The Good Girl's Guide to Murder (13 page)

“. . . to my lawyers for making sure I didn’t get screwed by Hollywood, at least not unwillingly . . .”

That one got some laughs.

Still feeling the tail end of a bubbly buzz, I squinted at Marilee in her black vintage gown, grinning with her wide red mouth, nodding at the faces in the crowd. The glow in her eyes bordered on the fanatical.

“. . . lest I forget, an enormous thanks to my former husband Gilbert for dumping me for his, er”—she cleared her throat—“secretary and running off with everything we owned, giving me no choice but to start over, all by my lonesome. Without you, dear Gil, tossing me onto the street and forcing me to dream my own dream, I’d still be clipping coupons and shopping at thrift stores.”

What was she doing? Was this the “surprise” she’d mentioned earlier? A public drubbing of her ex?

I only hoped it would be as quick as it was merciless.

But Marilee wasn’t finished. She turned and tipped her glass toward her blushing blond boyfriend who stood at her elbow.

“And, finally, here’s to my sweet, sweet Justin, my fitness guru and oh-so-significant other, for working so
hard
night after night to give me what Gil rarely could during our marriage. All those nightly workouts have certainly kept me in such good shape, so thank you, sweetheart. You deserve everything I have and more.”

I groaned.

Please
, I silently begged,
someone make her stop
.

And Marilee did stop . . . talking, that is. She leaned over and kissed Justin hard on the lips. A big, juicy clench that caused the gathered guests to let out a collective gasp.

Kendall did more than gasp. Her empty champagne glass sipped from her fingers, hitting the floor and smashing to smithereens. Her head down and arms clasped around her middle, she shoved past me, nearly knocking me down in her effort to escape.

Marilee glanced over but didn’t even flinch. She ignored the broken glass and her fleeing child, as if nothing had happened. Though Justin looked increasingly upset. He ran his hand through his hair and shifted on his feet. Part of me expected him to race after Kendall, but he didn’t. No doubt afraid of getting in trouble with Marilee.

I thought about going after Kendall myself, since no one else felt compelled to do it; but I ended up keeping my spot beside the fridge. Like a rubbernecker on the freeway, I couldn’t turn away from the accident-about-to-happen. Which is what this felt like, with Marilee playing Joan Collins in a bad scene from
Dynasty
.

“
You bitch! How could you?
”

The shriek erupted from somewhere in the belly of the crowd, and I clung to the refrigerator to keep from being swept to the floor as several bodies surged forward, heading for Marilee: a woman with a bobby-pinned fall the size of Niagara flopping from her crown and a man in gray Brooks Brothers.

Gilbert and Sullivan.

No, no, Gilbert and Amber Lynn.

“You heartless crone!”

Letting loose another cry, the woman flung herself at Marilee with all her might, knocking the nearly full glass from Marilee’s hand and pushing her back against the granite island. Marilee called for help, but no one seemed to be doing much of anything except Gilbert, who ineffectually pawed at his outraged wife.

Justin jumped out of the fray.

Gil did manage to snag the back of Amber Lynn’s dress, holding her in place as she flailed her arms and shrieked. “Honey, honey, please,” he begged. “Don’t play her game. Let’s just leave.”

Marilee scrambled to escape but merely inched sideways along the enormous length of granite.

She spun around for a moment, gazing frantically at the enormous vase and the blazing candelabra, probably contemplating using one or the other as a weapon. But each was nearly as big as she was, so she looked around her, at the crush of guests forming a wall of gawkers, pinning her in place.

“Get that woman out of here!” she demanded, but no one moved, not an inch. No one seemed quite able to figure out whose side they were on.

“Get away from me, Gil!” Amber Lynn swung at her own husband, catching him with a right hook beneath the chin. He wobbled, letting go of her, and stumbled back into the stainless steel dishwasher.

“Ahhh!” Amber Lynn charged Marilee, letting loose a cry like a Confederate war general, while Gilbert nursed his jaw—and doubtless saw stars—relegated to the sidelines to stand and watch like the rest of us chickens.

If I hadn’t been so fascinated by the unfolding scene, I would’ve scrammed as things began coming apart at the seams. Instead, I kept my front row seat for the wrestling match as the two women tussled against the granite island.

