Night of the Living Deb (18 page)

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 illegally 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?”

“At least you’ve still got your sense of humor.” He shot me a tight smile. “Give me a minute, will you? I need to think.”

Stephen rose from the chair, walked over to the shuttered window and stood there a long moment, peering out.

When he was done contemplating, he extracted his cell phone from the pocket of his tweed jacket and excused himself from the room.

I glanced at Cissy, who seemed not at all disturbed by his behavior, but instead continued sipping her tea, pinky extended in the manner of well-bred ladies.

I caught my hands between my knees, determined to rein in my impatience, wanting to remind them both that the clock was ticking.

It was nearly noon, and I had but another twelve hours to figure out what to do or Brian might not live to see tomorrow.

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood, and still I stayed cool, didn’t scream, ignored the ticking of the clock on the mantel, the noise infinitely magnified.

Just when I thought I couldn’t stand another moment more, Stephen reappeared in the den, closing the door behind him. He came around the sofa and paused across the coffee table from where I sat.

“I think I know how we can handle this without anyone getting hurt,” he said. “I’ve got a few things to take care of with an old buddy who used to be a Treasury man, so give me an hour or two, and I’ll be back. These people—whoever they are—don’t sound like seasoned criminals, or else they’d be asking for wire transfers to accounts in the Caymans, not cash.” He rubbed his jaw. “They also wouldn’t ask for ‘Benjamins,’ Andy. That’s Hollywood’s idea of a ransom. The denomination’s too large. They sound like greedy SOBs who spotted an opportunity and figured they’d bleed a local heiress for a chunk of her trust fund without anyone getting hurt.”

Seasoned criminals or not, they had my boyfriend and weren’t going to let him go until I paid them off. Which meant I had to get my hands on a lot of greenbacks. Local heiress that I was, I still didn’t have 212,000 bucks at home in my cookie jar.

“So what about the money?” I asked him, thinking maybe I should get my portfolio manager on the horn and order him to dump some stocks pronto.

“I’ve got that covered, Andy. Trust me.”

“Where’ll you get that kind of cash?” Had the caffeine in the Earl Grey made him dizzy? “You plan on breaking into the Treasury?”

I was joking, but Stephen didn’t laugh.

“Something like that,” he said, like a man with a secret.

“Hang tight until I’m back. Can you do that?”

Like I had the strength left to fight.