The Good Girl's Guide to Murder (10 page)

Her face froze, and something like fear flickered in her eyes before she blinked it away. Then she shrugged. “We care about each other. Mummy can’t take that away from us.”

“But doesn’t it make you feel . . . I don’t know . . . strange? Like he’s using you? I mean, Kendall, get real.” It popped out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Thank you, Dr. Phil
.

“How does it make me feel to share a man with my mother? I don’t know. Powerful. Wicked.” She lifted her chin, defiant. “What? You think I should feel like a bad girl who needs a spanking?”

“How about used? Or guilty?”

“Used?” She bristled. “How do you know I’m not the one doing the using? And why should I feel guilty? My mother’s never felt guilty for anything she’s done to me.”

I wanted to tell her that she was hardly the only girl I’d ever known who’d had her boyfriend jump ship for a Sugar Mama, and she should get over it. But I was pretty sure that wouldn’t exactly prove comforting.

I got the distinct impression they were in direct competition—Kendall and Marilee. I couldn’t decide, though, if their struggle over Justin was as simple as two women vying for the heart of the same man or if it was merely a matter of them constantly trying to outdo each other, looking for attention—and affection—wherever they could get it.

How dreadful that must be, thinking your mother is your enemy.

Even in my tug of war with Cissy, I had never thought of us as combatants. We were more along the lines of Abbott and Costello, bumbling through our relationship, never quite sure of who was the comic and who was the straight man.

“I don’t mean to come down on you, Kendall.” I had no earthly idea what else to say. “You’re right. I don’t know what it means to walk in your”—I nearly said “Jimmy Choos” but settled for—“shoes.”

“It sucks.”

“I’m truly sorry for you . . . for everything you’ve had to go through,” I said.

She glanced away.

Without knowing what else to do, I turned back to the computer monitor, more comfortable with the virtual world than with Kendall’s real life.

“I’m sorry for everything you’ve had to go through,” she mimicked, sounding like a drunken parrot. “Like I need your pity?”

Dear Lord, give me strength
.

I swiveled to face her again. “That’s not what I meant,” I tried to explain, but gave up before I ventured further. Because I knew she’d take whatever I said the wrong way. She was that kind of kid. Mixed up, lonely, and looking for a fight to pick.

“Just because you had a perfect childhood doesn’t make you superior,” she vented, balling her hands into fists.

“My childhood wasn’t quite so perfect as you think.”

“Oh, no? Your father didn’t walk out on you when you were twelve, did he? You never had to go on welfare, did you? Bet your mother never made your clothes . . . ugly things that everyone at school made fun of.” Her eyes welled as she glared at me.

I sighed and shook my head, slowly turning to lay my hands on the keyboard, gnawing on my bottom lip, afraid to speak for fear I’d say something else to fuel her fire. Maybe even something I’d regret.

I was thoroughly convinced by now that Kendall needed serious therapy. “Have you ever, er, talked to anyone . . . professionally?”

“Like a shrink?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see.” She fiddled with the yards of bracelets clamped around her wrists. “I’ve been evaluated by social workers, child psychologists, psychotherapists, osteopaths, and psychic healers, either court-appointed or paid for by dear Mummy once the money started rolling in. I’ve been diagnosed as hyperactive, depressed, anorexic, bulimic, and suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder and abandonment”—her bangles jangled as she ticked off each count on her fingers—“not to mention having migraines, hormonal imbalances, and God knows what else.”

She grimaced. “If those quacks had their way, I’d be on enough medication to stay constantly stoned out of my gourd. My mother would probably like that, don’t you think? That’s one reason I’m actually glad Justin’s here, even if it means he has to be with
her
sometimes. He knows what’s good for me and what’s not, and I trust him more than anybody.”

Directing her glare at me, she finished with, “So you still think I need to talk to a professional, Ms. High and Mighty? Or have I been dissected enough to satisfy you?”

Holy crapola
.

I couldn’t begin to respond. What could I have said?

Absolutely nada.

I couldn’t conjure up a single word from my pretty extensive vocabulary to express my sorrow at what she’d endured in her short life. Kendall was right. I had no business even pretending I knew how she felt.

