my hardly significant bra size. “It couldn’t have happened the way Annabelle said it did. Bebe wouldn’t have gone to bed in anything but her birthday suit, not in her own home. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?” I asked, on cue, fighting the urge to groan.
“Someone else must’ve been there, and whoever it was must’ve wanted it to look like she’d gone peacefully, only she was pushed.” As if I didn’t get what she meant, she drew a finger across her throat.
Her words made me dizzy. What was she saying? That someone shut off Bebe’s lights—permanently—dressed her in a pretty nightgown, then covered up by neatly tucking her into bed?
Ah, geez .
If only Mother were a drinker, I could write this one off.
Instead, I took a deep breath, wishing I’d gone to Bubba’s for fried chicken.
Here Cissy was, talking murder, and we hadn’t even had lunch yet.
Chapter 5
“M other, promise you won’t mention this to anyone else, okay? Let’s keep it between us for now, our little secret, please?”
Oliver Stone had nothing on Cissy.
She and her clubby compadres had a fondness for coming up with flaky conspiracy theories to pass the time between bridge hands, cake and coffee. Though usually silly beyond belief, once in a while they’d concoct a real doozy that had a pinch of merit. Like the idea that e-mails were a plot to eliminate the writing of proper thank-you notes. I’ll bet the Cranes—that’s the stationery Cranes—wouldn’t disagree.
“But, Andrea, how can we keep such a thing secret if there’s a killer on the lam?” she said matter-of-factly. “Shouldn’t people know so they can protect themselves? What if he should strike again?”
Protect themselves?
I figured the folks who lived here had more protection than some mob families. There were cameras at the end of the drive, at the front door of the “manor house,” as it was apparently called, and probably elsewhere on the grounds. They had Bob and Sam on patrol, and magnetic key cards to gain admittance to the main building. Did Mother want the residents to take up arms, like aging Rambos jacked-up on Centrum Silver?
“Andrea, are you listenin’ to me? Don’t I have a responsibility to share what I know is the truth?”
I gnawed on my bottom lip, wanting to choose my words carefully. There were plenty of times when Mother and I debated politics or fashion, but wrangling over a touchy subject like murder left me feeling terribly ill equipped.
“Consider this, okay?” Oh, my, where to begin? “If there was any proof at all that an actual psycho attacked Beatrice Kent, I’m sure Annabelle would have been the first to inform all the residents.” And call in the National Guard . “But there isn’t any evidence, you see? If there were signs of an intruder, the security people would’ve summoned the police. If Bebe hadn’t gone naturally, the staff doctor would’ve flagged it. So if you go around insinuating that a homicidal maniac dressed Bebe in her nightgown and tucked her into bed after doing away with her, you’ll totally freak everyone out, particularly Annabelle, who’s clearly still shaken.”
Mother seemed to be paying attention, so I pressed on. “You’re grieving for your friend, I know, and it’s hard to think straight when your heart is broken. But, you have to accept that Bebe’s gone, and you can’t bring her back. You need to let go. Don’t read more into things and make it worse. It’s not good for you. You’ll make yourself sick. So, pretty please, drop it,” I begged, all but down on my knees.
Besides, if Cissy ran around the reception, crying “murder,” one of the white coats might decide to zip her up in an unfashionable wraparound jacket with extralong sleeves, tossing in a free trip to the local hospital psych ward as a bonus gift, which might interfere with the busy fundraising season ahead.
“Are you finished?” she asked.
“Are you?”
“For the moment,” she said, hardly
“Unless what?” I asked, on cue, fighting the urge to groan.
“Someone else must’ve been there, and whoever it was must’ve wanted it to look like she’d gone peacefully, only she was pushed.” As if I didn’t get what she meant, she drew a finger across her throat.
Her words made me dizzy. What was she saying? That someone shut off Bebe’s lights—permanently—dressed her in a pretty nightgown, then covered up by neatly tucking her into bed?
Ah, geez .
If only Mother were a drinker, I could write this one off.
Instead, I took a deep breath, wishing I’d gone to Bubba’s for fried chicken.
Here Cissy was, talking murder, and we hadn’t even had lunch yet.
Chapter 5
“M other, promise you won’t mention this to anyone else, okay? Let’s keep it between us for now, our little secret, please?”
Oliver Stone had nothing on Cissy.
She and her clubby compadres had a fondness for coming up with flaky conspiracy theories to pass the time between bridge hands, cake and coffee. Though usually silly beyond belief, once in a while they’d concoct a real doozy that had a pinch of merit. Like the idea that e-mails were a plot to eliminate the writing of proper thank-you notes. I’ll bet the Cranes—that’s the stationery Cranes—wouldn’t disagree.
“But, Andrea, how can we keep such a thing secret if there’s a killer on the lam?” she said matter-of-factly. “Shouldn’t people know so they can protect themselves? What if he should strike again?”
Protect themselves?
I figured the folks who lived here had more protection than some mob families. There were cameras at the end of the drive, at the front door of the “manor house,” as it was apparently called, and probably elsewhere on the grounds. They had Bob and Sam on patrol, and magnetic key cards to gain admittance to the main building. Did Mother want the residents to take up arms, like aging Rambos jacked-up on Centrum Silver?
“Andrea, are you listenin’ to me? Don’t I have a responsibility to share what I know is the truth?”
I gnawed on my bottom lip, wanting to choose my words carefully. There were plenty of times when Mother and I debated politics or fashion, but wrangling over a touchy subject like murder left me feeling terribly ill equipped.
“Consider this, okay?” Oh, my, where to begin? “If there was any proof at all that an actual psycho attacked Beatrice Kent, I’m sure Annabelle would have been the first to inform all the residents.” And call in the National Guard . “But there isn’t any evidence, you see? If there were signs of an intruder, the security people would’ve summoned the police. If Bebe hadn’t gone naturally, the staff doctor would’ve flagged it. So if you go around insinuating that a homicidal maniac dressed Bebe in her nightgown and tucked her into bed after doing away with her, you’ll totally freak everyone out, particularly Annabelle, who’s clearly still shaken.”
Mother seemed to be paying attention, so I pressed on. “You’re grieving for your friend, I know, and it’s hard to think straight when your heart is broken. But, you have to accept that Bebe’s gone, and you can’t bring her back. You need to let go. Don’t read more into things and make it worse. It’s not good for you. You’ll make yourself sick. So, pretty please, drop it,” I begged, all but down on my knees.
Besides, if Cissy ran around the reception, crying “murder,” one of the white coats might decide to zip her up in an unfashionable wraparound jacket with extralong sleeves, tossing in a free trip to the local hospital psych ward as a bonus gift, which might interfere with the busy fundraising season ahead.
“Are you finished?” she asked.
“Are you?”
“For the moment,” she said, hardly
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