The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club: A Debutante Dropout Mystery by McBride Susan

Author:McBride, Susan [McBride, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-12-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Bebe Kent’s townhouse stood at the end of Magnolia Court, a cul-de-sac several streets over from Sarah Lee Sewell’s, sandwiched between the eighteenth hole and a small man-made lake. The two homes were within walking distance, I figured, particularly if you cut through the nature paths that crisscrossed the grounds, snaking between buildings and across the verdant landscape.

Being directionally dysfunctional, I could well have driven in circles had I not been following Mother in Sandy’s Buick Century. Plenty of signs appeared at each intersection, pointing toward the golf course, the tennis courts, the pool and spa, the clinic, physical therapy, or the Manor House, which seemed the focal point of the community. Still, my internal map ran more on landmarks than on words or arrows.

Since my grand tour yesterday was aborted, I still didn’t have a thorough grasp of the layout of Belle Meade, though it seemed that everything stemmed from the main building, like tentacles on a squid, which made perfect sense.

Keeping my Jeep on the slow-moving bumper of the Buick, I glimpsed more of the residences to the west of the Manor, townhouses and condos, one and two stories, some red brick and others whitewashed with painted shutters and small, tidy yards. It could’ve been any upscale, gated community in Dallas, letting in only those who could afford to pay the substantial costs.

Within minutes, Mother tooted the horn and parked the Century in a small driveway beside a red brick row house with yellow shutters. I tucked the Wrangler tight against the front curb.

“Home, sweet home,” Cissy twanged in her best Dolly Parton, clip-clopping on her rhinestone-studded boots toward the portico. All she needed was a guitar and a boob job, and she might’ve passed for a Pigeon Holler relation.

As I dragged her Tumi suitcase from my backseat, I saw her check the mailbox and remove a thick bundle, apparently forgotten since Bebe’s death. I guessed that, even if the English cousins and Bebe’s attorney had filed a stop order at the post office, it would take a while before delivery really did cease. Regardless, I’d bet the next resident would continue getting bits and pieces of missives addressed to Bebe. My mother still received the occasional junk mail or solicitation addressed to Daddy, a dozen years after his fatal heart attack.

My gaze swept over the place, from ground to rooftop, while I rolled the bag forward, but I saw nothing overtly sinister. A bird twittered from a nearby tree, and a squirrel scurried along the covered gutter.

Perfectly benign, I told myself, coming to stand behind my mother as she unlocked the front door.

Still, a prickle of dread raised the hair on the back of my neck as I followed her inside. I rolled the Tumi to a stop in the foyer and waited as Cissy went around clicking on lights and opening drapes to let in the sunshine. As illumination filled every dark corner, I made myself walk around, trying to forget that a woman had died upstairs a mere four days before.

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