ANONYMOUS, by Kate Flora
Conventions—strange cities, travelers’ hotels—have a delightful anonymity ordinary life seldom affords. True, at this fashion writers convention, there would be people she knew, but they were all task driven, and even when they might chat over dinner or even for an hour in the bar, they didn’t see each other. They were looking out. Looking for success. Contacts who could be used. However intimate the storytelling might get over a second or third drink, that would all be forgotten in the morning. No one who couldn’t advance them mattered at all.
She was just like them: a predator. The difference was that at this particular convention, she wasn’t after sales, contacts, new marketing ideas, or new people to connect with on LinkedIn. She was here because her annoyance with a business rival had reached the point where it had become a distraction from her forward momentum. In this phase of her five-year cycle, distractions were not a part of her business plan. She had always been ruthless about pursuing her goals. Right now, that meant eliminating the woman. She thought of it as a clearing of the air. Her air. Her airspace. Like finding a way to get rid of that annoying wisp of hair in the corner of her eye. Scratching an itch.
Her ex-husband had used the word ruthless as though it were a negative. Her “ruthless pursuit of success,” he’d said, had caused the breakdown of their marriage. Unfortunate, since having a husband who took care of the house, the yard, and even the children had been liberating, freeing her to do what she needed to do. But his continual complaints about the ways she chose to go about things had undermined her. Drained the energy she needed to go out into the workplace every day and bring home the bacon.
Her ex had never been very honest about how much he enjoyed the bacon.
As she checked in, she surveyed the lobby. Bland wood, clusters of little chairs and sofas and tables, people, mostly women, with lanyards around their necks like lassoed cattle, and youngish men in tight pegged trousers, jackets over untucked shirts, and shoes without socks. In the far distance, the darker, more inviting bar, where she planned to spend most of her time. Some of the regulars were already there.
As if on cue, her victim, glamorous and rail thin, in a pencil skirt, silver leather jacket, and matching silver stilettos, strode through the room, beige stick legs working like chopsticks, oversized silver bag in the crook of one elbow. A veritable symphony in silver. The only big thing about her was her mass of curly black hair, styled a la Kardashian. Soon this symphony would crescendo, come to a smashing climax, and end on sad notes.
She was overcome by a sudden need for a martini. Up. Very dry. Three olives and a twist. Weren’t olives a vegetable? One must eat vegetables, after all. Better get her suitcase into her room first. Hang up the fancy outfits that she would need to wear for the next few days. As she normally lived in a work uniform of designer jeans, crisp white shirts, and blazers, she jokingly called these fancier outfits her ball gowns. Everyone else would be wearing ball gowns, too. It frankly cost a fortune to attend one of these conventions just because of the clothes she had to buy. Never mind the good example set by the current FLOTUS of recycling outfits and buying at affordable stores. In this crowd, if your ass waggled by in something that wasn’t designer, nostrils would rise and there would be faintly audible sniffs.
They were all such liars, she thought, heading toward the elevator. Dragging their little rolling suitcases to their identical, anonymous rooms, putting on their costumes and game faces, to emerge in the lobby, flashing their just-whitened teeth in red-lipsticked smiles and greeting each other like long-lost sorority sisters. She wasn’t unique in her desire for revenge, or, as she liked to put it, reordering the world. A woman’s talent for backstabbing was born and honed in middle school. It had always been more surprising to her that women could be friends than that they could be such good enemies.
She’d been at this hotel before and the design had always puzzled her. Despite attempts to make it seem stylish, with hanging plants and a tarted-up lobby, she figured the architect had developed his (definitely his, no woman would design a building with so much useless space) skills designing prisons. That’s what the open atrium style and the rising tiers of rooms suggested. The way that doors banged and their closings echoed around the open center, all that was missing, really, was to replace wood with metal, put a guard tower in that odd space above the lobby, and you’d have the “big house.”
