1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (15 page)

A bitter laugh rumbled up through my throat and escaped past
my lips. "Karl borrowed against his life insurance policy. There is
no insurance. And no savings. Just a Mt. Everest of debt and a
Dead Sea of red ink."

"Red" With a glower, Mama cocked her head in the direction
of the house. "Like her."

"Mama, please. Not now."

She rose from the chair, swept across the room, and enveloped
me in a breast-squishing hug. "I'm sorry. I wish I could help."

"So do I" But most of what Mama had counted on for retirement had disappeared thanks to corporate bamboozling. She lived
from spendthrift husband to spendthrift husband. You'd think at
least one of her many husbands could have left her with a sizable
estate, but Mama had always been attracted to epicurean men who lived like there was no tomorrow. Ironically enough, for them,
there hadn't been a tomorrow.

"I have a few thousand tucked away for emergencies," she said.
"It's yours if it will help. Not that it will make much of a dent in
that figure."

I kissed her cheek. "Thanks, but you may need it. I'll manage"

"How?"

I grabbed my list off the table and waved it at her. "I've got a
few ideas."

Mama reached for the paper and began to read. "Who Do the
Police Think Killed Marlys?"

I snatched the paper from her hand. "Wrong list."

She stared at me, her eyes widening nearly to the size of her
gaping mouth. She whispered, as if afraid that the very utterance
of her question would convict me. "Who's Marlys, and why do the
police think you killed her?"

This was not the way I planned to spend my afternoon. I had
work to do. Besides, I hadn't wanted to worry Mama with my
problems. Now I'd have to dump Marlys's murder-and my involvement in it-on her.

"What are you going to do?" she asked after I filled her in on all
the sordid details.

"What can I do? I'm going to find out who really killed Marlys."

"Don't you think you should leave that to the police? I don't
want you snooping after a killer. You could get hurt. Or worse."

"I'll be careful. Besides, if I don't find out who killed Marlys,
you'll have to use that nest egg of yours to hire a lawyer to defend
me on murder charges."

"You really think the police want to pin her murder on you?
That's ridiculous."

"Of course it is, but from what I've seen so far, these detectives
don't have much experience investigating murders. And that scares
the freckles right off my nose. They leave me no choice. I've got to
find the killer in order to save my tush."

Mama opened her mouth to say something, but she was interrupted by the sound of Nick and Alex, bounding up the stairs.
"Mom?" called Alex.

"You up there?" added Nick.

"Not a word about any of this," I warned my mother before the
boys opened the door. "I haven't told them about their father yet."

She pulled an imaginary zipper across her mouth as Nick and
Alex tumbled through the door. Knowing Mama, that zipper
would stay firmly closed for maybe an hour.

"Holy shit, Mom!" said Alex. "What the heck happened in the
house?"

"More like holy double shit," added Nick. "And what's all that
sticky stuff on the floor in the foyer?"

I scowled at Mama.

"I cleaned it up the best I could, dear. What did you expect me
to do, get down on my hands and knees?"

That's exactly what I'd expected. Silly me. "Don't worry," I assured the boys. "It's really not as bad as it looks."

I arrived at work the next morning with three dozen satin birdseed
roses, four pairs of wedding tennies, and a sore back from another
night spent on the den sofa. I also sported a Texas-sized bruise on my thigh thanks to Mama's nocturnal gymnastics prior to exiling
myself to the sofa.

Tonight Mama slept with Lucille, no matter how much she
protested. On my way home from work I planned to buy a box of
those anti-snore nose strips. If I had to, I'd even slap one across
Mephisto's muzzle. I wanted my bed back, and I wasn't about to
cave to any excuse or sob story.

Lost in lack-of-sleep grump mode, I smiled a voiceless greeting
to an unfamiliar woman who offered me a wide smile as our paths
crossed in the hall outside my office. A moment later, my brain
caught up with my eyes. I stopped dead in my tracks and spun
around. "Erica?"

She laughed. "I was wondering how long it would take you. I
think Cloris is still scratching her head, trying to figure out who I
am.

I stared at her perfectly made-up face. Her Donna Karan burgundy raw silk pantsuit, cut perfectly to mask her excess poundage
and various love bulges but accentuate her double D-cup breasts.

My mouth moved, but no words came out. Now I understood
Naomi's cryptic comment of yesterday. She had seen the potential
hidden behind the sackcloth and sent Erica for a radical makeover.

With Marlys's demise, Naomi was not only rid of her arch nemesis, but she had transformed Marlys's ugly duckling workhorse assistant into a plus-size swan who wouldn't embarrass Trimedia.

Was Erica's metamorphosis all part of a well-organized plan
that had begun with Naomi killing Marlys? Or had Naomi merely
seized the opportunity presented by Marlys's death? I still couldn't
accept Naomi as a cold-blooded killer.

Then again, my track record in the Character Judging Department was less than stellar, considering how blinded I was for eighteen years by my very own knight in not-so-shining armor.

"Well, what do you think?" Anticipation hung on Erica's question; a need for approval colored her features. She raised herself
up on her toes. I glanced down. Erica had traded her standard
knee socks and clunky Doc Martens for a pair of whisper sheer
hose and strappy burgundy suede shoes that looked suspiciously
similar to the Jimmy Choos we'd featured in last month's issue.

