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Authors: Susan McBride
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tendons at the back of my neck, telling myself the very thought was preposterous.
Bebe Kent had been a serious player on the Dallas social scene for far too many years. Surely if there’d been any sign of foul play when Annabelle had discovered the woman in bed, dead to the world, she would’ve called the police. The doctor wouldn’t have signed the death certificate if everything wasn’t kosher, would he?
Uh-uh. No way. No how.
This wasn’t a TV show for the Lifetime cable channel. No physician in his right mind, in the real world, would risk losing his license—or going to prison—by falsifying information on a legal document, I consoled myself, nor would Annabelle conspire to commit any kind of crime that would put her reputation and her business on the line. Not unless she was aiming for professional suicide.
Somehow those thoughts reassured me.
Mother cleared her throat ever so delicately, drawing me back to our conversation. “Am I allowed to go, Warden,” she asked, “or do I need a pardon from the governor?”
And she considered me the smart aleck in the family?
“Be my guest,” I said, and stepped aside so she could walk past me, through the French doors. I was right behind her as she entered the dining room.
The zippy sound of swing swept through me, something along the lines of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” with Andrews Sisters harmonies and a bopping melody that had me itching to snap my fingers and tap my toes.
Not your typical mourning music , I mused. It certainly wasn’t Mozart’s Requiem , but what did I know about postmemorial service etiquette? Considering my motto was “color outside the lines,” it was hardly my place to comment. I’d once joked to Malone that I wanted my own will to have a clause requiring that the entire song list of Def Leppard’s Hysteria be played at my send-off. But that kind of thing went right along with my debutante-dropout image, so it would hardly be shocking.
This reception was a tribute to the venerable Mrs. Beatrice Kent, so hearing swing seemed out of place. I would’ve expected something moody and baroque, like Handel or Beethoven. Maybe even Elvis singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Though Willie Nelson’s version would’ve worked, too (hey, this was Texas—country music was our blues).
“Does anyone need a refill of bubbly?” a high-pitched voice asked, rising above the music.
Champagne?
Okay, that did it. Suddenly, I was the one who felt totally discombobulated. I’d expected an air of solemnity at this reception, with lots of sober faces, like at the church, but I was way, way off.
Belle Meade’s tribute to Bebe was something else entirely.
I glanced around, having pictured black wreaths over mirrors, even black crepe paper dripping from the ceiling, sort of like Halloween without the orange.
But there was nothing somber about the dining room with its bright yellow drapes, Chinese patterned wallpaper, and blazing chandeliers that touched light upon silver place settings at the dozens of linen-clothed tables. Mirrors with carved gilded frames hung everywhere, adding the illusion of more space, so it felt as big as a ballroom. Wildflowers like the ones in the foyer, only scaled down from supersized, served as centerpieces for the tables and anchored the tremendous buffet set up smack in the midst of it all.
Color photographs of the woman I’d seen in the portrait at Highland Park Presby had been blown up and tacked to the walls, so that Beatrice Kent’s smiling countenance surrounded me, every which way I turned.
It was Bebe-palooza.
Out of nowhere, I heard laughter erupt from the buzz of voices, and my antennae went up. I had flashes of that Mary Tyler Moore Show episode where Mary has a laughing jag at the funeral of Chuckles the Clown. Well, people grieved in their own fashion, I rationalized, even if that fashion seemed a mite too perky for me.
Unless the group had been reading Stress and the Single Girl and had
Bebe Kent had been a serious player on the Dallas social scene for far too many years. Surely if there’d been any sign of foul play when Annabelle had discovered the woman in bed, dead to the world, she would’ve called the police. The doctor wouldn’t have signed the death certificate if everything wasn’t kosher, would he?
Uh-uh. No way. No how.
This wasn’t a TV show for the Lifetime cable channel. No physician in his right mind, in the real world, would risk losing his license—or going to prison—by falsifying information on a legal document, I consoled myself, nor would Annabelle conspire to commit any kind of crime that would put her reputation and her business on the line. Not unless she was aiming for professional suicide.
Somehow those thoughts reassured me.
Mother cleared her throat ever so delicately, drawing me back to our conversation. “Am I allowed to go, Warden,” she asked, “or do I need a pardon from the governor?”
And she considered me the smart aleck in the family?
“Be my guest,” I said, and stepped aside so she could walk past me, through the French doors. I was right behind her as she entered the dining room.
The zippy sound of swing swept through me, something along the lines of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” with Andrews Sisters harmonies and a bopping melody that had me itching to snap my fingers and tap my toes.
Not your typical mourning music , I mused. It certainly wasn’t Mozart’s Requiem , but what did I know about postmemorial service etiquette? Considering my motto was “color outside the lines,” it was hardly my place to comment. I’d once joked to Malone that I wanted my own will to have a clause requiring that the entire song list of Def Leppard’s Hysteria be played at my send-off. But that kind of thing went right along with my debutante-dropout image, so it would hardly be shocking.
This reception was a tribute to the venerable Mrs. Beatrice Kent, so hearing swing seemed out of place. I would’ve expected something moody and baroque, like Handel or Beethoven. Maybe even Elvis singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Though Willie Nelson’s version would’ve worked, too (hey, this was Texas—country music was our blues).
“Does anyone need a refill of bubbly?” a high-pitched voice asked, rising above the music.
Champagne?
Okay, that did it. Suddenly, I was the one who felt totally discombobulated. I’d expected an air of solemnity at this reception, with lots of sober faces, like at the church, but I was way, way off.
Belle Meade’s tribute to Bebe was something else entirely.
I glanced around, having pictured black wreaths over mirrors, even black crepe paper dripping from the ceiling, sort of like Halloween without the orange.
But there was nothing somber about the dining room with its bright yellow drapes, Chinese patterned wallpaper, and blazing chandeliers that touched light upon silver place settings at the dozens of linen-clothed tables. Mirrors with carved gilded frames hung everywhere, adding the illusion of more space, so it felt as big as a ballroom. Wildflowers like the ones in the foyer, only scaled down from supersized, served as centerpieces for the tables and anchored the tremendous buffet set up smack in the midst of it all.
Color photographs of the woman I’d seen in the portrait at Highland Park Presby had been blown up and tacked to the walls, so that Beatrice Kent’s smiling countenance surrounded me, every which way I turned.
It was Bebe-palooza.
Out of nowhere, I heard laughter erupt from the buzz of voices, and my antennae went up. I had flashes of that Mary Tyler Moore Show episode where Mary has a laughing jag at the funeral of Chuckles the Clown. Well, people grieved in their own fashion, I rationalized, even if that fashion seemed a mite too perky for me.
Unless the group had been reading Stress and the Single Girl and had
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