CHAPTER 8
At exactly five fifty-nine the last guest arrived at Erica’s dinner party. All totaled, including Erica, Lindsay, Lindsay’s “date,” Nicole, Samantha, and me, there were ten people at the party. None of them were kids. Erica had shipped hers off with her husband before I’d arrived, and Lindsay and Samantha had opted to leave theirs at home, too.
Upon the arrival of the last person—a nurse working with Michelle’s former OB/GYN—the girls set their plans into motion. The first goal was to serve light hors d’oeuvres so that the effects of the punch would be exaggerated. Dinner would be served later.
Within a half hour, it was obvious their scheme had worked.
“That dress is butt ugly,” one guest said, her perky little nose scrunched up in disgust. Pointing at another guest, she said, much too loudly, “I would never, ever put that shape of skirt on a curvy client.”
“At least my dress fits,” the recipient of her verbal assault tossed back. “Yours is so tight, I can see every lump of cottage cheese on your thighs. I’m guessing you spent a hell of a lot of money on your nose, your lips, and your boobs. Why wouldn’t you get lipo?”
“My husband’s leaving me for another man,” the third guest sobbed.
“I hate my job. My boss is an ass,” said another.
“I paid ten grand for new boobs and they are hideous,” wailed the first. “And that bitch is so right. I should’ve gotten the lipo. What the hell was I thinking?”
“This punch is delicious,” said the woman with the cheating husband as she poured herself another glass.
We exchanged grins. Samantha shrugged. “I told you, I have a killer punch recipe.”
If nothing else, this was going to be one very interesting evening.
“Just tell me there’s nothing but alcohol in it,” I said, watching as things started heating up.
Samantha nodded. “I promise, I didn’t even bring the pills.”
We huddled in the kitchen, planning our strategy. Erica gave us a rundown of each guest, why they were invited, and why they were suspects. The fashion critic, Rachel, was Michelle’s former personal shopper. She regularly spent hours in the Stewart home, helping Michelle plan outfits for the many charity events she attended. There was a rumor that she was in debt and desperate for cash. The fashion victim, Theresa, was the nurse at Michelle’s former OB. She wasn’t a suspect per se, but Erica had hoped to get some information about Michelle’s alleged fertility problems. The dumped wife, Kelly, was the mother of one of Joshua’s friends. She visited Michelle occasionally, enough that Michelle would have let her into the house without thinking about it. And even two years ago, there’d been rumors about her marriage being on the rocks. There’d also been rumors that Kelly had a thing for Jon. The last guest was Heather, also someone who’d met Michelle through Josh. Michelle had told Erica only a few days before she’d died that she’d had a huge blow-up-drag-down fight with Heather over something that happened between her son and Josh.
“Time to get to work.” Feeling like a football coach, I pointed at Erica. “Why don’t you start with the nurse? You know her best, since she works for your doctor.” Erica agreed with a nod. Next I pointed at Kelly. “Lindsay, why don’t you take the friend with the gay husband? She’s in I-hate-my-husband mode. You just broke up with a boyfriend—” Lindsay blanched then gave Nicole a guilty look. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up a touchy subject.”
“It’s okay. We’re on a mission. I get it.” To Nicole, Lindsay said, “Long story. I’ll tell you later.” Lindsay glanced over her shoulder, at her target. “If she knows anything about Michelle’s death, I’ll get it outta her.”
“Good!” I motioned to Samantha next. “Samantha, why don’t you take Heather the boss-hater? I’ll take the one that’s left, Rachel, the personal shopper.” I checked my watch. “How about we reconvene in a half hour and see what we need to do next? And let’s keep that punch flowing.”
Off we went, to question our so-called persons of interest.
I headed for my target, who was standing next to Heather, pointing out all the flaws in everyone’s fashion statement. According to Erica, Rachel worked as a personal shopper-slash-stylist and had reportedly made a lot of deliveries to the Stewart household in the past. Since fashion was my thing, I figured I stood as good a chance as any of getting her to talk.
“Hi there, I see you have an interest in fashion,” I said as I approached her with a full glass of punch. I motioned to her empty glass, trading it for the full one in my hand.
After nodding a thanks, she said, “I’m a stylist and personal shopper.” She gave me an up-and-down look. I was wearing one of my own dresses. “Who are you wearing?”
“Actually, it’s my own. I’m a designer.”
“Really?” She gave my dress a closer look. “Nice. Have you had samples made? I’d love to show this piece to a few of my clients.”
“Not yet. I’m working on it.”
She dug into her purse, produced a card. “When you do, I hope you’ll keep me in mind.”
“I will. Thanks. I understand you worked for Michelle Stewart.”
“Michelle was one of my best clients.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Rachel gave me a sad look. “Actually, she was my best client. My business has taken a nosedive since she died, and—don’t tell anybody—I had to take a part-time job, working at JCPenney to make ends meet. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good. I’d hate for them to know.” She plucked a nonexistent piece of fuzz from her skirt. “My business is all about appearances, you know.”
“That, I know.”
She smoothed her sleeve. “I mean, who would want to pay top dollar to a part-time sales clerk to be their stylist?”
“I’m sorry your business has suffered. Has it been a long time since you’ve shopped for a client?”
She didn’t answer right away. “Yes, it has been a long time, since the week before Michelle died.”
“That long ago? That’s terrible.”
“I’d met with Michelle the week before she ... you know. She had a few events coming up, and she wanted me to come by. In fact, we had an appointment for that very day. But I didn’t get the chance. I was ... well, detained.” Her face turned red. “Parking tickets. I was in jail.”
