The Good Girl's Guide to Murder (16 page)

Yes, while my thumb was still in it.

Hello!

See blood drip to the linoleum
as Mrs. Cannon races me down to the nurse’s room near the principal’s office.
Light as bright as a klieg
hovers over me at the hospital, and a doctor assures me “this won’t hurt a bit.”
Hear my heart pound with terror
as a needle the size of a turkey baster bears down on my wounded digit.

Thankfully, that’s when everything fades to black—rather like the electricity in Marilee’s studio. There was another flick, one that dealt with a jump-rope exercise gone bad and more blood (this time, from my head). But I won’t get into that.

Instinctively, I rubbed at the scar running across the back of my right thumb as I followed Cissy to the admitting desk at Medical City.

While she scored information from the volunteer at the counter, I squashed down the flashbacks. I didn’t want to see them again, didn’t want to be reminded of why being in this place made my pulse race and my palms sweaty.

Grow up, Andy
, I told myself, but it didn’t seem to matter. Things like that stuck with a person, no matter how old they got.

“Kendall’s having some tests done before being moved to a private room from the ER,” Mother said, nudging me toward the elevators. “I know Mari must be a total basket case.”

Stuffing my hands in the pockets of my cargo pants, I trailed behind the click of Cissy’s high heels. We passed a smiling group of women in green scrubs and more than a few grim-looking folks in cut-off shorts or blue jeans, looking lost.

No one gave Mother more than a passing glance, despite her attire, and I wondered if the hospital’s proximity to Highland Park had made visitors wearing head-to-toe Chanel commonplace.

The elevator button pinged, and I slipped behind Cissy into the small space that already held a man in a wheelchair and a fellow in blue scrubs transporting him.

Not a word was uttered until the lift stopped moving with a
ping
and the doors opened up again.

“This is us, sugar,” Mother said, and I followed her out.

At least she knew her way around, so we didn’t have to mess with confusing signs and arrows. Her committee work for the hospital had paid off in more ways than one.

Past an empty nurses’ station, we found Marilee in a small waiting room, sitting on a lumpy sofa amidst discarded coffee cups and magazines. Though she slumped with her head in her hands, she must’ve heard us approach because she slowly raised her chin, revealing a face ravaged by tears.

“Cissy,” she said, breathing my mother’s name in an exhaled breath. “My dear, dear friend. I’m so glad you’re here. I can’t find Justin, and I’m a total wreck.”

In a snap, my mother turned into Florence Nightingale, sending me to fetch a fresh cup of coffee for Marilee. She drew a folded handkerchief from her Chanel bag and pressed it into Marilee’s hand, confirming my long-established impression that Mother’s purses were like a magician’s hat, producing whatever was needed in a particular emergency. Whether it be a needle and thread or a breath mint.

While I moseyed over to a table with a much-used coffeepot, I heard a lot of “there, there’s” as Mother settled onto the sofa and began patting Marilee’s shoulder.

“How is Kendall? Have you seen her?” I asked when I returned with the black coffee. I offered it to Marilee, though she was sobbing too much to drink. So I cleared away a mess of magazines on the knee-high table and put down the cup in front of her.

“This night . . .
gup
 . . . has been . . .
gup
 . . . so awful.” She hiccoughed between every other word so that it was difficult to understand her. “How could this . . .
gup
 . . . happen to me? It was supposed to be a celebration . . .”

“What did the doctors say?” I tried again, interrupting her pity party. “About Kendall,” I added, so there was no mistake.

With most of her makeup now on Mother’s linen kerchief, Marilee’s face appeared haggard; crisscrossed with lines I hadn’t noticed before. She seemed older than she had just an hour or two earlier. All her smugness drained, she appeared the very portrait of a distraught mother, reminding me of Picasso’s
Melancholy Woman
with her head bowed, her skin a bluish shade.

“In the . . .
gup
 . . . emergency room . . . they asked if she . . .
gup
 . . . took any drugs . . .
gup
 . . . like Ecstasy. Her heart wasn’t beating normally, they said. They had to stabilize her cardiac rhythm before they could . . .
gup
 . . . do a tox screen and a . . .
gup
 . . . blood alcohol test.” She gulped in air, trying to stop her hiccups attack, while Mother kept patting. “But Kendall doesn’t . . . do drugs,” she spoke slowly, and, this time, without “gupping” mid-sentence. “Not since Justin’s been around, I’m sure of it. Unless, she did this to hurt me. To pay me back.” She moaned. “What am I going to do with her, Cissy?
What?
”

They had her heart rhythm stabilized and were running tests. That much registered in my brain, which could only mean one thing.

