Free The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club by Susan McBride

appetite.
    I said almost.
    The buffet smelled damned good, and I was ready to put on the feedbag and test Chef Jean’s prowess. If only I could get around Gladys Kravitz here. But the moment I made a move to leave, she threw a body-block, her thin pink-clad form lunging in front of me. I had to give her one thing: she was agile.
    “So you were about to say why your pretty puss is looking so sour.” She bent closer, and her powdery scent settled over me. “C’mon, you can share it with ol’ Mabel Pinkston. I’ve spent my whole life taking care of people, so it’s what I’m good at.” The lines in her heavily rouged face deepened, and her eyes rounded with sympathy. “Anything I can help you with?”
    “It’s my mother,” I blurted out, before my better judgment could halt the flow of words. “I’ve lost her . . .”
    “Lost her? Bless your heart”—once again, Mabel jumped in before I’d finished—“Beatrice Kent?” Thinly penciled brows arched, and her mouth puckered with distress. She looked me up and down, disconcerted. “And there I was joking around. Forgive me, child, I didn’t realize that the woman had a daughter. I didn’t think she had anybody left in the world besides her hot-shot lawyers and a couple of long-lost cousins from across the pond who didn’t give a hoot or holler about her until she dropped dead.”
    “Oh, no, Mabel, my mother wasn’t Bebe,” I assured her and gestured toward the throngs of elegant older folks milling around the vast room. “She’s alive and well, though I’m not sure where. But she’s definitely not gone for good.”
    “She isn’t?”
    “No.”
    The woman stared at me, momentarily silent, before her pink-glossed lips parted. She threw back her head and laughed soundly, and when she was done, she patted my back with a blue-veined hand.
    “My, my, sister, but you had me going there for a minute. So she ditched you, did she? You’re visiting, is that it? Does she live here? What’s her name?”
    “No, she doesn’t live here,” I said, answering part of her question. “Not yet. But I’m seriously thinking of having her committed somewhere.”
    Mabel tapped her sagging cheek, clearly pondering my comment. “Getting fruity as a cantaloupe, is she?”
    “I’m hoping it’s temporary insanity.”
    She nodded sympathetically. “Tell me about it, sister. Seems some women go through the change and get nutty or, worse, turn mean as a snake. Doesn’t take much to get some of ’em riled as a polecat. But, then again, could be what happens when you stick a hundred hungry hens in a closed pen with far too few roosters . . .”
    “Got it,” I butted in. No more barnyard sex talk, please.
    The scent of pork tenderloin called my name.
    “Excuse me, Mabel,” I said and hoped I was convincing, “but I’ve really got to find my mum. Sometimes she wanders off where she shouldn’t, and she can be a real danger to others, if I’m not around to keep her in line.”
    Her pink lips puckered. “Is it the Alzheimer’s? We don’t usually see those kind here. Once the senses start to go, the doctor ships ’em off to skilled nursing. So your mama must be a special case.”
    “Oh, she’s a case, all right,” I agreed.
    Mabel glanced away, losing interest in me, probably scouting for that hot Henry in his bright green pants.
    So I made my escape.
    I did a quick check for Cissy, but didn’t see hide nor hair of her, so I pushed aside any rising panic—I mean, how far could she get in a gated retirement village—and listened to the pangs of hunger waging war in my stomach.
    First things first.
    With a smile pasted on my kisser, I maneuvered my way around and through the clusters of merry mourners, not slowing down until I’d reached the elaborate buffet and picked up a plate to fill. Chef Jean had indeed laid out quite a spread, and it was an effort to keep from drooling as I made my way around, taking a little bit of everything: meats, fruits, pasta