With one hand sweeping across a body no longer hidden beneath a shapeless jumper, the other brushing back the kicky bangs
of her freshly styled and streaked hair, Erica executed a graceful
pirouette. Coming to a stop inches away from me, she held her
breath, awaiting my critique.

"I'm flabbergasted."

The corners of her perfectly painted mouth dipped. Her eyes
clouded with doubt. "You don't like it?"

"Are you kidding?" I laughed. "As Billy Crystal would say, `You
look maaavelous!"'

Erica exhaled like a kid blowing out all the birthday candles at
once. Her face burst into a mega-watt smile. She giggled. "I do,
don't I?"

"Absolutely. So, tell me. What did Dicky say when he saw you?"

A deep blush traveled up her neck and suffused her cheeks. "I
think he's a little worried."

"

She giggled nervously. "He said I was always beautiful to him,
but now he might have to break a few legs if guys start hitting on
me.

"I hope he means that metaphorically."

"Of course! Dicky's a big pussycat."

"The construction workers of the world will be happy to hear
that."

"Huh?"

"All those wolf whistles you'll get walking down the street."

"Oh." She blushed again. "You think?"

Poor Erica. Improved packaging aside, she still needed a major
overhaul to her self-esteem. I patted her shoulder. "Bet on it."

She studied me for a moment, worrying away the color on her
lower lip as she seemed to debate whether to say something further.

I prodded her into action. "You look like a woman with a question."

She lowered her gaze to the floor. "Could I ask a big favor?"

"Of course."

"Naomi set up an appointment for me with Vittorio Versailles
later this afternoon. Sort of a kiss and make-up interview."

"Or a baptism by fire. Hell of a way to start out on your first
full day as fashion editor."

"She wants me to make it clear to him that Marlys alone was
responsible for the editorial attack on him. That Trimedia respects
him as a unique and creative designer and that he has our complete support."

"Unique and creative?" I couldn't contain my laughter. "How
diplomatic."

As editorial director, Naomi was ultimately responsible for everything between the covers of American Woman. A consummate
perfectionist, she scoured every word of copy in each issue. I couldn't help but wonder if she'd deliberately ignored the sliceand-dice hatchet job of Vittorio to set Marlys up for a fall.

"So you get to play Blame the Dead Woman?"

"I suppose. I was wondering..." She twisted the hem of her suit
jacket into a wrinkled ball. "That is ... I ... I was hoping maybe..."

Were the Karmic gods and goddesses finally cutting me a much
needed break? I had tossed and turned most of last night trying to
think up some way to get past Vittorio Versailles' phalanx of gay
goons in order to question him about Marlys's murder.

I had come up blank. Vittorio Versailles didn't grant audiences
to lowly crafts editors. My odds of winning Mega Millions were
greater. Could getting in to see the primo don of the fashion world
and Number One on my hit parade of suspects be this easy?

"You'd like me to go with you?" I asked, finishing her sentence
for her.

"Would you?"

"Sure. I'm free as soon as the photo shoot is over this morning."

Her face lit up. She grabbed both of my hands and squeezed
them together between her palms and pumped. "Thank you, thank
you. I'm in your debt. Anything I can do in return, just name it.
Anything. I mean that, Anastasia."

I thought about asking for a few hundred thousand dollars but
bit back the urge. If Erica had a spare hundred thou or so, she
wouldn't be slaving away as a Trimedia drudge.

Besides, Cloris had promised to keep my financial fiasco a secret, but how many people would Batswin and Robbins leak the
info to in their quest to ferret out Marlys's killer?

Several hours later I found myself in a purple-walled, peacock
feather-festooned Seventh Avenue loft in midtown Manhattan.
The showroom resembled a jungle designed by a colorblind decorator. Groupings of towering palms in bright citrus and fuchsia
glazed pots reached nearly to the twelve-foot ceilings. Magenta,
navy, and sapphire striped balloon valances hung from the tops of
the floor-to-ceiling windows. A bubbling azure blue and cadmium
yellow mosaic fountain filled one corner of the room.

Leopard upholstered lounging chaises lined the walls. On each
reclined a mannequin dressed in one of Vittorio's latest creations.
Small assemblages of House of Versailles costumed mannequins
stood interspersed between the chaises.

The designer himself, wearing what could best be described as
a wet-look black leather Spiderman outfit, complete with headhugging hood, held court in the center of the room on a zebra
print sofa with leopard throw pillows. His eight-man goon squad
hovered in the background. Today they were dressed in chartreuse
and avocado striped velvet jumpsuits, accessorized with matching
striped velvet fedoras. They looked like anorexic watermelons.

Erica and I sat off to the side on gilt-edged Louis XVI chairs,
patiently and silently waiting until the staff stylist had finished
primping Vittorio and our photographer had captured enough
shots.

After the photographer and stylist departed, Vittorio turned to
Erica. He waved his hand in a gesture reminiscent of those old
movies where Bette Davis played Queen Elizabeth. "You may apologize now," he said.

Without batting an eye, Erica plunged into her pre-rehearsed
Blame-Marlys-for-Everything grovel speech. "As the new fashion
editor at American Woman," she concluded several minutes later, "I
want to assure you that you and your work will be treated with the
utmost esteem and regard in future issues, Mr. Versailles."

Vittorio glanced over at his goon squad. "This one I like," he
said. "She shows the proper respect."

They nodded like a row of bobble-head dolls.

Vittorio turned back to Erica and offered her a benevolent
smile. "You may call me Vittorio."