead. I was glad to hear it. I hoped she unleashed a whole lot more.

I prodded her. “I suppose I
would
venture to know what you need after I helped you fix up your dead mother and then spent all night at the jailhouse, thanks to you.”

“I’m sorry for what happened,” Lexa whispered. A single tear trailed from the outside corner of her eye. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“No,” I jumped in, even though I knew I should let her keep talking. Her face just broke my heart. “I could have said no when you called for help.”

“You don’t understand. It is all my fault that Mother died.”

Charlotte’s eyebrows rose so high that, if they could have levitated above her head, they would have. For once she remained speechless. My heart caught in my throat for a moment, and I couldn’t even grunt. Was Scythe right after all? My tongue finally came alive. “Did you kill her?”

“I might as well have.”

“What do you mean?”

“I should have been here with her that evening.” Lexa paused. A tear leaked out the other eye. “But I wasn’t.”

“Why weren’t you?” I asked carefully.

She just shook her head.

“Were you with your boyfriend?”

She stiffened. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

I sighed. “Lexa, the police know you have a boyfriend.”

“A lot of people who live in this freakland are going to say a lot of things about me,” Lexa said, defensiveness dripping from each word. “Some of it true and some of it false. The cops are just going to have to sift through it on their own.”

“That’s the problem, Lex,” I put in gently. “The cops around here probably aren’t real good at the sifting process. No practice.”

“Too bad.”

I looked at Charlotte, but she just shook her head helplessly. Great, just when I needed a verbal boost, Motormouth went mute.

“Okay, Lexa, let’s say you don’t have a boyfriend. Then tell me why you’ve gone designer on me.”

Unexpectedly, Lexa opened the door and put out a leg. “You like it?”

On closer inspection, the suit’s mango-colored silk was even finer than I’d thought. Certainly no ordinary Chanel. Or was that an oxymoron? As I debated that, I noticed Lexa’s calves. Had they been shaved? She was wearing actual pantyhose and mango and black Ferragamo pumps. The Prada bag of many colors looked brand-new.

“Mother always wanted me to dress this way, so now I’ll dress this way. It’s the least I can do for her. It will be my own personal memorial.”

“I don’t think they’ll let you wear Chanel in jail, Lexa,” I pointed out.

She shrugged.

Uh-oh. Guilt was setting in. But guilt for what? Not being there to prevent the murder, for never being the daughter Wilma wanted, or something more sinister? “Where did you get all this stuff?”

“I went to Saks Fifth Avenue today.”

Shopping instead of planning the funeral. I’m sure that looked good to the police. No wonder Scythe was after her ass.

Charlotte was nodding. “Therapeutic shopping. I do that all the time.”

Along with therapeutic eating. But, hey, I did that too, along with therapeutic snipping sometimes. Face it, we were all head cases in one way or another. Some of us just hid it better than others.

“But I doubt the visit to Saks made you feel any better, did it, Lexa?”

She drew her mouth into a tight line and pivoted on the seat, slamming the car door. “I’m going to do what Mother would’ve wanted me to do. I should have done it all while she was alive. Then maybe she’d still
be
alive.”

“What else are you going to do now—go to law school or marry a lawyer, or both?”

Lexa threw the Jag into drive. I knew I was being pushy, maybe a bit cruel, but I had to be. The police thought her behavior was something like that of the Munchkins in
The Wizard of Oz
who danced around singing “Ding-dong, the wicked witch is dead,” but this weirdness was really something else altogether. She felt terribly guilty, that was clear, but I could’ve sworn her actions were atonement for past sins, not for the murder. How could I explain that to the domestic-murder fans along with whatever she was hiding?

“I guess your boyfriend could go to law school and solve the whole dilemma for you.”

The tires squealed on the cobblestones as she peeled out. Charlotte, ever the overly dramatic, screeched and jumped back. I just stood there and nearly got my toes run over, watching her zoom down the driveway only to have to wait for the gate to open with the speed of a sloth. Kind of ruined the effect of a burned-rubber getaway.

Reality. Sometimes it really sucked.

Especially when I was gypped out of my shot of Cuervo Gold.

The Carricaleses were no help with clarifying the hims and hers who were doing this and that to each other. Maria looked nauseated that she’d blurted out the whole thing in front of the potential murderer (me), and José looked sorry that I cared what any of it meant (because I was a nice girl and needed to be home doing cross-stitch or something, whatever nice girls do). Even emphasizing that I was trying to use their information to help keep Lexa out of jail didn’t sway them. I guess they trusted the guys in blue more than they trusted me. Or maybe Percy paid them to keep their traps shut. Go figure. Oh, well, we got something out the deal anyway. I got to taste some hundred-year-old brandy, and Charlotte got to eat a couple pieces of chocolate torte.

I delivered Charlotte back to her car at the Hanson compound and headed home to meet her friend, who’d stipulated that Charlotte not be there. She won big points with me for that, since Charlotte had a mouth with no sensors. If she’d been present, whatever this girl told us would end up as part of gossip central in no time. I pulled up in front of my house, and felt that little rush of pride I still got whenever I saw the sign for Transformations.

