Too Pretty to Die

by Susan McBride

  “Okay, rub it in.”

  “I just did.”

  At the time he’d said it, I’d been more than a tad miffed. Then, it had seemed insulting. Now, I decided to take it as a compliment and let it go at that.

  “Not a bad place to hide,” I said, and walked over to the leather chair in front of the desk and settled into it, tucking the bejeweled bag at my side.

  Sitting primly, hands on my knees, I looked around the room, at the French art deco posters and small bronze sculptures. There was a makeshift bar set up on the credenza behind the desk. I saw an open bottle of champagne in a silver bucket with spare glasses nearby, and I noticed then that Lance had a nearly empty flute perched atop the desk beside a goose-necked lamp.

  All the comforts of home, I mused.

  “Is this yours?” I asked.

  “This office?” He bent forward, leaning over the desk again.

  “The club,” I clarified.

  He looked confused. “The Caviar Club?”

  “No, Bébé Gâté,” I said, finding the direction of his thoughts rather interesting. Telling, even.

  “Ah. No.” He shook his head. “It belongs to a friend of mine. He lets us have parties here, so long as we let him join in.”

  He lets us have parties here.

  Did that sound a little proprietary, or was my suspicious nature just in overdrive?

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” His question caught me off-guard, and I wasn’t sure whether to lie or be honest.

  I settled for something in between. “It’s been an interesting evening so far.”

  It reminded me what was going on outside, beyond the closed door, and I thought again of Miranda and the photo I had seen where Lance Zarimba appeared to have his tongue in her ear.

  It made me wonder if Lance was as benign as he seemed on the surface. Or if he had a darker side, one that came out in his private life, when he wasn’t downsizing pores at Dr. Sonja’s boutique.

  I reminded myself that quizzing Lance about Miranda was a big reason I’d come to the Caviar Club tonight. Then again, if he had something to do with her death, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to hang out with him unchaperoned.

  “You’re not a member of the club, are you, Andy? I know you haven’t been to a party before, have you?” he asked, and I shook my head. “You’re a friend of Cinda Lou Mitchell’s, right? She tagged you.”

  “Yes.” I raised my chin and met his eyes, channeling my mother as best I could, not wanting to look freaked out, like I was up to something.

  I felt suddenly nervous, like he was about to unmask me. It’s a good thing I’d rolled on the Secret.

  “Is there something wrong with that?” I asked, doing the narrow-eyed thing that my mother could do when making a point that always had me itching to slide under the table.

  “Not when the girl getting tagged is as lovely as you. It’s the whole reason behind the club, putting pretty people together. And you happen to be very pretty.” He lifted his champagne glass and casually drained it.

  “Is that how Miranda DuBois got in?” I found myself asking. “Was she tagged by a Beluga?” I even went so far as to say, “Maybe by you?”

  Lance didn’t answer.

  “You liked Miranda a lot, didn’t you?” I pressed on, daring to suggest, “I saw some pictures of you with her, so I know how close you were.”

  His eyes went wide, and I knew I’d struck a nerve.

  “I’ll bet Dr. Sonja didn’t appreciate your, um, growing affection for another woman. Or was it just Miranda in particular she didn’t care for? Is that why Sonja ruined her face?”

  Way too quickly, he replied, “Miranda was a beautiful woman, one many of the members found attractive. As far as Sonja’s being jealous of her, I imagine Miranda inspired jealousy in plenty of females.”

  Sometimes even generalities were revealing, I mused.

  “Got it,” I told him.

  “Do you really?” His shoulders stiffened, and I noticed his hand close so tightly around his empty champagne flute that I half expected it to crack. “No, Andy, I don’t think you do. I don’t believe you understand what happened with Miranda at all.”

  “Why don’t you explain, then, Lance,” I said carefully, deciding it would be unwise to piss the guy off. He was twice my size, with arms as big as my thighs. “I’m all ears,” I offered. “I’m sure you didn’t do anything wrong. It was Sonja who hated Miranda, not you.”

  He stared at me stonily for a long moment, and I debated excusing myself and getting the heck out of there, as had been my intention a few minutes earlier. Sometimes it paid to listen to one’s gut, and mine was grumbling pretty loudly.