Kendall was alive and breathing.

That was what I’d needed to hear.

My legs wobbled beneath me, and I eased myself into a vinyl-cushioned chair, listening to Marilee moan on and on about her ruined party and the damaged set.

“I’m wondering now . . . I can’t help but consider . . . the recluse spider in my shoebox . . . the crashing mike that would have struck me if Jim hadn’t jumped in its way . . . what if Kendall had something to do with all of them? Perhaps she wants me to fail. Could that be it?” she asked my mother. “She’s always been so needy. I could never give her enough of me.”

Kendall was needy?

Obviously, Marilee hadn’t looked in the mirror lately.

I tuned them out and looked around me, at the television hanging from the wall, the nine o’clock news anchors moving their mouths but the volume too low to hear. Had video and sound bites from Addison already hit the airwaves?

Did the whole city of Dallas know about the fire at
The Sweet Life’s
studio, started by a burning
I Dream of Jeannie
hairpiece?

Had anyone contacted Gilbert about Kendall? I wondered. Did he realize his daughter nearly died while his wife was going after Marilee with a vintage bottle of champagne?

And what about Justin?

Where was Marilee’s young lover?

He’d disappeared during the wrestling match between Marilee and Amber Lynn, and I’d half-expected to find him with Kendall. Only she’d been all by her lonesome when I’d stumbled upon her in Marilee’s bathroom.

Or was she really all by her lonesome?

I hadn’t exactly peered into closets or poked behind furniture. Could Justin have been with her when she got sick and passed out? Would he have left her there on the floor when the fire alarm went off, afraid someone might find him with her limp body and accuse him of debauchery or worse?

My mind was on overdrive.

I squeezed my eyes shut and pictured Justin uncorking then pouring the special bottle of Dom Perignon that Marilee had saved for her special occasion. He’d poured a glass for himself, but he’d never drunk it. Marilee had barely touched hers either, because she’d been too busy fending off Amber.

But Kendall . . . she’d downed her full glass like a fraternity boy attacking a beer bong. What if Marilee’s expensive bottle had something wrong with it?

Hey, I’d gotten sick off yogurt that was only two weeks past expiration, not thirty years.

“There you are, Marilee. My God, I’ve been so worried.”

Speak of the devil
.

Justin swept into the waiting room, an unruly lock of blond fallen onto his brow. He drew his hands from the pockets of his dove-gray jacket, reaching out for Marilee, who shakily rose from the couch.

“Where
have
you been?” she railed at him. “I couldn’t find you when the fire started or later in the parking lot. I was afraid something had happened to you, too.”

“To me? Oh, no, no. I was never in harm’s way.” He stroked her hair, calming her, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Mother sat on the sofa, mere feet away, and I sat just across the coffee table. “You know how I hate parties, so I slipped out back for some air. I didn’t even know there’d been a fire until I heard the sirens and ran around front. By then, the ambulance was rushing off with you in it. A cop told me they’d taken an unconscious woman to Medical City, so I assumed
you
were hurt. Then I found out it was Kendall.”

“Oh, Jussie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize . . . didn’t mean to insinuate that you’d deserted me on purpose,” Marilee blubbered. “I’m just so worried about Kendall. Do you think she drank too much? She wouldn’t have taken drugs, would she? The emergency room doctors asked about Ecstasy.”

“Drugs? No.” He shook his head. “Never.”

“You’re right. She’s put those days behind her, thanks to you.” She placed her palms against his chest, staring up at him. “They said her heart stopped, or nearly stopped, but they’ve got it beating normally again. After they draw blood and run some tests, they’ll bring her up to the private room I arranged for her. She’ll have to stay overnight.”

“That’s probably best.”

“I hate to consider that she might have done something . . . to harm herself. She’s so sensitive, so temperamental. Whatever I said that made her lose control earlier . . . you saw her drop her glass, didn’t you? What if I’m responsible? What if this episode she’s had is my fault? No matter, she’ll blame me, won’t she?” Marilee pressed her face into his chest, and Justin drew her close, tucking her head beneath his chin.

