The real reason for her late night call. It was only eight-thirty in California, but back in Dallas, it was ten-thirty. Past former Miss Texas’ bedtime.
“Not recently.”
My brother was an architect working in Las Vegas. He specialized in luxury hotels and was hardly at his Dallas home. Mitch felt like the black sheep of the family. He wasn’t. He just picked up on Mama’s guilt.
To be fair, he was the perfect child. I, on the other hand, was probably why my parents’ hair had turn prematurely grey under that bottle color.
“Your big brother is hiding something.”
I broke a second cookie in half and dunked it in the milk. “Because he hasn’t called?” He’d probably talked to Daddy instead. But if we didn’t talk to Mama once a week, she was convinced we were hiding something. The problem was, we probably were.
“I was just talking to him. He was as chatty as a magpie.”
That
“He was still in Las Vegas working on his hotel. He’s thinking about buying a house there. He wouldn’t be home for a while, but not to worry, he was fine.”
I swallowed. Mitch never shared details about his life. Any details Mama knew, she’d have learned from the media.
“Are you sure he told you this? You’re not assuming? You didn’t read about it somewhere?”
“I know the difference between Mitchell’s voice and mine. Call him and find out what’s going on.”
“Mama, Mitch is a grown man. He doesn’t have to answer to the family every time he does something you don’t like.” But of course I was going to call. He may be hiding something from our mama, but odds were he’d tell me.
“You’ll call him. You know you’d feel terrible if something happened to your only brother, and you didn’t help him.”
I hated it when she played the guilt card.
Missy, who was still under my stool, rolled over and exposed her belly. I continued to rub her. “If he doesn’t want you to know something, I’m not going to tattle on him.”
“You will tell me. Or I’ll call Kat and convince her it’s time to visit y’all.”
Holy crapola. This was serious business. Mama and Aunt Kat, together. Here. Caro would kill me.
For a threat, it worked.
I’d call Mitch. Dependin’ on what he had to say would dictate if I needed to make another exception and call Caro. It was only fair to give my cousin warning her mama was on her way for a visit.
It had been a few of days since Mona’s death. The three of us had settled into somewhat of a routine. There were no leads on Mona’s murderer. At least not that the police were sharing with the rest of the town. But there was plenty of gossip.
I’d called Mitch, and Mama was right, he was chatty. He didn’t spill his dirty little secret, but my sisterly intuition told me he had one. I let it go. If he were really in trouble, he’d have told me. Now it was about letting Mama squirm.
“Let’s go, girl,” I called out to Missy. She happily plodded behind me.
I thought Fluffy might follow. She’d seen the morning routine often enough, but she was hiding out either on my bed or on the couch.
She still wasn’t interested in her own room. I couldn’t figure her out.
I hopped into the shower and sang my favorite Sting song at the top of my lungs. Missy joined in during the chorus. I’m sure our screeching and howling was hard on Fluffy’s ears. We certainly wouldn’t win any singing contests.
Our duet was interrupted by my blaring cell phone. I shut off the water and hopped out of the shower. Rivulets of water dripped on the hardwood floor.
“Ms. Langston. Owen Quinn. I-wanted-to-make-you-aware… Mona-Michael’s-funeral-is-today.”
How could someone talk so fast and not be winded?
Earlier in the week, the rumor of a possible funeral had spread through the community. Since I hadn’t heard it directly from anyone I trusted, I’d dismissed it. I patted my face dry with the corner of the towel. “I didn’t think there’d be one.”
“The body won’t be released in time, but Ms. Michaels had a precise timeline and this is what she wanted.”
Dictating our lives from the grave. No surprise.
“Fluffy’s to attend.”
“O-kay,” I dragged out the word while I contemplated what that meant to me. “So am I supposed to drop her off?” There was silence on the other end. “I’m joking. What time?”
He filled me in on the details at neck-breaking speed (2:00 pm at the Presbyterian Church), then we hung up.
“What does a dog wear to a funeral?”
I knew what I was going to wear.
Grandma Tillie’s brooch.
Chapter Seventeen
It was gone.
Damn. I pulled down two extra-large wicker baskets from the top shelf in my closet. I knew there’d be hell to pay. Caro had been livid when I’d stolen the brooch out from under her nose. Somehow she’d found the opportunity to return the gesture.
Caro was getting better at breaking and entering. And I was getting worse at hiding my loot.
I dumped out the basket contents. Ten (okay, more like twenty) handbags covered my bed. Coach, Fendi, Chanel, Marc Jacobs, Prada, Alexander Wang and Chloe’. Hobos, totes, shoulder and evening. Neutrals, blacks, purple, plaid, blue, green and metallic. I loved my bags.
I’d thought hiding the brooch in a handbag, on the top shelf of my walk-in closet, was the perfect hiding spot.
I was wrong.
I was missing a bag. Not just any bag, but an Alexander McQueen feather-fringed box-clutch with a fantastic gold and amber crystal skull clasp.
I’d been so wrapped up in Fluffy’s issues, I’d let down my guard. Dang. Dang. Dang.
Fluffy meandered over to the bed and sniffed the bags. She settled on the Chloe’ brown leather tote. She had good taste. It was one of my favorites. To be honest, I loved them all; why else would I buy them?
Fluffy studied me as she slowly grabbed the shoulder strap between her teeth.
“What are you doing?” I asked, reaching for the bag.
She yanked the purse out of my grasp and rushed out of the room. I gave chase, yelling at her, “Get back here. Drop the bag.”
She ran through the house, Missy and I right behind her.
“Bark. Bark.”
That was Missy.
“Don’t make me chase you. Fluffy, you get back here.”
Fluffy stopped in the middle of the living room and faced me in a pounce position, hairy butt in the air. Missy and I blocked her exit toward the hallway.
It was a stare down.
This was the time she picked to act like a dog? I needed a distraction. Or bribe.
“Treat?” I asked.
Missy immediately sat and barked.