“Justin!” Marilee screamed to no avail. “Justin, help me!”

I looked around but didn’t see her blond boy-toy anywhere, just his untouched champagne glass sitting on the counter by the sink.

“Aaaaaah!”

Amber Lynn snatched up the neck of the 1973 Dom Oenotheque and swung at Marilee who ducked in the nick of time. The bottle hit the vase of flowers instead, taking it over the side of the island and crashing to the floor, glass shattering, spewing water, champagne, and stems.

A handful of partygoers complained loudly as hems and cuffs were splashed. The incident didn’t amuse Marilee, either.

“You owe me three hundred fifty dollars for that bottle,” she screamed and went after Amber Lynn.

I braced my back against the fridge as Marilee caught Amber in a death grip, rolling her toward the end of the granite island with the silver candelabra.

“You husband-stealing whore! You silicone-enhanced tramp!” she shouted and grabbed hold of Amber’s shoulders, forcing her to bend backward. Amber kept shaking her head, her faux ponytail swinging precariously close to the burning wicks on the candelabra.

Dangerously close.

Until, with a “whoosh,” the hank of hair ignited into a fireball.

Amber screamed and threw her hands up to her head as soon as she realized her fall was aflame.

Someone bellowed about extinguishers while another voice cried for “water!” But it was Gilbert who ran to the rescue. He snatched the fake hairpiece from his wife’s head—bobby pins be damned—and flung it up, up, and away.

Which might have been the end of things if the burning hank of horsehair hadn’t caught on the green swag dangling above the granite island.

The beautifully draped fabric went up like a dry Christmas tree. Flames licked at the pastel-colored spotlights and the acoustically proper foam-tiled false ceiling.

Oh, my God
—my thoughts clicked into gear—
the place was on fire
.

I’d imagined this would be the party from hell.

And now it was.

Literally.

A
bove the crowd, the once-green fabric swags crackled as hungry orange flames chewed through them, releasing sparks of ash into the air, embers that floated and flickered like fireflies, showering the guests packed below.

Tilting back my head, I stared, in utter disbelief.

I rubbed my itchy eyes, tasting smoke as I swallowed.

Could this really be happening?

“Fire . . . fire!”

“We’re all gonna die!”

The very real and very frightened screams of the party guests swelled in my ears, and I felt my heart boogie, adrenaline crashing through my suddenly sober veins.

This was no bad dream.

It was a nightmare.

I clenched my hands in and out of fists, trying desperately not to panic.

“Everyone stay calm . . . please, proceed in an orderly fashion!” Marilee shouted, though no one seemed to pay attention but me.

Gilbert had found a fire extinguisher and aimed it at the burning swag. He pointed upward but his aim was shaky, and he shot foam on several party guests before he threw down the red tank, giving up and grabbing for Amber Lynn.

Right on cue, the fire alarm sounded, its ring so loud and angry that I had to raise my hands and cover my ears.

I was thinking that it might be a good idea to sneak out the back hallway instead of joining the crush of people manhandling one another to break free of the faux kitchen. They looked like a herd of wildebeests, stampeding across the Serengeti toward the lobby of the studio, where an
EXIT
sign glowed red above the arch that led to the front doors.

Hungry flames crackled overhead as the fire licked at the lighting rods, the heat causing bulbs to burst in an erratic succession of pops, like a bag of microwave Orville Redenbacher, only louder.

Time to get the hell out of Dodge
, I told myself, cringing at the clanging alarm and raised voices that pounded my eardrums.

I’d barely taken a step away from the kitchen setup and toward the rear hallway—in the direction that Kendall had fled moments before—when I felt the plop-plop of water on my head and gazed up again.

With a “whoosh” the gentle spray turned into Niagara Falls, dumping a geyser down upon me as the sprinkler system switched on full force. Water pounded my face and slapped my bare shoulders, causing my skin to sting.

I might have felt like Debbie Reynolds in
Singin’ in the Rain
if only I’d been armed with galoshes, a slicker, and umbrella. Somehow, getting drenched—and painfully so—didn’t make me want to break into song. There was nothing “glorious” about this.

Slip-sliding through puddles, I made my way off the soundstage. My hair was plastered to my skull, and melted mascara muddied my vision. All I wanted was to find someplace dry.

