“As you might imagine, this has been a terrible blow, having to keep the depth of their relationship secret, and then to have him die, well, she’s devastated and exhausted. Could we—?”
“She wasn’t too devastated and exhausted to hold a press conference,” I observed. “In any case, it’s not your call, Counselor.”
Sampson reached into his jacket, pulled out the search warrant, and handed it to the attorney. I pushed by him into the house, which was not at all like its exterior. Either the decorator or Francones had a strong interest in modern art, because there were pieces of it in every room except the library, which was a shrine to the Mad Man, with all his trophies, framed photographs, game balls, and other sports memorabilia.
In there we found Mandy
Bell Lee, curled up on a leather couch and drinking bourbon neat, and not quite three sheets to the wind.
Chapter
23
Mandy Bell Lee was, as Sampson later described her, built for speed.
Tall, curvy, and busty, Mandy Bell had a hairdo that screamed Texas, but her face looked straight out of Vogue. Her skintight jumpsuit in mourning black looked ready to pop every time she moved, which was often. And the diamond engagement ring on her right hand was, well, huge.
Her attorney moved to her side, saying, “Mandy, these detectives would like to talk to you. I would advise against doing that in your present condition.”
She blinked blurry eyes at us. She’d clearly been crying.
“You investigating my M&M’s death?” she asked in a soft, soulful voice.
“We are,” I said, identified myself, and introduced Sampson.
“How can I help y’all?”
“Mandy—” her attorney began.
“I got nothing to hide, Timmy,” she snapped, and then tried to refocus on us. “Whaddya wanna know?”
“When did you and Mad Man get married?” Sampson asked.
“She already covered that in the press conference,” Jackson complained.
“Unthinkable, I know, but we missed it,” I said.
“Last month, March twelfth, in Playa Del Carmen,” Mandy Bell said dully.
“A spur-of-the-moment kind of thing,” her attorney explained, handing me a wedding certificate and several photographs of a simple service by the sea at sunset. “Their families didn’t even know.”
“You both look happy,” I said.
“Isn’t that what you look like on your wedding day?” she asked as if I’d implied something, and began to cry.
“I was saying it out of compassion, Mrs. Francones,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a balled-up Kleenex. “I’m sorry. I just never lost somebody I loved like this.”
“Newlywed and all,” the attorney said. “Not even used to being called Mrs. Francones.”
Over the next half hour, the Widow Francones explained that she’d met the Mad Man by chance at a bar in Nashville where she was singing. Despite their twenty-year age difference, there’d been a strong, immediate attraction.
“We’ve heard he had that effect on women,” Sampson said.
Mandy Bell thought that was funny. “He did. And I know what you’re thinking, ’bout all those girls in his past. Tell you the truth, at the beginning I figured I’d just be one more gal to him, and decided to have some fun. He was a fun guy. That’s what I’ll miss most about him. M&M lived like his hair was on fire.”
“Whose idea was it to get married?”