She smiled to think that, if all went well, there would definitely be a crime here, and she, innocent-looking, blond, and sweetness itself, would be the criminal. People were so easily fooled by appearances. Writers might write about cold blue eyes or the eerie blue of a husky, but hers were the blue of summer skies and light. Cornflower blue, nice-girl blue, wide-eyed blue. She had pink and porcelain skin. Full pink lips that she left natural, just a touch of gloss in contrast to all that predatory red. Her fingernails and toes a demure rose in a room full of toes and fingers that looked like they’d been dipped in dried blood.
She hung her ball gowns in the closet and swapped her black leather blazer and pencil jeans for Louboutins, a Lacroix silk pencil skirt, and a cropped Armani jacket over a cream cami that only hinted at the black lace bra underneath. Swapped plain gold studs for chandeliers. Freshened her makeup. Then she tucked three small bottles and a small plastic baggie—two liquid doses of poison in case the first attempt failed, herbs in powdered form in the baggie in case she couldn’t access her victim’s glass, and a quick pick-me-up of gin—into her Cavalli bag next to the stupid cheaters she needed to read small print, and headed down to the bar.
During her unpacking and dolling up, the siren cry of that martini had been getting louder. She could almost taste the icy, astringent gin and hear the olives—always three, please—whispering “eat me” in a seductive, Mediterranean way. She drank at home, of course, but could never entirely get beyond her mother’s admonition that a nice woman never drank alone; it was the first step down a slippery slope. Besides, she liked being alone in company better, surrounded by chatter and low light, and that almost religious moment when the glass, brimming with the slightly oily gin, was set before her.
When she sat at the bar, in a good bar, there was something like foreplay in watching the bartender stir that gin against the ice cubes. The tinkle of ice, the way the bar’s pendant lights fragmented as they played on the silver of the stirrer and the shine of the cubes. The ceremony of the lemon twist—yes, olives and a twist, please—being swiped across the glass. A holy ritual. A pagan incantation. The prelude to a drink.
Across the bar, she saw her rival—Nemesis? Victim?—enter. Silver had become something else now. Something better with the raven hair. Bronze, maybe? Or was it just the light? She played with words, all those lovely words to describe the current trend toward metallics. She liked the phrase “shot with silver” or perhaps “shot with bronze.” Of course, if she were to use a handgun in this crime, it would be “shot with brass,” but brass led the mind automatically to “brassy,” and that was a word never used—aloud at least—in this company.
Anyway, that was not how her victim would be departing this life. She would shuffle off her mortal coil in a slower and rather nasty way. A shuffling that wouldn’t even take place here, among these dear friends and colleagues. The plan was so natural, so organic. A simple plant, a plain item easily acquired from the natural world, would set the death in motion. Timing mattered, of course. The essential ingredient couldn’t be given too soon. There would be a closing luncheon. They would be at the same table. It would take only a simple sleight of hand to introduce the chosen herb into her victim’s lunch. Perhaps twelve hours later, when all traces had vanished from her victim’s body, a slow paralysis would begin at the feet.
She stared into the oily swirls and imagined it. First those pretty little feet would wobble in their stilettos, going numb as the paralysis began. The woman might sit, rub her feet, wondering if maybe she’d finally
damaged the nerves by forcing her entire body weight down on them. Then that numbness would spread to her knees, her thighs, gradually creeping up her body until it reached her lungs. Death would occur before paralysis reached the already Botoxed face. Stately, unstoppable death for which there was no remedy.
She especially liked this choice because her victim was such an advocate of all things natural. Mineral makeup. No animal testing. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Like having a face-lift and injections in her face were natural. Like converting frizz to elegant waves at a dry bar was natural? Or hair on a woman of fifty without a touch of gray?
What was natural was that a self-made woman like herself should resent a woman like that. A woman who’d invested vast amounts of her husband’s money on becoming a presence in their field. Who’d risen not by her own smarts, but the smarts of a team of hired bloggers, PR folks, and stylists, her elegant slimness crafted by two hours a day with a devoted trainer.
