Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery by Susan McBride

whatever.”
    Cinda brushed me off like lint. Her mind was already at work. I could practically see her eyes spinning.
    “From Hockaday to the hoosegow,” she said, punctuating each word with a stab of the mike in the air. “Catchy, don’t you think?”
    “Cinda Lou Mitchell,” I said, slow and low, so she’d know I meant business. The Filet-O-Fish and fries churned in my stomach. “Don’t do this.”
    “But, honey, it’s my job.”
    “She was a classmate.”
    “Which makes the story more personal.”
    “Have some compassion,” I begged her, but Cinda just laughed.
    “I’m a journalist, Andy. I don’t get paid to have compassion.”
    I didn’t get the chance to respond.
    A red Corvette pulled up behind Jugs with a screech of tires. Abig-haired blonde jumped out of the driver’s side and rushed toward the police-guarded back door.
    Cinda froze. “Ohmigod, that’s Julie Costello.” She nearly dropped her mike, but did a quick save and shouted for Kevin to bring the camera pronto. Like a tornado, she spun off in pursuit of the ex-professional cheerleader who, if Molly’s info was correct, had been the dead man’s lover.
    Maybe I should have left at that point, having opened my yap once too often.
    But my curiosity got the better of me, and I hung around to catch the action between Cinda Lou, girl reporter, and Julie Costello, grieving girlfriend.
    This could be a really big shoe , to quote Ed Sullivan.
    If only I had some popcorn.
    Cinda had her microphone in Julie’s face as the cameraman fixed his bright light on them both. Ms. Costello certainly didn’t seem to mind being the center of attention. She primped at hair teased to cotton-candy fullness and batted big eyes painted with enough makeup to rival a drag queen. She wore a cut-off JUGS T-shirt that bared her very flat midriff and accentuated grapefruit-shaped breasts. Ah, the fine art of plastic surgery.
    “He was special to me, Bud was,” I heard her remark as I worked my way nearer. “He liked to flirt with pretty women, sure, but he was a decent man at heart. I don’t care what anyone else says about him. No one knew him as well as I did.”
    A single tear glinted in the spotlight’s glare and slipped down her cheek.
    “Speaking of flirting with pretty women, do you believe the prime suspect, Molly O’Brien, killed your boyfriend in self-defense?” Cinda asked in her best Baba Wawa imitation.
    Ms. Costello turned directly to the camera and howled, “I should’ve stayed on my shift! I felt sick last night and left early, but if I’d toughed it out instead of letting Molly help Bud close up the place, he’d still be alive! I know he would! That bitch took something precious from me, and I hope they fry her for it.”
    I couldn’t listen to another word. It was like watching a bad soap opera, only I knew it was all too real.
    I didn’t wait to say goodbye to Cinda.
    Twilight darkened the sky as I drove down to Highland Park to Mother’s house.
    By the time I arrived, Sandy was tucking a tired David into bed in one of the guest rooms, so I dropped in on Mother. She was staring at the TV screen.
    Her bifocals pushed low on her nose, she glanced at me over the rims and shook her head. “They’ve got constant break-in updates about the murder, Andrea. On every channel.”
    “Just make sure David doesn’t see them, will you, please?” I leaned my back against the doorframe, needing its support.
    “What if they discover the child is here and flock to my door?”
    “Have Sandy scare them away just like she does the Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
    “Andrea . . .”
    But I ducked out before she could say anything else. I headed up the hallway toward the room where David would stay until . . .
    Well, just until.
    I heard his soft crying even before I’d entered. He was sitting up in bed, wrapped in Sandy’s arms.
    “Rest easy, sweet pea,” she hushed him. “Everything will work out fine, you’ll see, and your mama will come