Night of the Living Deb (24 page)

But it was real enough to me. I’d been the one on the tail end of the phone calls, listening fearfully as Mr. Mumbles gave me ultimatums that involved my boyfriend’s life or death. And I can say for damned sure that the alleged Malone-napper sounded entirely serious.

So how I could I brush it off?

Maybe Allie’s heart was made of stone, but mine wasn’t.

It was more like Play-Doh “You can’t go through with it,” she said, flat out, like she was the boss of me. “It feels off, Kendricks. Someone’s taking advantage of you. Brian’s name has been all over the news. Even that Channel 8 reporter who interviewed your neighbor managed to link you to him. The

cops, too. By now, every media outlet in Dallas knows you’re the girlfriend of the dude whose car was found parked at Love Field with a very dead stripper in his trunk.

Your so-called kidnappers could be anyone, pretending to have Malone so they can make a quick buck.”

Then again, sometimes a cigar was just a cigar.

“But what if it’s real?” I whispered.

“You can’t do it,” the Blond Avenger repeated, like I hadn’t heard her the first time.

I set my hands in my lap, curled my fingers to fists.

I looked her dead in the eye. “Oh, yes, I can,” I said.

“And I will.”

The plan was already in motion. Stephen had done all the heavy lifting, and we were loaded for bear. There was no way I would ever back out at this point, even if Allie was on the nose about the kidnappers being nothing more than film-quoting, tabloid-reading bloodsuckers who wanted to make a buck off my misfortune.

If there was any chance they had Malone, I wouldn’t risk it.

“I’m going,” I said again, staring her down.

She stared right back. “Then I’m going, too.”

“The hell you are.”

“The hell I’m not.”

I rose from my chair, palms flush on the table. I was too tired to argue. “Go home, Allie. I’ve got things to do.”

Her mouth fell open, and I readied myself for a barrage of words befitting a defense attorney on the rise at the hottest firm in town. Only she ended up pressing her lips closed. She quietly gathered up the loose paper, stuffed it in her attaché, snapped the locks closed, and stood.

She’d already taken several steps toward the door when she hesitated.

“I want to find Brian as much as you do, you know,” she said over her shoulder. “But I think you’re barking up the wrong tree with this ransom thing. You’ll just be wasting precious time.”

The starch had gone out of my voice, so it was soft as I answered, “But what if I don’t go through with it, Allie, and it is real and you’re wrong?”

She sighed and turned to give me one last glance. “Do what you have to do,” she said. “And I’ll do what I have to do.”

I nodded.

Well, all right then.

She opened the door and stepped out.

I followed behind, standing in the doorway and watching as she descended the front steps and strode across the lawn in her stiletto heels.

The sun had set sometime since I’d returned home, and the sky was already slipping from afternoon blue into a chilly shade of dark.

I shut the door as I heard Allie’s Beemer start up.

I chewed on my lower lip, my stomach tied in king-sized knots, as I checked the mantel clock.

It was already a little past eight.

A couple hours to kill before I started off on what Allie thought was a wild goose chase. I needed a shower first, then I’d go through my closet to try to find something appropriate to wear to a ransom drop.

I’m not sure what my couture-loving mother would have recommended—Escada camouflage and pearls?— but I was thinking basic black, and maybe my pink hightop sneakers for luck.

I could use all the help I could get.

Chapter 18

I was back at my mother’s house by ten o’clock, my nerves close to shot, nothing more in my belly than half a beer and a bare-naked Brainy Bagel.

After I rang the bell, Mother dragged me to the den to catch the nightly news, as every station was doing updates on the mysterious beating death of Trayla Trash, aka Elizabeth “Betsy” Wren. She didn’t stick around to watch, murmuring something about having Sandy pack a sandwich and thermos of coffee for Stephen.

How ultracalm and Donna Reed of her.

I frantically flipped around to three different stations, all of them broadcasting Trayla’s real name and occupation.

I guessed the cops had notified her next of kin, because her identity was clearly no longer a secret, not with the media blasting it across Dallas, Fort Worth, and everywhere in between.

