Free Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery by Susan McBride Page B

drew a finger across her throat. “That’s a wrap, Kevin,” she told her cameraman, who cut the high-powered light and lowered the contraption from his shoulder. “If you’ve got enough footage, then we’re done here.”
    She very nearly walked through me, but I lifted a hand in a small wave and said, “Hey, Cinda Lou.”
    Only then noting my presence, she stopped and stared through the descending dusk until recognition dawned. “Andy Kendricks? Is that you?”
    “Last I checked.”
    “Well, whaddaya know.”
    Oh, hell, I knew plenty.
    Cinda Lou Mitchell had been in my class at Hockaday. If she wasn’t the most popular girl, she was runner-up. Mother had always hoped Cinda and I would strike up a close friendship, but it hadn’t happened and never would. It didn’t help that I could hardly stand to be around the girl for more than five minutes. Still, her mother and mine cochaired so many society soirees that I’d never completely lost touch, occasionally bumping into her at whatever dinner or dance Mother guilted me into attending every once in a blue moon. I knew Cinda had already been married three times, and each divorce had left her wealthier than the last, so that her reporting gig was basically a hobby.
    “For heaven’s sake,” she murmured and, still clutching her microphone, set her hands on the hips of her red tailored suit. The trademark smile for which she was renowned throughout the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex beamed so brightly I felt like a deer caught in headlights. “I haven’t seen you since Cissy dragged you to last summer’s charity ball to raise funds for the homeless.”
    “I’ve been busy with work,” I explained, and it wasn’t a total fib. “I don’t have much time for a social life.”
    Cinda Lou tossed pale-gold curls, a knowing look in her eyes. “Well, I guess Cissy has social life enough for you both. I don’t think she’s missed a charity event in thirty years. Why it wasn’t but two days after your daddy passed that she showed up to emcee at the Calf Fry and Rodeo for Battered Women.”
    Leaving me alone to bawl my eyes out, I wanted to add, but held my tongue. Mother had always been—and would forever be—a social butterfly. It’s what had kept her going since Daddy died, and I didn’t begrudge her it. It’s who she was. Even in grief, she could air kiss with the best of them.
    “So what brings you over to the Villa Mesa parking lot?” Cinda asked without further ado, peering at me as though I were hiding a deep dark secret. “Don’t tell me you managed the web site for this outfit? Though I can’t imagine our goody two-shoes Andy getting her hands dirty working for a guy like Bud Hartman. I heard he was a real swine despite being great-looking and”—she bent her head toward mine—“wild in bed.”
    I felt a blush creep into my cheeks. “No, no, I don’t work for Jugs.” Not yet anyway. “I’m doing a favor for Molly O’Brien.”
    Cinda Lou lifted finely plucked brows. “The woman they arrested for stabbing Hartman?”
    “She went to school with us,” I reminded her, though Cinda’s expression was blank. “She was my closest friend.”
    “The waitress from Jugs went to Hockaday?”
    “Yes.”
    She squinted at the purple sky, then her eyes abruptly rounded. “Oh, my God! The scholarship girl. She lived in a foster home or something. She ’s the one who stabbed Bud Hartman?”
    “Well, yes and no”—I squirmed—“but she didn’t kill him.”
    “Geez, Andy, thanks for the tip.” She yelled for her cameraman. “Kevin! Call my mother, would you? Tell her to dig up my yearbooks so we can swing by and pick ’em up on our way back to the studio.”
    “Cinda Lou.” I tugged at her sleeve, but she was already focused on creating a new angle for her story. Thanks to my big mouth. “Keep Molly’s private life out of this, please. She has a little boy. Besides, she’s innocent until proven guilty, right?”
    “Sure, sure,