happened to Bebe was entirely natural?”
“Dr. Finch made that determination, of course, and our security team found no signs of foul play, no indication of a forced entry. Nothing in the house was disturbed or appeared to be missing.”
Security team , I mused, as in the white-haired Bob and his cohort Sam? Were they certified in crime-scene investigation by AAA or the AARP? I wondered.
“What if they missed something subtle?” Mother pressed. “Were blood tests run? Did she have a fatal disease? Was it salmonella or food poisoning?”
“It was cardiac arrest, Miss Cissy. Her heart just stopped beating, that’s what Dr. Finch said.” Annabelle reached for Mother’s hand, clasping it hard enough to make Cissy flinch. “Please, don’t do this. It doesn’t help Bebe any for us to ponder why she left us. Just accept it, and let’s move forward. She would’ve wanted that.”
Not for the first time since we’d run into her, tears sprang to Annabelle’s eyes, glistening on her lashes, and she sniffed as she let go of Cissy’s hand. “Let’s not talk about this anymore, shall we? I’m sure y’all are hungry, and Chef Jean has laid out quite a spread. Let’s go enjoy ourselves. Bebe would’ve expected it.”
With that, she pivoted and strode forward, up the hallway, not waiting to see if we followed, obviously sure that we would. Or maybe hoping we wouldn’t.
I took a couple steps forward, hesitated, and turned around.
Mother hadn’t budged an inch.
She snapped open her purse and removed her compact, popping it wide and glancing at herself in the tiny mirror, snatching out the powder puff and blotting at her cheeks a little too ferociously.
I walked back to her.
“It can’t be,” she murmured. “It’s absurd, really. I heard what Annabelle said, but I’m not at all convinced.”
“What’s wrong?” A knot of worry gripped my chest. Cissy was taking Bebe Kent’s death awfully hard, it seemed, as if she were looking for someone to blame or a way to find fault. Like she needed to point the finger at something or someone before she could put her grief to rest.
She clamped the compact shut and shoved it back inside her tiny bag. Her jaw betrayed a vague tremor as she looked me squarely in the eye and proclaimed, “Beatrice Kent was one of my dearest friends for thirty years, and I knew things about her that even her doctor didn’t.”
Oh, boy. I crossed my arms. “Like what, Mother?”
“If Annabelle found Bebe lying in her bed, neatly tucked in and wearing a frothy nightgown, then something funny’s afoot.”
Something funny’s afoot?
Are you kidding me? She sounded like Angela Lansbury in an old episode of Murder, She Wrote , and I would’ve laughed except she looked so dad-blamed serious.
“What’s so strange about that?”
Didn’t lots of older folks pass away peacefully in their sleep? It sounded pretty reasonable and not a bad way to go if the Big Guy was pushing your punch card.
A spark lit her eyes, and she raised her chin, the very image of defiant. “Bebe never wore a nightgown to bed, not unless she was visitin’ friends or had overnight guests. She once told me that she’d slept in the buff for as long as she’d been alive. Naked as the day she was born. Homer used to joke that he made her keep a robe at the foot of the bed just in case there was a fire and she had to jump out a window. Don’t you get it?”
Get it? I was trying hard to erase the mental image of a bare-nekked Bebe dangling from a windowsill.
“Someone must’ve done this to her, don’t you see?” Cissy insisted and tugged at my sleeve. “It’s like someone’s sending me a sign, and I’ve got to follow the arrow, sugar, wherever it takes me.”
“What arrow?” Oh, man, I wasn’t in the mood for one of her conspiracy theories. Not even close. “See what ?”
She blinked, bemused by my lack of empathy. So she slowed her drawl to halftime, as if I were a dimwit with an IQ to match
“Dr. Finch made that determination, of course, and our security team found no signs of foul play, no indication of a forced entry. Nothing in the house was disturbed or appeared to be missing.”
Security team , I mused, as in the white-haired Bob and his cohort Sam? Were they certified in crime-scene investigation by AAA or the AARP? I wondered.
“What if they missed something subtle?” Mother pressed. “Were blood tests run? Did she have a fatal disease? Was it salmonella or food poisoning?”
“It was cardiac arrest, Miss Cissy. Her heart just stopped beating, that’s what Dr. Finch said.” Annabelle reached for Mother’s hand, clasping it hard enough to make Cissy flinch. “Please, don’t do this. It doesn’t help Bebe any for us to ponder why she left us. Just accept it, and let’s move forward. She would’ve wanted that.”
Not for the first time since we’d run into her, tears sprang to Annabelle’s eyes, glistening on her lashes, and she sniffed as she let go of Cissy’s hand. “Let’s not talk about this anymore, shall we? I’m sure y’all are hungry, and Chef Jean has laid out quite a spread. Let’s go enjoy ourselves. Bebe would’ve expected it.”
With that, she pivoted and strode forward, up the hallway, not waiting to see if we followed, obviously sure that we would. Or maybe hoping we wouldn’t.
I took a couple steps forward, hesitated, and turned around.
Mother hadn’t budged an inch.
She snapped open her purse and removed her compact, popping it wide and glancing at herself in the tiny mirror, snatching out the powder puff and blotting at her cheeks a little too ferociously.
I walked back to her.
“It can’t be,” she murmured. “It’s absurd, really. I heard what Annabelle said, but I’m not at all convinced.”
“What’s wrong?” A knot of worry gripped my chest. Cissy was taking Bebe Kent’s death awfully hard, it seemed, as if she were looking for someone to blame or a way to find fault. Like she needed to point the finger at something or someone before she could put her grief to rest.
She clamped the compact shut and shoved it back inside her tiny bag. Her jaw betrayed a vague tremor as she looked me squarely in the eye and proclaimed, “Beatrice Kent was one of my dearest friends for thirty years, and I knew things about her that even her doctor didn’t.”
Oh, boy. I crossed my arms. “Like what, Mother?”
“If Annabelle found Bebe lying in her bed, neatly tucked in and wearing a frothy nightgown, then something funny’s afoot.”
Something funny’s afoot?
Are you kidding me? She sounded like Angela Lansbury in an old episode of Murder, She Wrote , and I would’ve laughed except she looked so dad-blamed serious.
“What’s so strange about that?”
Didn’t lots of older folks pass away peacefully in their sleep? It sounded pretty reasonable and not a bad way to go if the Big Guy was pushing your punch card.
A spark lit her eyes, and she raised her chin, the very image of defiant. “Bebe never wore a nightgown to bed, not unless she was visitin’ friends or had overnight guests. She once told me that she’d slept in the buff for as long as she’d been alive. Naked as the day she was born. Homer used to joke that he made her keep a robe at the foot of the bed just in case there was a fire and she had to jump out a window. Don’t you get it?”
Get it? I was trying hard to erase the mental image of a bare-nekked Bebe dangling from a windowsill.
“Someone must’ve done this to her, don’t you see?” Cissy insisted and tugged at my sleeve. “It’s like someone’s sending me a sign, and I’ve got to follow the arrow, sugar, wherever it takes me.”
“What arrow?” Oh, man, I wasn’t in the mood for one of her conspiracy theories. Not even close. “See what ?”
She blinked, bemused by my lack of empathy. So she slowed her drawl to halftime, as if I were a dimwit with an IQ to match
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