On Channel 2, I spotted Lu McCarthy, the barmaid, with a microphone shoved in her face, the camera lights causing her to blink excessively as she talked about her dear friend, the deceased, and how close they’d been. A caption above her head read
live
in bold red letters.

I wrinkled my forehead, surprised that Lu would want her mug on the news. She hadn’t seemed the attention seeking type to me. If anything, I’d gotten a “leave me out of this” vibe from her; but she was probably no different from ninety percent of the population, who’d gladly give up their privacy for fifteen seconds of fame.

“I wish I’d known she was in trouble, but she must’ve kept it from me,” the barmaid was saying. “The last time I saw her, she seemed okay. She was such a good girl, really, no matter how tough she acted. In some ways, she was almost like a sister to me.” Lu finished by swiping a

lone tear from her cheek.

Oh, please.

Like a sister, huh?

Just a wee exaggeration, eh?

Lu hadn’t seemed to know much more about Trayla than her nickname of “Betsy,” which hardly constituted “close.” And what a big fat lie about Trayla “seeming okay” the last time she saw her, when Lu had admitted to Allie and me that she’d glimpsed her stripper pal leaving through the rear door of the club in only her robe.

Did that constitute “okay” in her book?

Unless—
oh, damn
—unless she’d been throwing Allie and me a pack of lies, holding back from us, figuring to protect either Trayla or herself.

I was having a hard time sorting truth from fiction these days, considering how mixed up things had gotten.

Instead of dwelling on what secrets Lu McCarthy could be keeping, I changed the channel, and found myself further distracted.

Good Lord, could it be?

I squinted at Mother’s plasma TV.

Oh, my.

I stared ahead and frowned at the face that filled the screen.

Lu wasn’t the only one talking smack on the boob tube.

Mother’s snitch and my next door neighbor, Penny George, appeared on Channel 11, telling the world how she lived above the girlfriend of the “fugitive” the police were looking for in connection to the crime. She noted that “he appeared to be a nice enough boy, though hardly of great moral fortitude.”

Hello?

Because he stayed over at my place when we weren’t legally bound to love, honor, and bail out of jail?
I thought, shaking my head.

So Malone had never killed a man, had never robbed, maimed, mutilated, carjacked, shoplifted, or kicked a dog, so far as I was aware—and he couldn’t even stomp a spider, per Allie McSqueal—yet his moral fiber was in question because he spent an occasional night with his girlfriend of four months?

Call the Guardians of Good Behavior and make a citizen’s arrest!

For Pete’s sake.

I could hardly sit still when I saw Brian’s picture on the screen, an unsmiling black and white photo from the Bar Association directory that made him look like he had his boxers in an uncomfortable twist.

Poor, poor Malone.

He’d still have hell to face once I got him out of whatever hell he was in now. That was hardly fair.

I felt my mother’s hands on my shoulders, and I looked up into her worried face, her expression a sad reflection of my own.

“You about ready, pumpkin? Stephen wants to go over a few things with you,” she said, and I nodded.

I shut off the remote and made sure my cell was still in its case on my belt. I didn’t like wearing the thing, but I figured it’d be awfully handy tonight. I had my driver’s license and some cash tucked into my back pocket.

My mother leading the way, I shuffled behind her toward the foyer, where Stephen stood with the black bag full of dye-packed counterfeit cash as well as a shoulder bag that likely carried his laptop.

For ten minutes, he went over my instructions, step by step, having me repeat them so he was sure we were on the same page.

I took a quick bathroom break, splashed my face and stared at myself in the mirror long enough to repeat a few times, “You can do this, Andy.”

It couldn’t be worse than all those debutante teas my mother had forced me to attend before I’d put the kibosh on the whole silly “coming out” thing.

Besides, tonight’s outcome would be much more gratifying than having Cissy weep with disappointment, deeming me a lost cause (well, lost to
her
cause) and a social misfit like my father.

I don’t know if she’d realized that I’d taken her comparisons to Daddy as the highest of compliments. Stanley Kendricks had remained true to himself, despite his wealth and standing, and I’d hardly been his only admirer.

How I wished he were with me now, telling me what to do and assuring me everything would be fine.

