Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(22)

Hedda put away the last of Francesca's lingerie and slid the drawer shut. “Everything looks grand on you, miss.”

Francesca turned slowly in front of the mirror and then wrinkled her nose. The Saint Laurent was too conservative, not her style after all. Dropping the gown to the floor, she stepped over the pile of discarded clothes and began digging in her closet again. Her velvet knickers would be perfect, but she needed a blouse to wear with them.

“Would you be wantin’ anything else, Miss Francesca?”

“No, nothing,” Francesca answered absently.

“I'll be back by tea, then,” the housekeeper announced as she headed toward the door.

Francesca turned to ask her about supper and noticed for the first time that the housekeeper was stooped forward farther than normal. “Is your back bothering you again? I thought you told me it was better?”

“It was for a bit,” the housekeeper replied, resting her hand heavily on the doorknob, “but it's been aching so these last few days I can hardly bend over. That's why ? need to leave for a few hours—to go to the clinic.”

Francesca thought how terrible it would be to live like poor Hedda, with stockings rolled at the ankles and a back that ached whenever you moved. “Let me get my keys,” she offered impulsively. “I'll drive you to Chloe's physician on Harley Street and have him send me the bill.”

“No need, miss. I can go to the clinic.”

But Francesca wouldn't hear of it. She hated seeing people suffer and couldn't bear the thought of poor Hedda not having the best medical care. Instructing the housekeeper to wait in the car, she traded in her silk blouse for a cashmere sweater, added a gold and ivory bangle to her wrist, made a telephone call, spritzed herself with the peach and apricot scent of Femme, and left her room—giving no thought at all to the litter of clothes and accessories she had left behind for Hedda to bend over and pick up when she returned.

Her hair swirled around her shoulders as she tripped down the stairs, a tortoiseshell cross fox jacket dangling from her fingers, soft leather boots sinking into the carpet. Stepping down into the foyer, she passed a pair of double-ball topiaries set in majolica pots. Little sunlight penetrated the foyer, so the plants never flourished and had to be replaced every six weeks, an extravagance that neither Chloe nor Francesca bothered to question. The door chimes rang.

“Bother,” Francesca muttered, glancing at her watch. If she didn't hurry, she'd never be able to get Hedda to the doctor and still have time to dress for Cissy Kavendish's party. Impatiently, she swung open the front door.

A uniformed police constable stood on the other side consulting a small notebook he was holding in his hand. “I'm looking for Francesca Day,” he said, coloring slightly as he lifted his head and took in her breathtaking appearance.

A picture sprang into her mind of the assortment of unpaid traffic tickets scattered in her desk drawer upstairs, and she gave him her best smile. “You've found her. Am I going to be sorry?”

He regarded her solemnly. “Miss Day, I'm afraid I have some upsetting news.”

For the first time she noticed that he was holding something at his side. A sudden chill of apprehension swept over her as she recognized Chloe's ostrich-skin Chanel handbag.

He swallowed uncomfortably. “It seems there's been a rather serious accident involving your mother....”





Chapter

5



Dallie and Skeet sped along U.S. 49 headed toward Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Dallie had caught a couple of hours’ sleep in the back seat while Skeet drove, but now he was behind the wheel again, glad that he didn't have to tee off until 8:48 in the morning, so he would have time to hit a few balls first. He hated these all-night drives from the final round of one tournament to the qualifying round of the next about as much as he hated anything. If the PGA fat cats had to make a few overnight runs across three state lines and past a few hundred Stuckey's signs, he figured they'd change the rules pretty damned quick.

On the golf course, Dallie didn't care how he dressed—as long as his shirts didn't have animals on them and nothing was pink—but he was particular about his clothes off the course. He preferred faded skin-tight Levi's worn with hand-tooled leather boots run over at the heels and a T-shirt old enough so that he could whip it off if the mood struck him and use it to polish the hood of his Buick Riviera without worrying about scratching the finish. A few of his female fans sent him cowboy hats, but he never wore them, favoring billed caps instead, like the one he was wearing now. He said that the Stetson had been ruined forever being worn by too many potbellied insurance agents in polyester leisure suits. Not that Dallie had anything against polyester —as long as it was American made.

“Here's a story for you,” Skeet said.

Dallie yawned and wondered whether he was going to be able to hit his two-iron worth a damn. He'd been off the day before, but he couldn't figure out why. Since last year's disaster at the Orange Blossom Open, he'd been playing better, but he still hadn't managed to finish higher than fourth place in any big tournament this season.

Skeet held the tabloid closer to the glove compartment light. “You remember I showed you a picture a while back of that little British girl, the one who was goin’ around with that prince fella and those movie stars?”