A while ago, she had sat down and had a stern talk with herself about Nemesis and why the woman’s purchased success bothered her so much. These days it was practically the norm. She could afford to do it herself. So what was there about this particular woman that made her a target?
She’d had the answer—because this woman pretended that it was all her. “Who me? A publicist? Never!” The list of those “who me? Nevers” was long, and they were all lies. She wasn’t creative or insightful. She was just a good manager. Mother said that there was nothing on earth uglier than a woman liar. While there was much that she disagreed with her mother about, she agreed about this. She’d always been open about how hard she’d worked to get here, so when her victim, with a throwaway giggle, talked about her western country background—since when was Denver the country?—and her granny’s egg remedy for shiny hair, she just wanted to gag. Granny’s eggs had surely never been near that gleaming, exquisitely colored, and blow-dried head.
She set aside bad thoughts and gave herself over to pleasure, slipping on her cheaters for a moment to admire her drink. She approached a martini the way some people approached wine. First, she liked to inhale the aroma. Then take that first tiny sip. More and more, bars were ignoring traditional gins in favor of trendy, artisanal varieties. She lived and wrote in a world of trends, trends like sandals imbedded with copper disks to connect walkers with the earth because their actual feet never came in contact with actual earth. It was her job to have her finger on the pulse of trendiness. But when it came to gin, she was very traditional.
Ah. Nemesis was coming her way. Quickly tucking her cheaters away, she lifted her bag from the adjoining stool and swiveled with a warm greeting. Air kisses, the familiar “you’re special to me” hand on a shoulder, and breathy compliments. She waved a hand at the seat. “Join me?”
“Love to, darling, but I have to run. TV interview you know. So tiresome.” Shrug of the narrow shoulders. “But what can I do when they ask?” A beat and then the startling green eyes—colored contacts were a marvelous thing—swept the glass. “You’re starting early.”
“Am I?” She ran her blue eyes down the crowded bar. “I thought I was very much on trend here.” A shrug of her own. “Oh well. I have that meeting with Anna later, and one must brace for her.” Anna hadn’t become editor of a major fashion magazine by being a pushover.
The eyebrows tried to rise but the frozen forehead wouldn’t allow it. Nemesis settled for a slight pursing of the mouth. Something else to be avoided. One didn’t want to get those little lines French women often had. Hateful the way lipstick would creep up them like blood up a pipette. “I’ll see you at the cocktail party?” Nemesis said.
“Wouldn’t miss it. Have a great interview. You look wonderful!”
Really it was true; Nemesis’s stylist was excellent. Still, she thought her own printed silk pencil skirt was more interesting with its artsy, Parisian quality. Wasn’t toning kind of yesterday?
A few lovely sips of her drink and she felt a warmth toward the world creeping through her. Martinis were like rose-colored glasses. They made the world look better. Even the small, flamboyant knot of boy bloggers at the far end of the bar, who usually annoyed her with their noise and gestures, seemed sweet, reminding her of her own son. She wished her son would turn off his video games, get out more, dress better. But that was her husband’s influence. When she and her ex divorced, the children chose to go with him. A relief, really, but sometimes it depressed her to see them. Her daughter all Goth and pasty, acned skin, her son interested in nothing that didn’t have to do with computers.
Nemesis gone and with no one looking her way, she slipped her cheaters back on and gazed into her glass, at the way the gin magnified the olives into plump green orbs. Just as well she didn’t have the children live with her. They’d be a huge distraction. Children needed attention. So did building a career. At least she kept them in style. The ex might bitch, but he didn’t have to work. If she’d been a man, nothing about who she was or how she approached earning a living would raise an eyebrow. Being hard charging and ambitious was unfeminine. Her mother again. But much of the world sent the same message.
So why was it that she begrudged her nemesis success? Did it really make such a difference how each of them went about it? Was she such a hateful person that someone else needed to fail so she could succeed?