His gaze slid my way, and, for a moment, I met his eyes before he looked off, as if he hadn’t seen me at all.

“This isn’t your fault, Mari,” he said, his voice muffled against the puff of her blond hair. “Kendall brings these things on herself. It’s what the Chinese call ‘Ming.’ It’s her fate . . . her destiny . . . to cause chaos in her own life and the lives of others.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, babe, I do.”

I wondered what the Chinese word was for “excuse me while I puke”?

Mother made a face and discreetly slipped off the sofa. She came around to where I sat, leaned low and whispered in my ear, “What a bunch of hogwash. That boy must’ve swallowed a trough.”

Scary that Mother and I were thinking the very same thing. Thank goodness it didn’t happen often, but, when it did, it unnerved me.

I got up, ambling toward the Mr. Coffee.

Cissy followed.

“Young Mr. Gable wasn’t looking for Marilee after the fire”—she insisted, hovering at my shoulder—“and I should know, because I found her easily enough once Fredrik got the car far enough into the parking lot to let me out. Marilee was in the center of it all, as usual, hollering like she’d had a bad bikini wax. Anyone with ears would’ve pinpointed her in a second flat. It was a lot harder trying to find you. No one told me you were still inside the building.” She poked me in the ribs and asked, “Did you see Justin before that nice fireman carried you out?”

Fleetingly—and I mean,
fleetingly
—I considered confiding that I’d walked in on Justin and Kendall in Marilee’s office, shagging on the sofa before the party started.

Then I nixed that idea, afraid that Cissy might blab to Marilee out of some sense of loyalty. And I’d given Kendall my word that I wouldn’t squeal.

Since it sounded like basically everyone in Kendall’s life had let her down at some point—her father, her mother, her off-and-on-again lover—I didn’t want to add my name to the list. She needed to learn that not everyone was out to betray her.

“Justin could’ve been inside the building, but I didn’t see him, no. I didn’t see anyone else except Kendall.”

See
being the operative word.

I could still feel the darkness around me, the sense of disorientation as I’d fumbled my way down the hallway. But I hadn’t been alone. Someone had been there, had bumped into me without apology. If it were Justin, I would’ve needed night goggles to ID him.

But it could’ve been.

I pushed my glasses tighter on my nose and looked across the room.

Marilee clung to the lapels of Justin’s jacket.

Empty lapels, I realized.

Where was his rose?

“What is it?” Mother asked, noting my hesitation.

I rubbed a hand over the nape of my neck where my short hairs prickled. “I’m not sure, but I think Justin might have gone back to Marilee’s office after Kendall.”

“Well, did he or didn’t he?”

“There was a broken boutonnière on the carpet by Kendall’s shoes.”

I thought again about who’d knocked into me in the hallway, the brush of air against my skin, and I suddenly remembered breathing in the scent of something sweet and soft.

Almonds.

“What’s wrong, sugar?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t explain to her when I wasn’t sure myself. “It’s nothing, never mind.”

“What about that broken rosebud? You think it’s Justin’s? He isn’t wearing a boutonnière now.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, Mother. Not really,” I said, and I could read her disappointment. “All of Marilee’s male staffers wore them in their lapels. Any one of them could have been in the office at some time during the party.”

“That boy is up to no good,” she whispered.

“Well, you can’t make up what didn’t happen.” Still, there was something I was sure of. “Justin wasn’t out back,” I told her, keeping my voice down. “I would’ve seen him when I pushed open the rear exit door. No one was out there. Just rows of parked cars.”

Cissy sucked in her cheeks. “But it’s possible he was with Kendall.”

“How?” My mother seemed awfully eager to pin something on Marilee’s junior Romeo.

“He could’ve slipped her a Mickey,” she hissed in my ear, “in the champagne.”

“What?”

“A
Mick-ey
,” she reiterated, emphasizing each syllable, as if I’d bought deaf and dumb in a two-pack at the Horchow outlet store. She snapped her fingers, rings twinkling beneath the green fluorescent glow. “It’s so easy these days, what with the Internet and all. You can order anything. He could’ve used that date rape drug. What’s it called? PHD?”