The Good Girl's Guide to Murder (12 page)

And that was no lie.

Babette was a slender woman in her forties, while her spouse was at least twice that. Flashing laser-whitened teeth, Babs nodded her “hellos” as she pushed her beloved (and very rich) Poppy von Werner in his wheelchair. I admired her maneuvering skill, especially since she was wearing high, high heels and a backless white Versace gown that showed off her perfectly bronzed skin, absent of strap marks.

“Have they been on vacation? Lolling about the Mediterranean on his yacht, perhaps?” I asked Janet, who knew the comings and goings of virtually every member of the philanthropic set in Dallas.

“You’re talkin’ about her tan, right?” My society columnist friend bent nearer. “It’s spray-on, Andy. She stands in a booth and turns around while a machine shoots out the paint. It’s all the rage.”

“I wonder if they use Benjamin Moore or Behr,” I quipped, but Janet’s eyes were already on another pair entering the studio.

Her elbow winged into my side. “Ohmigawd, I can’t believe they’re here!”

“Who . . . who?” I sounded like a stuttering owl.

I tried to follow her line of vision, but the arriving guests multiplied by the minute; a never-ending stream of big blond hair, so many red lipstick smiles, and enough beading and glitter to make my eyes blur. It was getting louder and louder, too, setting off a faint ringing in my ears. Voices had risen well above the “hum” level and nearly drowned out the sounds of the harp altogether.

“I’d heard a rumor they might show, but I didn’t believe it. I wonder what Marilee’s got cooking? Damn, where is my photographer? He was supposed to show up right at eight.”

“Who, for God’s sake?” I asked again, stomping a foot on the floor and barely missing Janet’s toes.

“Them.” This time, she pointed.

All I saw was a rather plain-looking middle-aged man in a dour gray Brooks Brothers suit and a younger woman with the biggest red ponytail I’d ever seen, like Barbara Eden’s hair from
I Dream of Jeannie
, only on steroids. It poured out of the top of her head like a fountain, and I wondered how many bobby pins it had taken to hold that critter on. I figured at least a bucket.

“Gilbert and Amber Lynn,” she hissed.

Okay, I’d heard of Gilbert and Sullivan.

Gilbert and Amber Lynn rang zero bells.

“Who are they?” A little champagne surely couldn’t have impaired my brain that much. The names sounded familiar, but I couldn’t grasp exactly why they were so important to Janet.

She nudged me. “How can you not know them, Andy? You work for the woman. It’s Gilbert and Amber Lynn
Mabry
. Marilee’s ex-husband and his trophy wife.” Janet’s whole body was aquiver, like a racehorse raring to spring from the gate. “Sorry, Andy, but I’ve gotta scoot. There’s definitely a story here, and I’m gonna find it.”

I watched her maneuver her way through the crowd, nodding here and there as she went, careful not to snub, always the consummate pro.

It amazed me, too, that she never took notes. She was afraid doing so would inhibit the people around her. So she locked every observation, every bit of overheard dialogue, into her head. She didn’t even write up the piece until the next morning, after she’d had time to let things simmer.

A bespectacled man in black tie paused near me. “Champagne, ma’am?” he said, proffering his loaded silver tray.

I nearly told him, “no, thanks,” then I realized I’d have to stick around until Mother arrived, which could mean a while yet.

“Yes, please,” I told him, snatching a flute before he sidled away, muttering something about having to open another case.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only guest hoping the Dom would make it easier to get through Marilee’s soiree.

So I looked around me and sipped, figuring I’d hang back and observe until Mother showed up. After that, I’d linger just long enough to pay off my debt to her—oh, let’s say, at least twenty minutes. Then I’d duck out to meet Malone somewhere quiet.

Someplace far away from demanding domestic diva Marilee Mabry.

From Mari’s ex-hubby Gilbert and trophy wife Amber Lynn.

From part-time lovers Justin and Kendall.

From angry food editor Carson Caruthers.

And from Tincy Kilpatrick philanthropist cum ashtray thief.

I
hung on to my glass as I purposefully slipped away from the crowd that had gathered around the buffet tables. A bouffant-haired woman layered in pink chiffon stood with her hip glued to the chocolate desserts display, “ooh, ooh, ooh-ing” with delight as she masticated.

Then I spotted the back of a slim woman in a black minidress, dark hair twisted into a knot on the back of her head. She had a black pashmina wrapped around skinny shoulders, so I couldn’t see much else.