No one followed my flight through the hallway toward where the offices were situated, but I realized soon enough that I’d made a smart move. I’d barely stepped onto the stretch of wall-to-wall Berber, when I realized the waterfall had stopped. At least, it wasn’t raining on me anymore. I turned my head and pushed wet bangs from my eyes to see it still coming down behind me, beyond the arch of the hall.

The alarm still ringing at unbearable decibels, I gritted my teeth, hurrying toward Marilee’s office, relieved when the noise seemed to lessen the farther I scurried from the soundstage.

By now, the sequined fabric of my dress had turned into a suit of armor and felt as heavy as a ton of scrap metal. My ruined shoes squished against the carpet as I raced for Marilee’s sanctuary. I desperately desired to get behind the computer, figuring the sprinklers had shorted out a web cam or two. Though I was sure the Web site viewers had gotten their money’s worth—especially since the live stream was free—courtesy of Marilee’s obnoxious toast.

Once I checked on the system, I’d grab my purse and get lost. Marilee’s soiree was officially
finito
, and my mother had never even shown up. Which didn’t sit well with me at the moment.

I approached Marilee’s office door, which stood wide open.

When I’d shut it before, hadn’t I?

Stepping inside, I closed it behind me and was relieved to hear the alarm only dimly. The cacophony muffled enough that I could pretty well ignore it. The clamor was certainly no worse than a car alarm going off on the street.

I quickly flipped on the ceiling light, my focus strictly on the desk and computer. I didn’t dare settle in Marilee’s chair, not in my current state of saturation. A real-live SpongeBob Squarepants. Instead I crouched down over the keyboard and tapped away until I’d tallied the score as far as what was working and what wasn’t. The two cams located in the studio kitchen were on the fritz, all right. Another cam showed bodies swarming out the front doors.

I made the decision to fold the live stream altogether. I doubted Marilee would disapprove, considering she’d embarrassed herself pretty thoroughly already.

With a few keystrokes, I disconnected.

Then I shut down the system.

This shindig’s done, and so am I
.

First, home, I thought. A hot bath. Afterward, if I asked real nice, maybe Malone would bring over a pizza.

I slid open the bottom drawer in the desk, removing my purse, doing my best not to leave puddles anywhere except the carpet.

Somewhere beyond the walls, I heard sirens, and I knew I should get my dripping arse outside with the rest of the evacuees. It probably wasn’t kosher for me to be inside the building at this point, even if the fire had been put out and no one was really in danger.

“Goodnight, Gracie,” I said under my breath and took a couple steps toward the door when something stopped me.

“
Uhhh
.”

What the hell was that?

I had to strain to reassure myself that I hadn’t imagined it.

“Is someone here?” I asked, my heart doing a nosedive as I looked around me, seeing nothing but the expensive furnishings in Marilee’s sitting area.

Wait
.

Two objects resembling small black birds lay dejected on the floor.

Were those Kendall’s black Jimmy Choos?

I took a few steps nearer, rounding the kidney bean-shaped coffee table, spotting a blob of crimson on the carpet.

Blood?

Man, oh, man, oh, man
.

I swallowed, making myself go closer still, only to realize that the red blot was no stain. It was the broken bud off a rose boutonnière.

What was going on?

A chill went through me, one that had less to do with my drenched state than my fear that I wasn’t alone. “Hey, is anyone here?”

“
Uhhhh
.”

There it was again.

I swallowed hard and tentatively crossed the Berber, stepping around the leather sofa and seeing a closed door that I knew led into Marilee’s private loo.

“Kendall? Is that you?” I asked in my loudest voice, leaning my cheek against the wooden panel and placing a hand on the knob, which I turned without resistance.

I pushed the door open and spotted a black shape, crumpled on the tiled floor. I smelled a rank odor before I saw the puddles near the toilet bowl.

Ohmigod
.

My purse slid from my grip and landed at my feet.

This wasn’t good. Not good at all
.

“Kendall?”

I crawled toward the unmoving form and peered down at the dark hair with the near-white streaks, at the pale, pale face with tear-stained cheeks and vomit-stained Dolce & Gabbana dress. Her eyes remained closed, lips parted just wide enough to emit another feeble moan. Her stocking-clad legs splayed beneath her short skirt, and her arms sprawled on the tiles, limp as a rag doll.