No. It wasn’t that. It was that her nemesis was just too damned nice. Or at least she pretended to be. Striving and fighting for position, and relentlessly connecting and networking and keeping her name out there, seemed to be something that Nemesis actually enjoyed. Nemesis also loved to flash pictures of her hunky spouse and children—all things she never enjoyed. She enjoyed her martini.
* * * *
As she headed to the ballroom on Sunday morning, she reflected on the weekend. So tedious but rich in blog fodder. Plus Anna gave her peach assignments to do a couple of fascinating articles. And the workshops, for once, were content rich instead of boring or aimed at newbies who knew nothing. The boy blogger fashion parade was endlessly amusing, as was the way they jockeyed for attention with each other, instead of finding out who might advance their careers. Oh, Millennials. It was kind of like watching puppies at play.
At last it was almost over. Just the luncheon and a keynote address, and then she could strip off these Spanx and go back to her comfortable uniform again. She was at an A-list table, with some well-placed editors, fashion bloggers, and, of course, her nemesis.
Nemesis usually spent most of any meal table-hopping, which she had counted on since she needed Nemesis away from her plate so certain ministrations could take place. But Nemesis didn’t seem to be on her game today. Her makeup was too thick. Her hair too frizzy. She wasn’t in her usual perky form. She wasn’t leaving, and she wasn’t eating.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
Nemesis gave her a rigid smile. “I’m fine.”
Go visit other tables, she thought. If wish were only father to the deed. But Nemesis remained glued to her chair. She didn’t eat and she didn’t converse and, dammit, she would not leave. Finally, it was coming down to a choice between trying to get the damned poison into her coffee or onto her dessert. Neither one was as easy as sprinkling the herbs on rubber banquet chicken while everyone was distracted, eating. She entertained the momentary thought that Nemesis was waiting to doctor her food, that this was a game that two could play.
Her agitation growing, she felt the call of a martini. But she couldn’t publicly order a martini at the end of a luncheon. Luncheons suggested ladylike and genteel. She’d get labeled a lush. Not even a hard-charging businessman ordered a martini with coffee and dessert at a luncheon.
So no martini. And no poison either—when Nemesis finally excused herself to visit the ladies’ room, it was too late. They were already clearing the plates.
As she left the room, the unused poison still in her purse, an old friend, and inveterate gossip, grab
bed her arm and pulled her aside. “Did you hear? Did she tell you at lunch? It’s just the saddest thing.”
Was something wrong with Nemesis? “What’s the saddest thing?”
“She’s got one of those awful diseases.”
Gossips just loved to string this stuff out, get the biggest bang for their stories. She put on her brightest and most curious smile. “What kind of a disease?”
“Oh. One of those ones where your body falls apart but your mind keeps working, so you kind of watch your body get more helpless and you can’t walk or speak while your brain is still trapped in there. Honestly, if that happened to me, I’d want someone to kill me. Just put me out of my misery. And the poor thing. So lively and such a sweetheart. You know, she’s never a snob, and she’s so nice to everyone.”
“She is nice. Nicest one of any of us.”
“I guess she just got the news. Right while we were here. She was fine yesterday.”
Gossip headed off to tell the gruesome tale to someone else.
She went into the ladies’ room. Found it strangely deserted except for Nemesis, braced against the counter, staring unseeing into the mirror. Runnels of tears on her face and dripping off her chin. Still, her makeup was perfect, her mascara unsmudged, red lips still bright, shiny, and bold. Nemesis looked so brave.
She was swept by a wave of compassion. She rarely had time for it and rarely indulged it, but while she wanted Nemesis destroyed, she’d never wanted it to happen this way, via a slow and horrible death. And if she were honest with herself, she wanted to be the instrument. Not the devil or God or whoever sent these kinds of horrible things to torture people. She wanted Nemesis knocked off stage in her prime, not slowly fading with endless bouts of mourning.
“I just heard about your diagnosis,” she said.
Murder Most Conventional Page 8