“Oh.” I patted her shoulder. “Sorry for dredging up unhappy memories. Hopefully you’ll pick up some new clients soon. I’d better move on to the other guests.” Feeling a little guilty for pretty much dumping her after that confession, I explained, “I’m new in town. Would hate for anyone to feel slighted. Say, maybe you can come back another day, and I’ll take you down to my studio, let you get a firsthand glimpse of my collection.”
Her eyes actually sparkled. “I would love that.”
After making the rounds, filling punch glasses, I was the first to return to our predetermined meeting spot. The other ladies soon joined me. “I’m pretty sure we can cross Rachel off the list,” I said. “Her business has tanked since Michelle died. She has no motivation to kill her best client. She was anticipating more business from her in the upcoming weeks. So if her motivation was money, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Plus, she has an alibi that should be pretty easy to verify.” I glanced at the other ladies. “Anybody get something good?”
“Got nothing from Kelly,” Lindsay said, “other than she was very sad to learn about Michelle. Evidently, she called her often to talk about her troubles with her husband.”
“Heather seems to be a dead end, too,” Samantha said, frowning. “That big so-called fight was just about Joshua borrowing a pair of her son’s gym shoes. The shoes were ruined, and there’d been conflicting stories about who was responsible. I don’t know. Even if they were Alexander McQueens, a pair of shoes is hardly worth killing over.”
All of us shared a heavy sigh.
“But wait. All’s not lost,” Erica said. “I had Theresa, Dr. Orenstein’s nurse. I’m thinking we need to follow up on the doctor. Evidently, he had a secret thing for Michelle.”
“Thing?” I echoed.
“Obsession,” Erica clarified.
“A secret obsession,” Lindsay repeated. “That could be a motivation for murder.”
“Maybe,” I agreed.
Erica continued, leaning in, “Evidently, Jon’s story about her going to a fertility specialist was partially true. Michelle did ask for a referral. But Dr. O insisted she didn’t need one and persisted in treating her himself. It’s possible Michelle didn’t tell Jon the truth, letting him think she was going to someone else. Jon wasn’t fond of Dr. O and had told her to change doctors.”
Lindsay’s eyes widened. “Now, that is interesting—”
“You bitch!” someone shouted from the living room.
I jerked around, catching Heather tossing a glass of punch into Rachel’s face.
“How dare ...” Eyelashes dripping, mouth agape, Rachel grabbed the first thing she touched—a potted plant—and threw it. Heather ducked. The pot hit the wall and shattered. Dirt flew everywhere. The plant landed on Kelly’s head.
“What the hell?” Kelly screeched, untangling philodendron leaves from her hair. “I just paid two hundred dollars to get my hair done.”
“Uh-oh,” I mumbled, watching Kelly lurch to her feet. “This is getting ugly. Fast.”
“Ladies,” Erica shouted over the mounting wave of expletives filling the room. She waved her arms. The cuss words just kept flowing.
“If you paid that, you were robbed,” Rachel sneered. “I’ve seen better dye jobs walking out of Fantasic Sams.”
Kelly charged at Rachel like a bull, nostrils flaring, fury burning in her eyes. She tackled Rachel to the ground, and a catfight ensued. There was hair flying, clothes tearing, fingernails clawing. A couple of the other guests jumped into the fray before we could get it broken up, and before we knew it, we were ducked behind the kitchen island while things crashed and shattered all around us.
“Samantha, what the hell did you put in that punch?” Erica snapped.
Crack.
Samantha shrugged.
“Just alcohol,” I said. “Right, Samantha? You only put alcohol, like you said.”
“Well ...”
Crash.
“Dammit, I think that was the plasma TV.” Erica poked her head up. “Yes, that was the plasma.” She glared at Samantha.
“You’ll pay for that, whore!” Kelly screeched.
“What did you put in the punch?” I repeated.
“No drugs.” Samantha raised her hands. “I swear.”
“Then what is in that punch?” I eyeballed the bowl, not sure whether I should empty it to keep them all from drinking more or just put it away, in case someone had a bad reaction. “It can’t be just fruit juice and ginger ale.”
“No, it’s not.” Samantha sighed. “I got a truth potion from someone I know. She promised it was safe, made from all organic ingredients. I’ve used her potions before. Never had a problem.”
“A potion?” I echoed.
Ka-blam.
Erica sank to the floor. “Samantha, do you have a Valium on you?”
“Sure.” Samantha produced a bottle from her skirt pocket, dumped a handful out, and handed them to Erica. “Take a few.”
“Thanks.” Erica dry-swallowed half of them. “I can’t believe this.”
Smash.
“Hey,” Samantha said, sounding a touch defensive. “If it wasn’t for the punch, do you think we’d have what we do on Dr. O?”
Erica shrugged. And sighed. “Point taken.”
“Thank you.”
Crack.
Lindsay giggled.
We all looked at her. She was batting her eyelashes at her new friend, Nicole.
“Do you really think she’s turning lesbian?” I whispered to Erica.
“She’s no more a lesbian than I am. But I’m not going to tell her that. She’ll figure it out. But I will say one thing—she has great taste in women. Nicole’s very attractive.” That statement had me second-guessing both their sexual orientations. To Samantha, Erica said, “Okay, that’s enough. My living room is destroyed. My dining room table is covered with broken glass. I’d like to preserve at least some of my furniture. How about making it stop?”
“Very well.” After straightening her hair, Samantha stood up. “Excuse me, but ... dinner is served.”
Silence.
It was a freaking miracle.