  Well, geez, if he was going to clam up, I wasn’t going to hang around.

  “Perhaps I should go,” I murmured, and picked up the beaded bag.

  I was halfway out of my seat when Lance stood up, begging plaintively, “Please, don’t leave. I want to talk about Miranda with you. You’re so different…so, well, normal compared to everyone else.”

  The different part, I bought.

  But calling me normal?

  If Malone had heard that, he would’ve laughed his head off. I was having trouble keeping a straight face myself.

  Maybe Lance Zarimba wanted someone who could be straight with him. It sounded like he might be ready to knock that chip off his shoulder. Why shouldn’t I be the one to catch it? Then I could hand it over to Janet for her story, before I washed my hands of this whole mess.

  I sat back down, saying, “Thank you. I think.”

  “I mean it. You’re easy to talk to, Andy.” He got up with his glass, turned his back to me and refilled it before he glanced over his shoulder to ask, “Would you care for some champagne?”

  “Oh, gosh, I don’t know.” I wasn’t much of a drinker, and I’d already had a glass, nearly two. And I didn’t want to be sloshed when I arrived back at the condo. Brian was likely worried enough about me already. Had he called my cell and talked to Janet? I only hoped whatever excuse she’d used wasn’t so far out that he’d get worried and send a posse after me.

  “Just one glass. C’mon,” Lance insisted, keeping his back to me. “Please, stay, and I’ll fill you in on my relationship with Miranda. I want you to see my side of things.”

  So he did want to get something off his pumped-up chest.

  I was willing to bet that whatever guilt he felt was gnawing at him like a chain saw.

  I heard the glub-glub of the bubbly being poured into a crystal flute, even though I hadn’t agreed to anything yet.

  “I really shouldn’t—” But he cut off my protest.

  “Please, Andy. Don’t make me drink alone,” he said, which I found very funny, considering that’s exactly what he’d been doing—alone and in the dark—before I barged in.

  The guy was odd, no question about it; but perhaps he realized confession would be good for his soul. Besides, there were at least fifty people in the club, just beyond the closed door to the room. I felt pretty sure he wouldn’t try anything, not when we weren’t really alone.

  When he finished fixing my drink, he came around the desk, carrying both champagne flutes. He proffered the one in his left hand then lifted the one in his right.

  “A toast,” he said, “to Dick Uttley.”

  “What?” Just hearing the name startled me.

  “Without him chasing you in here, I wouldn’t have gotten to see you again, all gussied up,” Mr. Muscles smoothly said, smiling the most devilish smile, and I glimpsed some of the charm that must’ve attracted Sonja Madhavi…and even Miranda. “It was worth the wait, Andy, I can tell you that.”

  Feeling slightly embarrassed, I blushed and glanced down at my feet in the pointy-toed boots. I took a long, slow sip of Moët, managing to empty half the glass—what the heck, I was thirsty—intending to bolt once I’d finished.

  But after a couple more swallows, I felt a big buzz hit my head. Okay, so I’d had at least a glass before, but several shouldn
’t have knocked me for a loop like that. Unless I was even more of a lightweight than I’d thought.

  “You wanted to talk…about Miranda,” I got out, my voice sounding thick. I was tired, and the booze wasn’t helping matters any.

  “You went to school with her, didn’t you?” Lance asked. “And with that society reporter, Janet Graham, too? The one who interviewed Sonja.”

  “Yes, I went…we all went…to Hockaday.” The words came out more slowly than I’d intended. My thoughts were so muddied. I didn’t recall ever telling him I’d been classmates with either Miranda or Janet. Maybe he’d done a little research of his own.

  Then again, my head whirled like the Mad Hatter’s Teacup Ride. I could have blurted it out and completely forgotten.

  “You said you took Miranda home after the Pretty Party and that she let you in,” he went on, asking more questions, when he was supposed to be handing me answers.

  “Um, yes,” I said, though it came out more like Yezzzz.

  “Is that when you saw the pictures?”