I sincerely hoped he was watching over me somehow.

The name Andrea meant courage, I reminded myself.

My father had picked it for a reason, and I wouldn’t prove him wrong.

I made sure my cell was on before I left the house after a hug from Sandy and a warning from my mother to be careful and not drive too fast.

I felt like I was leaving for my first day at school, rather than heading off into the night with a bagful of cash to recover my snatched boyfriend.

Stephen assured my mother that he’d keep close tabs on me, reminding her of the GPS in the satchel and the Google map on his laptop with its satellite link.

I noticed he’d driven a dark-colored Volvo this evening, instead of the shiny pickup truck. I wondered if the sedan belonged to him or if he’d borrowed it for the festivities.

No matter, it wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.

Stephen double-checked that I had his cell number in my digital address book—I did—then he set the money bag in the backseat of the Jeep, patted my arm and said, “I’m right behind you, Andy.”

I took a deep breath and climbed into my Wrangler.

It was 10:35 when I drove away from my mother’s house, traveling toward Highland Park Village, not far away, and home to some of Cissy’s favorite stores, like Chanel, Escada, and St. John, to name a few.

Within five minutes, I’d arrived at the shopping center and found a parking spot between a pair of polished Mercedes in front of Café Pacific, catty-corner from Patrizio.

As I hopped out of the Jeep, I was nearly bowled over by a white-haired woman in mink and a gent in a three-piece suit, angling across the lot toward a silver Jaguar.

I caught my breath, looked right and left for oncoming traffic—pedestrians and cars—then hurriedly crossed the asphalt path toward the restaurant.

Patrizio was tucked back in a corner, strands of soft white lights twinkling above the outside patio. With only twenty minutes until closing, patrons exiting the Italian eatery waited curbside for busy valets to bring their cars around: a steady stream of Porsches, hip BMW roadsters, and even a striped Lamborghini.

I spotted a few vaguely familiar faces, girls I’d gone to school with all those years ago; now grown women with husbands, kids, and volunteer work.

Ah, would that I were them, wearing pearls and cashmere twin sets! I would’ve made Cissy the happiest mummy in the world.

Instead, I’d carved my own path, which didn’t include expensive foreign cars, cashmere, or a husband. I drove a Jeep Wrangler, wore secondhand clothing from vintage shops, and dated a man who’d disappeared from a strip club. Though I guess you could call most of the Web design work I did for nonprofits—largely pro bono—volunteer work of sorts. Still, I’d wager my former schoolmates had

never done a ransom drop.

And I was dead sure they’d never donned pink Converse high-tops, either, with or without socks.

Before I went inside, I glanced back to the parking lot, looking for Stephen’s dark Volvo and not finding it.

I told myself he was out there, just doing what he’d promised, staying out of sight.

Beneath my T-shirt and jacket, my armpits felt damp. I wiped my hands on the front of my jeans then slipped my cell from the case that dangled from my belt. From here on out, I’d hold it.

Heart thumping, I maneuvered through the departing crowd, entering the restaurant with its creamy walls topped by elegant molding, lit brilliantly by lavish fixtures. I sidled my way to the bar area, raised above the dining room, the two separated by a wooden railing topped with glass.

The wood floor beneath my sneakers was mostly smothered beneath an Oriental rug. Plenty of young couples still lingered, smoking and sipping pretty-colored cocktails, most in the uniform du jour: guys in untucked striped shirts and blazers, cuffs casually turned up; girls in hipster jeans, barely-there tops, and stiletto heels, straight blond hair falling past shoulders and cell phones glued to ears.

I found a deserted spot at the bar and took it, setting my cell right in front of me. The bartender, dapper in crisp white shirt and black bow tie, did the usual, “What’ll it be?” and I ordered tonic water and lime. Then I swivelled to glance around me.

Even at fifteen minutes before closing, stools were at a premium, though I noticed, down below, that diners were beginning to clear out, leaving busboys cleaning up empty tables. The couple in the coveted spot near the fireplace didn’t appear any too eager to go, and I remembered how cozy it had been when Malone and I sat there, holding hands atop the table, gabbing about nothing in particular

while he finished his espresso.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.