My silence obviously bugged her as much as a reply, because she leaned over the desk and hissed, “Cat got your tongue, Andy?”

Aw, geez. There she went stepping on my last nerve.

Sympathetic or not, I needed some space to do my job.

I felt real compassion for Kendall Mabry.

But I wanted her to go away.

“Look, I’ve got stuff to do,” I told her. “And, if I don’t do it now, your mother’s going to kill me. So if you wouldn’t mind”—I kept my eyes on the computer screen, though I could see her faint reflection in the glass, and it didn’t look happy.

“Take a hike, scram, bug off, sayonara. Is that it?” Her voice shook. “That’s like all I ever hear these days.”

The “poor me” routine
.

Alas, poor Kendall, I knew it well.

I refused to look at her for fear of getting sucked deeper into her act. I focused on the monitor as I clicked through the pages of
The Sweet Life’s
Web site, hoping she’d get the hint and leave. At the moment, I was more afraid of incurring Marilee’s wrath for not having the live stream on track than I was of Kendall’s mood swings.

“You know, I could’ve done Mummy’s Web site, if she’d let me,” she said with a sniff. “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 didn’t have the patience for this.

“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?”

I did my best to tune her out.

“Ignore me. Yeah. Whatever.” She sighed weightily. “Maybe I’ll go off the wagon and get rip-roaring drunk. Give the mayor a lap dance. If I wish really hard, maybe something crazy will happen tonight. Like poisoned food or falling lights.”

“Great, great. Enjoy the party,” I said through clenched teeth and gave her a backhanded wave. I half-expected some retort, an angry reply, but all I heard was the sweet sound of silence.

So I dug in, rapidly tapping the keyboard, checking the live feed from the web cams, seeing what I’d hoped to see: black-clad people bustling about various points of the sound stage, candelabra glowing, harpist playing, food being laid out on the buffet. Even the entrance to the converted warehouse was covered, and I saw an elegantly dressed couple arriving already. I made sure the feed alternated between locations with barely a few seconds’ delay in between.

Everything looked fine.

Thank God.

Fifteen minutes later, I leaned back in the chair and exhaled slowly.

If anyone screwed up Marilee’s evening, it wasn’t going to be me.

Which reminded me . . .

I glanced around to where Kendall had once been standing only to find no one there.

The door to Marilee’s office stood wide open and empty.

Phew
.

I’d been almost afraid she might hang around, waiting for me to finish, and I didn’t feel like dealing with an angry teenager this evening. Particularly one carrying a chip on her shoulder the size of Mount Rushmore.

Hey, it was difficult enough keeping the “fun” in dysfunctional where my own life was concerned.

A small mantle clock tick-ticked the minutes from a shelf above Marilee’s desk, and I saw the big hand pointing at the twelve and the little hand on the eight.

My eyes went back to the computer monitor and focused on the frame with the live stream. Guests began arriving in ever-increasing numbers. The front hallway beyond the double doors had turned into a river with schools of well-dressed salmon swimming upstream. I tried to pick out faces I knew, and spotted quite a few, including the Park Cities paper’s society columnist Janet Graham.

The stream switched to the buffet, and I saw the bald-headed Carson emerging from the kitchen with a round silver tray in hand. I caught him glancing around to see if anyone was near—and no one was—turning his back, his shoulders and head jerking in one quick motion—oh, Lord, did he spit in the foie gras?—before he put the food down on the table.

Ix-nay the goose liver
, I told myself, though I would have avoided it, anyway.

The live feed flipped again, this time to where several couples gathered inside the soundstage, on the set resembling a dining room, complete with repro Chippendale. There was Tincy Kilpatrick, oil heiress and philanthropist, and her husband, Oscar. While Oscar turned to fetch her a glass of champagne from a passing server, Tincy bent over the coffee table and picked up a small object—a crystal ashtray?—which she quickly slipped into her purse.

Oh, my
.

Looks like Tincy Kilpatrick could add “kleptomaniac” to her curriculum vitae.

I wondered if Mother knew about her Big Steer Ball cochair’s little idiosyncrasy?