I’d let the dogs in, underwent Char’s guilt trip, Cab’s adulation, and Beau’s studied apathy, and fed them when the doorbell rang. The dogs went wild, nails scraping on my polished oak floors, racing to be the first at the front door.

I held them back and opened up to see a tall young woman whose skin was the color of my morning coffee with a generous splash of cream. She wore her hair about a quarter-inch long, which just complemented her flawless features. By anyone’s standards, Annette Hastings was lovely, even though her tight expression and severe dress set her beauty on edge. She wore a heavily starched white cotton blouse tucked with military folds into tailored black slacks so sharply creased they looked capable of slicing cheese. She wore no makeup or jewelry other than a stainless steel watch that told time in at least four time zones and probably went on the Internet, too.

“I guess you’ve never had a break-in,” she observed as she entered, kicking out at the dogs as they tried to greet her. Cab and Char kept trying, but Beau looked slitty-eyed at her and hung back, keeping the unfriendly interloper in her sights.

“You’d think that,” I said, closing the door and ushering the group down the hall in the kitchen. “But I have had a guy break in.”

Her eyebrows rose, but she didn’t ask for details. That was good, since she’d never believe how it happened, anyway.

Annette refused my offers of a drink and asked me to close my wooden blinds. I thought it was a little paranoid, but I complied.

“No one can know I came here.”

“Charlotte knows.”

“I’m aware of that, but she’ll keep quiet.”

I must have looked skeptical, because she added, “I have dirt on her.”

I held my look. She added, “I had a dozen bagels same-day FedExed from Brooklyn, then videotaped her eating the whole package. Her parents think she’s on the Atkins diet. If she falls off the wagon, they say they’ll send her to that famous fat farm up in Dallas.”

“That’s cruel,” I said, aghast, and she just nodded.

“Mr. Barrister told me not to tell anyone what’s been going on at the office. Not even the police,” she said as she claimed the window bench. She had a model’s body but moved like a toy soldier. I’d say Annette had issues. Driven to a fault would be one of them, I imagine. Having no perspective beyond her own goals would be another. I certainly would not ever want to be in her way.

“Why did Percy say that?”

She looked down at her watch. Wondering what time it was in Bolivia, maybe? “I don’t know. He is a secretive man with an extremely controlling nature. I imagine the fact that the police and media will be into his affairs because of Wilma’s murder is making him nervous.”

“You think that’s all it is?”

“Maybe. Or something he did led to her murder.”

“You think so? Why don’t you contact the police anonymously?”

Annette shot me a glare that made me flinch. Then, when I didn’t back down, she shook her head. “I can’t. I know Mr. Barrister has at least one cop on his payroll. Don’t ask me why—I won’t tell you. Don’t ask me who—I don’t know. But I can’t risk Mr. Barrister finding out I talked. I grew up on the east side without a dime, raised by my grandma. I’m saving money to get into law school, and with my college record, my test scores, and his recommendation and contacts, I’m a shoo-in for a full scholarship at St. Mary’s. I will
not
jeopardize that. Not for anything.”

I believed her. Percy could come in and murder Annette’s grandmother in full view, and Annette wouldn’t rat on him and mess up her plans. She was going to make one helluva lawyer. Compromise wasn’t a concept she understood, even in conversation.

“Come on, Annette. Why not come clean to the cops now and get it over with? After all, do you really think you’re going to get that scholarship if your mentor is arrested for killing his wife?”

“You didn’t grow up here in San Antonio, did you?”

“No.” I watched her closely, not sure where this was going.

Annette sniffed. “No wonder you don’t get it. In the circles we’re talking about right now—big-time back-scratching, oh-nine zip codes, and eight-figure net worths—life is very incestuous. Everybody owns everybody else somehow, whether it is through marriage, knowledge, favors, sex, or money. What happens between the cops and my boss won’t change what happens inside the circle. Whatever he is owed and how the scholarship pays that particular debt won’t change. If he knows I disobeyed his orders, however, he will find some other way to call in payment that doesn’t benefit me.”

“So why talk to me at all?”

“Because, despite what you may think, I do have a conscience.”

No she didn’t. She was telling me this for some other reason. Annette saw skepticism in my face and shrugged. “Fine. I have to protect myself on all sides. If Percy Barrister is arrested and convicted, then I want to look like I told the truth to someone. I can always say later—after the scholarship is mine, after he is behind bars—that I didn’t go to the police because I’d been threatened by him. If what I tell you prevents any more murders, then it makes me look even better in the end.”

She was using me, but finally being honest about it. Okay. I could live with that. “You think there are going to be more murders?”

“Maybe. They say things happen in threes.”

Now, that creeped me out. The superstitious statement was completely out of character for this woman. She knew something. Probably not what she was about to tell me, but she had juice, no question.

“Okay, Annette, you can tell me whatever you want the police to know, and I will make sure they won’t find out where it came from. You have my word.”