Kendall
, I thought, and wove my way in her direction. I wanted to apologize for ignoring her earlier. Didn’t want the girl to get a complex.

“Hey,” I said and tapped a thin shoulder. “I’m sorry I”—was all I got out as the woman turned around, and I realized my mistake.

There was a similarity in their features, but this woman was older than Kendall, at least my age as opposed to eighteen. She had no ring in her nose, but did sport a tiny mole on her cheek. Her eyes were hazel, her face broader, and her skin tone a pale cocoa as opposed to Kendall’s porcelain paleness. Quickly, I owned up to my error.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

“That’s okay,” she said, smiling sheepishly and looking at me as if I were someone she thought she should recognize, too. “Do you work here?” she asked.

“Sort of,” I said, then quickly ended further conversation with a fast “It was nice to meet you.” Though we really hadn’t met at all.

No time for detours.

I tiptoed along the fringes of conversing groups, hoping no one would notice me. I tried to convince myself that wearing designer duds enabled me to blend in so seamlessly that I was invisible, as innocuous as a dust mote.

“Andrea, lamb, is that you? Why, child, you look good enough to serve for supper. Come and give me a hug.”

Rats
.

I shot a smile at the woman who called my name, but hesitated long enough to take a deep, wet sip of Dom. When there was nothing left to swallow, I wiped a hand across my mouth, set the empty glass down, and wobbled on my high heels toward the reincarnation of Norma Desmond.

“Darling.” Tincy Kilpatrick held out her arms to me, her satin evening bag dangling from a wrist. I could see it bulging in the middle, like a small snake that had swallowed a baseball.

“Good evening, Mrs. K,” I said to her, and let her smother me against her breasts, her purse whacking me squarely between the shoulder blades. I clenched my teeth and wondered if the stolen bauble would leave a bruise.

“Where’s our darling Cissy?” she asked, drawing back so I could clearly see her penciled-in eyebrows and the spidery legs of her false lashes.

“If she comes a minute before nine o’clock, I’d be surprised,” I told her with a grin plastered to my face. I was feeling pleasantly giddy from my champagne buzz, seeing things through booze-colored glasses. “Nice party, huh? Have you tried the pâté?”

Bad, bad girl
.

Perhaps I was channeling Kendall.

“Good God, no.” Tincy put a hand to her heart and toyed with the enormous diamond dangling from her throat. “Oscar and I are doing low fat, low carbs these days. High cholesterol, you know. Don’t want to keel over from clogged arteries, like Norbert Dobbs at the symphony gala last week. Splat!”—she clapped her hands together, making me jump—“face down in his steak tar-tar. It was a dreadful sight to see.”

I’m sure Mr. Dobbs wasn’t thrilled about it, either.

“Poor Mrs. Dobbs,” I said.

“Oh, aren’t you the funny one! Norbert wasn’t married, not to a woman.
He was the Dior buyer for Neiman Marcus
,” she whispered with an arch of her eyebrows.

“Ah.”

“But enough about Norbie.” She patted my arm. “Your mother tells me you’re working for Marilee these days.” Her painted mouth tightened, a slash of crimson on white. “How’s that going? Have you been tempted to lace her coffee with arsenic?”

“The job’s going . . . great,” I said, finding it way too easy to grin and lie. “Working for Marilee has been an, er, interesting experience.”

“Interesting how?” A penned-on brow arched skeptically.

Run
, my brain screamed.
Run like the wind
. “Oh, goodness, I didn’t realize the time.” I glanced at my wrist, but I wasn’t wearing a watch. I hoped she didn’t notice. “I’m actually working tonight, doing a live stream of the party on the Web site, and it’s about time I headed back to the office to check on a few things. So if you don’t mind . . .”

“Of course, not, dear. Go, go.” She air-kissed my cheeks before shooshing me off, her bulging handbag swaying from the crook of her elbow. “I didn’t mean to monopolize you, child. It’s just that we so rarely see you out and about. Besides, I think Oscar needs rescuing, so I’d better scoot myself. Ta.”

“Ta,” I said, sounding like a parrot.

Polly wants a fat-free Carr’s water cracker
.