Who was I kidding?

Cissy knew practically everything about everybody. She had ESP (extra-socialite perception).

Besides, it’s not as though Tincy was the only member of the
beau monde
with sticky fingers.

I squinted at the monitor as the feed flipped to the kitchen setup, where Marilee was holding court with her blond boy-toy at her side. I could just make out Kendall standing with her arms crossed at the edge of the frame, glaring at the happy couple.

It was oddly addictive.

Like a soap opera with characters I actually knew.

Which made me feel a little too much like a voyeur for my taste.

So I left the computer and the lights on—for future quick checks of the stream—and tucked my purse into a bottom desk drawer before heading out into the madding crowd in search of champagne. I normally didn’t drink beyond an occasional margarita, but I felt a sudden urgency to imbibe . . . heavily.

Fasten your seatbelt
, I warned myself, as I tugged my dress over my thighs.
It’s going to be a bumpy night
.

I
tracked down Janet Graham at the beautifully laid-out hors d’oeuvres buffet.

Perched between floral arrangements overflowing with green bamboo and lilies were platters, plates, and bowls filled with puff pastry and tarts, minicrepes and caviar canapés, crab-stuffed artichoke hearts and portobello mushrooms as big as my fist. There was enough bruschetta to feed the Italian army, and cheese of every stripe. Nearby, another table laden with desserts tempted party guests with a sweet tooth.

Janet happened to be spreading a healthy dose of foie gras on a toast point, when I put a hand on her arm.

“Just say no,” I advised in low tones.

She peered at me from beneath a fringe of flaming red bangs; looking for all the world like I’d gone nuts. “What on earth are you up to, Andrea Kendricks? Are you on another of your save-the-geese kicks?”

Leave it to her to remind me of that.

Okay, yes, I had a brief flirtation with an animal rights organization called FOG (Free Overfed Geese). The four of us—if four can really be called “an organization”—had chained ourselves to a goose pen on the property of a billionaire-about-town who owned one of the city’s sports franchises (the one with a ball made of pigskin, which also irked the other FOG members who were, not surprisingly, all vegans). The fellow recognized me and called my mother, who persuaded him not to summon the cops. Within the hour, Cissy showed up in her Lexus with Janet Graham in tow, supplying us with the press coverage we were demanding, which is how I’d ended up with my photo on the society pages—rather than the Metro section—with a headline that read,
HIGHLAND PARK HEIRESS CRIES FOWL
. After my mother convinced us to unchain ourselves—something about goose poop and bacteria—we’d decamped for the nearest Subway for vegetarian foot-longs.

I winced at the memory, wishing I could blame it on youthful idealism, but it had only happened a year ago.

“No, I’m not protesting anything political at the moment,” I assured her. “I’m doing you a favor, believe me.”

Despite my warning, Janet didn’t seem any too eager to step away from the pâté. “This stuff supposedly comes from Marilee’s own flock,” she said. “So, as a journalist who plans to write about this party and its hostess in great detail, it behooves me to taste it.”

“Well, unbehoove yourself.” I hooked a thumb at the gray mess in the silver bowl lined with sprigs of watercress, deciding to impart the truth to my erstwhile journalist friend or risk her swallowing tainted goods. “Because not all the ingredients in there belong to a goose.”

“What ingredients, Andy?” Her forehead wrinkled, causing her dyed-to-match red eyebrows to narrow. “What the devil are you talkin’ about? You haven’t been smoking funny cigarettes again, have you?”

Good grief
.

“No, I haven’t been smoking anything, funny or otherwise.”

My God, were all my past indiscretions common knowledge?

“Listen, Janet”—I watched her raise the toast point to her lips and realized desperate situations called for desperate measures. So I made a noise like I was about to hack up a furball and feigned lobbing it into the pâté. “Get it now?” I asked her.

“You’re tellin’ me that somebody spit in this stuff?”

I touched a finger to the tip of my nose.

She made a face. “Ugh. That’s unsanitary. Shouldn’t we hide the pâté? Or tell Marilee?”

“Tell Marilee?” I choked. “Do you really want to see the offender stuffed and roasted in her double-wide oven?”