“Poor Mrs. Dobbs,” I said.
“Oh, aren’t you the funny one! Norbert wasn’t married, not to a woman. He was the Dior buyer for Neiman Marcus,” she whispered with an arch of her eyebrows.
“Ah.”
“But enough about Norbie.” She patted my arm. “Your mother tells me you’re working for Marilee these days.” Her painted mouth tightened, a slash of crimson on white. “How’s that going? Have you been tempted to lace her coffee with arsenic?”
“The job’s going . . . great,” I said, finding it way too easy to grin and lie. “Working for Marilee has been an, er, interesting experience.”
“Interesting how?” A penned-on brow arched skeptically.
Run, my brain screamed. Run like the wind. “Oh, goodness, I didn’t realize the time.” I glanced at my wrist, but I wasn’t wearing a watch. I hoped she didn’t notice. “I’m actually working tonight, doing a live stream of the party on the Web site, and it’s about time I headed back to the office to check on a few things. So if you don’t mind . . .”
“Of course, not, dear. Go, go.” She air-kissed my cheeks before shooshing me off, her bulging handbag swaying from the crook of her elbow. “I didn’t mean to monopolize you, child. It’s just that we so rarely see you out and about. Besides, I think Oscar needs rescuing, so I’d better scoot myself. Ta.”
“Ta,” I said, sounding like a parrot.
Polly wants a fat-free Carr’s water cracker.
Moving off behind a lit-up palm, I peered between the silk fronds, swaying on my pink heels as I watched Tincy head toward the harpist, where a large man in a Stetson stood with his hand on Oscar’s shoulder, pinning him in place. The big guy was the head of the Republican Party in Dallas—he’d tackled my mother more than a time or two in the past—doubtless trying to get Oscar to commit some Texas-sized bucks for the next gubernatorial election.
Free and clear.
Without further ado, I took off in the other direction, skirting the wall-less living room on the soundstage toward the pseudokitchen.
A growing throng of guests had gathered in this most spacious part of the set—where Marilee would do all her cooking segments—and I shouldered my way through the edge of the group as the chimes of silver on crystal turned everyone’s attention toward the room’s center.
If I teetered on the pointed tips of my shoes and angled my head just right, I could catch glimpses of Marilee with Justin, standing at her heel. His grim expression didn’t reflect someone having fun. I wondered if he were worried about my popping in on him and Kendall earlier, afraid Marilee would find out?
Behind them, on a large granite island, sat a huge vase of Asian lilies. On the other end had been placed an enormous silver candelabra, its sage green tapers brightly burning. Above, silky green sheers dangled from the lighting grids, resembling graceful wings set aflutter by the occasional flow of air.
“Could I have your attention, please?” Marilee called out, her voice overwhelming the ebb and flow of conversation until it came to a halt. “Can everyone hear me?”
A chorus rang out in the affirmative.
“Good.” She smiled gracefully and pushed an errant strand of streaky ash-blond from her brow. “If you’ll bear with me a moment, I have a few things to say. I’d like to start by thanking each and every one of you for coming tonight to celebrate a new phase in my own life . . . and The Sweet Life, my baby, if you will. Certainly my most treasured creation.”
Polite applause and a few “Hear! Hear!s” ensued, but I noticed one person standing to the side of Marilee who hadn’t joined in.
Kendall’s face crumpled, crestfallen, like a child whose sucker has been swiped, though I couldn’t say I blamed her after just having heard her mother tell a roomful of people that a TV show was “her baby.”
Ouch.
“Things have certainly not been easy for me,” Marilee went on, her smile faltering, “but I’ve learned great strength from my adversities. I had to scramble to survive for years and years, but that determination is what got me where I am today. And now I think I finally have everything. My column, my books, the TV show, and soon a new line of products to be launched in conjunction with Smart-Mart. Yes, it’s true! I know you’ve heard rumors, and I’m confirming them all.”
Another smattering of applause rippled through the ever-gathering throng, and a tall man wedged himself in front of me, completely blocking my view.
“Um, excuse me . . . excuse me.” I tapped his shoulder to no avail. The fellow didn’t even turn around, just kept flicking at my finger like it was a bug.
You, sir, are no gentleman.
Scowling, I scooted further around bodies taller than mine, trying to find a better vantage point.
“I can’t tell you how good I feel tonight, so strong and emboldened. I’ve a few more things to get off my chest, but first a toast.” Marilee reached for a bottle behind her, which she then handed to Justin to open. He turned his back and worked on the cork.
“A 1973 Dom Perignon Oenotheque,” Mari announced gleefully. “I’ve been saving it for years, for just such a special occasion, and nothing’s more special than this. Sorry, but there’s not enough of this to go around, so y’all get the ’93. A very good year, too, so don’t whine,” she teased, and her audience tittered. She turned to her boy-toy. “Honey, would you, please?”
Justin swiveled as he freed the cork, and Mari grabbed a trio of flutes for him to fill. She passed one over to Kendall and took another for herself, while Justin kept the third, though he didn’t seem any too eager to drink it.
“Here we go,” Marilee said and raised her glass. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, so bear with me if I go on for a bit.”
Tuxedoed waiters wove through the tightly knit audience, making sure everyone had fresh bubbly on hand.
I’d already had my quota for the evening, if I wanted to remain upright. So I waved away the tray-toting fellow and maneuvered closer to the front, stepping on someone’s toes while an unseen elbow pressed into my ribs.
My bra strap slid down my left shoulder, and I pushed it back up. I tucked my hair behind my ears and figured which way to go next.
“To everyone at Twinkle Productions for having such faith in me and my vision . . .”
I wove my way around to a false wall against which a humongous stainless steel refrigerator was anchored. A working fridge, too, for I could feel its humming as I pressed up against it for a better view. Kendall had backed up and was near enough to touch. I watched her tip the glass to her lips and drain it.
“. . . 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.
Chapter 10
Above 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 w
anted 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.
The Good Girl's Guide to Murder: A Debutante Dropout Mystery Page 10