Moving off behind a lit-up palm, I peered between the silk fronds, swaying on my pink heels as I watched Tincy head toward the harpist, where a large man in a Stetson stood with his hand on Oscar’s shoulder, pinning him in place. The big guy was the head of the Republican Party in Dallas—he’d tackled my mother more than a time or two in the past—doubtless trying to get Oscar to commit some Texas-sized bucks for the next gubernatorial election.

Free and clear
.

Without further ado, I took off in the other direction, skirting the wall-less living room on the soundstage toward the pseudokitchen.

A growing throng of guests had gathered in this most spacious part of the set—where Marilee would do all her cooking segments—and I shouldered my way through the edge of the group as the chimes of silver on crystal turned everyone’s attention toward the room’s center.

If I teetered on the pointed tips of my shoes and angled my head just right, I could catch glimpses of Marilee with Justin, standing at her heel. His grim expression didn’t reflect someone having fun. I wondered if he were worried about my popping in on him and Kendall earlier, afraid Marilee would find out?

Behind them, on a large granite island, sat a huge vase of Asian lilies. On the other end had been placed an enormous silver candelabra, its sage green tapers brightly burning. Above, silky green sheers dangled from the lighting grids, resembling graceful wings set aflutter by the occasional flow of air.

“Could I have your attention, please?” Marilee called out, her voice overwhelming the ebb and flow of conversation until it came to a halt. “Can everyone hear me?”

A chorus rang out in the affirmative.

“Good.” She smiled gracefully and pushed an errant strand of streaky ash-blond from her brow. “If you’ll bear with me a moment, I have a few things to say. I’d like to start by thanking each and every one of you for coming tonight to celebrate a new phase in my own life . . . and
The Sweet Life
, my baby, if you will. Certainly my most treasured creation.”

Polite applause and a few “Hear! Hear!s” ensued, but I noticed one person standing to the side of Marilee who hadn’t joined in.

Kendall’s face crumpled, crestfallen, like a child whose sucker has been swiped, though I couldn’t say I blamed her after just having heard her mother tell a roomful of people that a TV show was “her baby.”

Ouch
.

“Things have certainly not been easy for me,” Marilee went on, her smile faltering, “but I’ve learned great strength from my adversities. I had to scramble to survive for years and years, but that determination is what got me where I am today. And now I think I finally have everything. My column, my books, the TV show, and soon a new line of products to be launched in conjunction with Smart-Mart. Yes, it’s true! I know you’ve heard rumors, and I’m confirming them all.”

Another smattering of applause rippled through the ever-gathering throng, and a tall man wedged himself in front of me, completely blocking my view.

“Um, excuse me . . . excuse me.” I tapped his shoulder to no avail. The fellow didn’t even turn around, just kept flicking at my finger like it was a bug.

You, sir, are no gentleman
.

Scowling, I scooted further around bodies taller than mine, trying to find a better vantage point.

“I can’t tell you how good I feel tonight, so strong and emboldened. I’ve a few more things to get off my chest, but first a toast.” Marilee reached for a bottle behind her, which she then handed to Justin to open. He turned his back and worked on the cork.

“A 1973 Dom Perignon Oenotheque,” Mari announced gleefully. “I’ve been saving it for years, for just such a special occasion, and nothing’s more special than this. Sorry, but there’s not enough of this to go around, so y’all get the ’93. A very good year, too, so don’t whine,” she teased, and her audience tittered. She turned to her boy-toy. “Honey, would you, please?”

Justin swiveled as he freed the cork, and Mari grabbed a trio of flutes for him to fill. She passed one over to Kendall and took another for herself, while Justin kept the third, though he didn’t seem any too eager to drink it.

“Here we go,” Marilee said and raised her glass. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, so bear with me if I go on for a bit.”

Tuxedoed waiters wove through the tightly knit audience, making sure everyone had fresh bubbly on hand.

I’d already had my quota for the evening, if I wanted to remain upright. So I waved away the tray-toting fellow and maneuvered closer to the front, stepping on someone’s toes while an unseen elbow pressed into my ribs.

My bra strap slid down my left shoulder, and I pushed it back up. I tucked my hair behind my ears and figured which way to go next.

“To everyone at Twinkle Productions for having such faith in me and my vision . . .”

I wove my way around to a false wall against which a humongous stainless steel refrigerator was anchored. A working fridge, too, for I could feel its humming as I pressed up against it for a better view. Kendall had backed up and was near enough to touch. I watched her tip the glass to her lips and drain it.