shacked up with the enemy.
Helen downed more wine to make the misery movies go away. She was hungry, but she didn’t feel like cooking. She ate tuna out of the can. She thought Thumbs would join her for dinner, but he didn’t bother. Even the cat didn’t want her company.
Finally Helen fell asleep. In her dream, she opened the closet door and Kiki’s dead hands reached for her. She was trying to drag Helen into her cold world.
Helen woke up, alone and sweating, dry mouthed and headachy. She stumbled into the bathroom, drank a handful of cold water, and went back to bed.
Now she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about Kiki, who’d died alone. We made Kiki into some insatiable sexual siren when she was dead and stuffed in a closet, Helen thought. Poor Kiki. She had a lot of sex, but no love. She had millions, but died without dignity. Helen wondered if anyone would mourn her. Who was cruel enough to stuff her in a closet?
Helen’s own bedroom closet seemed to pulsate in the dark. The door was white as a tomb. She couldn’t sleep staring at it.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The sound came from the closet, urgent and oddly muffled.
Kiki! Helen thought. She’s after me.
“She’s dead, you idiot. And you’re drunk.” Helen thought she said those words out loud. She almost put her fear down to the fantods, when she heard another thud.
Thud! Thud! The door seemed to bulge out from the blows.
Helen switched on the bedroom light and picked up the heavy alarm clock for a bludgeon. Whatever is in there, she decided, wasn’t strong enough to open the door. I can overpower it. Helen got behind the door and threw it open, ready to attack.
Thumbs came sprawling out. He stood up, shook himself, and meowed angrily. His giant paws were tangled in an old sweater. He must have fallen asleep in a pile of winter clothes and woke up trapped in the heavy wool. That’s why the thud sounded so muffled.
Helen picked him up and soothed his ruffled fur. “I’m sorry, old boy.”
Thumbs struggled out of her arms and marched into the kitchen, demanding dinner. Helen opened a can of tuna just for him. Thumbs wolfed it down, took a bath, then followed her into the bedroom and curled up next to her. She was forgiven.
She woke up Monday morning, clutching her cat.
Helen’s tongue felt like a knitted tea cozy. Her eyes were an unfortunate fuchsia. The matching zit on her nose was a stop sign in her pale face. She tried to put on makeup, but her lipstick was a bloody slash. Her eyeliner looked like it was done with crayon. She washed her face clean. Millicent would have to take her as she was.
Helen switched on the local TV news while she put on her clothes. The announcer said, “Another bizarre twist in the Blood and Roses Murder. Police say an autopsy has revealed the cause of death for socialite Kiki Shenrad. The mother of the bride was smothered with her daughter’s wedding dress sometime after the rehearsal dinner Friday night. A bridal shop employee found her body in a closet at the church Saturday.”
Ohmigod, Helen thought. That’s me. I’m the employee. This is the biggest murder to hit Lauderdale in years. Kiki was a socialite worth thirty million bucks. Her son-in-law was a movie actor. Her heiress daughter was a new bride. Her death would be national news for sure.
Rob! He’ll find me. And so will the court. Helen watched a video clip of the bride and groom leaving the church in a shower of rose petals. Then Kiki’s body bag was rolled down the same steps. Helen felt queasy and knew it wasn’t from the hangover.
She ran outside for the morning paper. Sure enough, Kiki was front-page news. DEATH COMES TO THE WEDDING: MOTHER OF THE BRIDE MURDERED, said the morning paper. The free paper, the City Times , had a more irreverent headline: ONE DEAD MOTHER.
Millicent’s will be swarming with TV cameras, Helen thought. I need a disguise. I have to find some way to get in and out of that shop without being noticed.
Helen
Helen downed more wine to make the misery movies go away. She was hungry, but she didn’t feel like cooking. She ate tuna out of the can. She thought Thumbs would join her for dinner, but he didn’t bother. Even the cat didn’t want her company.
Finally Helen fell asleep. In her dream, she opened the closet door and Kiki’s dead hands reached for her. She was trying to drag Helen into her cold world.
Helen woke up, alone and sweating, dry mouthed and headachy. She stumbled into the bathroom, drank a handful of cold water, and went back to bed.
Now she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about Kiki, who’d died alone. We made Kiki into some insatiable sexual siren when she was dead and stuffed in a closet, Helen thought. Poor Kiki. She had a lot of sex, but no love. She had millions, but died without dignity. Helen wondered if anyone would mourn her. Who was cruel enough to stuff her in a closet?
Helen’s own bedroom closet seemed to pulsate in the dark. The door was white as a tomb. She couldn’t sleep staring at it.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The sound came from the closet, urgent and oddly muffled.
Kiki! Helen thought. She’s after me.
“She’s dead, you idiot. And you’re drunk.” Helen thought she said those words out loud. She almost put her fear down to the fantods, when she heard another thud.
Thud! Thud! The door seemed to bulge out from the blows.
Helen switched on the bedroom light and picked up the heavy alarm clock for a bludgeon. Whatever is in there, she decided, wasn’t strong enough to open the door. I can overpower it. Helen got behind the door and threw it open, ready to attack.
Thumbs came sprawling out. He stood up, shook himself, and meowed angrily. His giant paws were tangled in an old sweater. He must have fallen asleep in a pile of winter clothes and woke up trapped in the heavy wool. That’s why the thud sounded so muffled.
Helen picked him up and soothed his ruffled fur. “I’m sorry, old boy.”
Thumbs struggled out of her arms and marched into the kitchen, demanding dinner. Helen opened a can of tuna just for him. Thumbs wolfed it down, took a bath, then followed her into the bedroom and curled up next to her. She was forgiven.
She woke up Monday morning, clutching her cat.
Helen’s tongue felt like a knitted tea cozy. Her eyes were an unfortunate fuchsia. The matching zit on her nose was a stop sign in her pale face. She tried to put on makeup, but her lipstick was a bloody slash. Her eyeliner looked like it was done with crayon. She washed her face clean. Millicent would have to take her as she was.
Helen switched on the local TV news while she put on her clothes. The announcer said, “Another bizarre twist in the Blood and Roses Murder. Police say an autopsy has revealed the cause of death for socialite Kiki Shenrad. The mother of the bride was smothered with her daughter’s wedding dress sometime after the rehearsal dinner Friday night. A bridal shop employee found her body in a closet at the church Saturday.”
Ohmigod, Helen thought. That’s me. I’m the employee. This is the biggest murder to hit Lauderdale in years. Kiki was a socialite worth thirty million bucks. Her son-in-law was a movie actor. Her heiress daughter was a new bride. Her death would be national news for sure.
Rob! He’ll find me. And so will the court. Helen watched a video clip of the bride and groom leaving the church in a shower of rose petals. Then Kiki’s body bag was rolled down the same steps. Helen felt queasy and knew it wasn’t from the hangover.
She ran outside for the morning paper. Sure enough, Kiki was front-page news. DEATH COMES TO THE WEDDING: MOTHER OF THE BRIDE MURDERED, said the morning paper. The free paper, the City Times , had a more irreverent headline: ONE DEAD MOTHER.
Millicent’s will be swarming with TV cameras, Helen thought. I need a disguise. I have to find some way to get in and out of that shop without being noticed.
Helen
Similar Books