  “Saw the pee-chures,” I murmured, and stared into the bottom of my champagne glass, suddenly seeing two of everything. I could hardly keep my head up.

  “Andy, are you all right? Are you feeling ill?”

  His voice sounded distant. I closed my eyes.

  Without meaning to, I released the crystal flute, and it slipped from my hands, plopping down with a gentle thud onto the shaggy area rug.

  What was wrong with me?

  “My God, but it hit you fast. Some girls are so easy. Like I told Sonja, it never hurts to keep a few roofies on hand to help the ladies loosen up. Only your case is special.”

  Oh, hell, had he slipped me a mickey?

  Did he plan to assault me? Right here in the office of Bébé Gâté?

  “You’re not here to party, are you? You’re here to snoop, and I think you know too much already.”

  I tried to talk, but my mouth wouldn’t move. My tongue felt glued to my palate.

  “Miranda must’ve spilled it all to you before she died. Didn’t she, Andy? Tell the truth now. It won’t do you any good to lie.”

  “Troooth,” I got out, slurring the word.

  “That’s why you asked so many questions this morning about Miranda’s injections, isn’t it?” he kept hounding, his anger echoing in my ears. “She told you I was there, didn’t she? That Sonja messed her up because she thought I was obsessed with Miranda, and I didn’t stop her. Well, if you think you can blackmail us, you’re wrong. It wouldn’t have worked for Miranda, and it won’t work for you.”

  Blackmail?

  Saw Sonja do what? Screw up the injections?

  Because Lance was obsessed with Miranda?

  So it was true.

  What was he…how did she…good heavens, but my brain felt thick.

  “Did you kill her?” I tried to say, but my lips wouldn’t cooperate. It came out as mindless babble.

  “What did you say? Andy? C’mon now, you can’t possibly be going down so fast.”

  Lance’s face seemed to zoom in, and I blinked, fighting to keep my eyes open and having trouble focusing.

  The room swirled, all a blur.

  The door clicked. Footsteps entered. Voices buzzed.

  I tried to force my eyes open, but I couldn’t make anything work.

  “Let’s get her out of here. Down the back stairwell, Lance, and be quick.”

  Hands reached for me, caught under my arms and hauled me up from the chair.

  I didn’t resist.

  I was too far gone.

  Chapter 20

  A ringing phone nudged its way into my consciousness, playing intermittent bursts of some silly song. My eyes closed, I fought against the grogginess, focusing on the music, trying to get my brain to work.

  What was that tune?

  Save a horse, ride a cowboy.

  Yeah, that was it.

  But it wasn’t my cell. Mine played Def Leppard.

  It seemed to go on and on; until, finally, it stopped.

  Without its noise, I could pick up more distant noises. I heard a woman’s voice and then a man’s, going back and forth, muffled as though behind a closed door. Though I strained to listen, I couldn’t catch more than a few words here or there, and what I could hear wasn’t exactly a news flash.

  “Too risky not to do it…Miranda’s big mouth…Cissy Kendricks’s hiring a P.I…. police asking questions.”

  God, my head hurt. And my mouth was beyond dry and tasted like I needed a good brushing. My hair fell across my eyes and tickled my cheeks. I tried to raise a hand to wipe the hair from my face.

  Only my right arm wouldn’t move. I tried the left arm, and it went nowhere, too.

  A wave of panic rushed through me.

  Was I paralyzed?

  Hmm, I could wiggle fingers and toes, even move my legs, so my guess would be no.

  I was tied down, wasn’t I?

  My wrists strained weakly against restraints that felt like plastic tubing, but I couldn’t get out of them. I’d been tied securely to the arms of the chair.

  Despite how it hurt, I cracked my eyelids open. The room was so bright. A light beamed directly down from above, and I turned my head to the right, wanting to look away so I wouldn’t be blinded.

  I blinked hard to clear the cobwebs, willing my eyes to focus, and I glanced around me.

  Where the heck was I?

  The room looked familiar somehow, the walls a pale green, the noise of water trickling. The scent of herbs. Oh, gosh, was that tangerine? Smelled like the face mask Lance Zarimba had slathered on me that morning.

  Ding-dong.

  Hello!

  I was back at The Pretty Place boutique, wasn’t I?

  Only I’d been strapped to one of those reclining chairs. Guess someone didn’t want me to leave.

  What was I doing there, for Pete’s sake? And how long had I been there?

  Minutes, hours?

  I fished around my muddy brain for a memory to grab, something that would explain what had happened. After a few moments of mental constipation bits and pieces fluttered back. I remembered entering the bar in Deep Ellum, parting red curtains and seeing bodies writhing beneath a gauze canopy. I’d bumped into Milton Fletcher, hadn’t I? And a man had threatened to kill me, so I sought refuge in a dark room, away from everyone.

  No, wait.

  I hadn’t been alone.

  That dude…the blond muscleman who did facials for Dr. Sonja.

  Lance.

  He’d been inside the room, almost like he’d been waiting for me.

  Though that was impossible, wasn’t it? Had he arranged for Dick Uttley to chase me, or for Dennis Bell, the Computer King, to suggest I hide in the nearest loo (though I’d picked the wrong door)?

  Was I doing a bit too good a job at channeling my mother and her conspiracy theories? Or was there something to my paranoia?

  For instance, did Lance know I’d be at the party?

  He must have, I realized. How else would he have known Cinda Lou had tagged me? Because he did, and I hadn’t told him.

  What else had been odd (like there hadn’t been plenty)?

  I searched my foggy brain for answers.

  Oh, yeah, when I’d asked him if he owned the club, he thought I meant the Caviar Club, hadn’t he? And why would he jump to that conclusion, huh, unless it was the truth?

  I’d drunk champagne, which he’d poured with his back to me. The bubbles had done more than tickle my nose. My brain had been slammed by an ingredient I’d wager Mr. Moët hadn’t added to his libation.

  Within ten minutes I’d lost my grip.

  The dude had drugged me.

  So it’s hitting you, is it? Like I told Sonja, it never hurts to keep a few roofies on hand to help the ladies loosen up. Only your case is special.

  Arrrrgh.

  I could now count myself among the ranks of oblivious women who’d been slipped the date rape drug in their drinks. In my ca
se, minus the “date” part. But at least I hadn’t awakened naked to find myself in some skuzzy dude’s bed after he’d had his way with me, thank heavens.

  I mean, I wasn’t naked, right? Whatever had gone on after I’d faded to black, I wasn’t so sure of.

  I swallowed hard and prayed that Lance hadn’t doped up my bubbly so he could do that to me.

  I lifted my head off the table as far as I could and glanced down the length of me.

  My dress was still on, as were my boots. Nothing seemed less than intact.

  Dropping my head back, I released a mental Phew.

  I felt lucky.

  Stupid, but lucky.

  If one didn’t count being bound to a chair in a needle-crazy doctor’s office after hours in a deserted mall with an obviously loony aesthetician.

  Let’s get her out of here. Down the back stairwell, Lance, and be quick.

  Not to mention the needle-crazy doctor, I realized, knowing I’d heard her voice back at the club just before I completely conked out.

  What did they want from me?

  That damned cell phone began to ring again, throwing out aborted bursts of “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy,” and I craned my neck to the left to glimpse the white countertop and the shiny beaded purse lying atop it.

  That was Janet’s phone.

  If I could just get to it; but struggle as I did against the ties that bound me, I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Forget it,” a woman’s voice advised, and I turned my head gingerly, hearing Sonja Madhavi’s high heels tap-tap their way into the room.

  Unfortunately, the shoes were attached to the evil doctor, who wasn’t in her clean white smock; instead, she had on a slinky black minidress, sheer black stockings, and lots of red lipstick; dressed to kill. She looked every bit like she’d been at a party.

  A Caviar Club party?

  Her equally evil cohort, Lance Zarimba, followed her in and carefully closed the door.

  I’d slowly begun putting two and two together. Maybe I was totally out of my mind, but I thought Dr. Miniskirt and her boyfriend ran the Caviar Club. They’d invited Miranda in, and then Lance had fallen for her, much to Sonja Madhavi’s chagrin.

  It all just fit.