Too Pretty to Die (28 page)

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.

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 case, 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.

“Sorry, Ms. Kendricks, but we can’t take the chance that you’ll run your mouth off to the police,” she said. “You know far too much, and that’s uncomfortable for me.”

“Too much? About what you did to Miranda?” I babbled. One of my weaknesses. The babbling.

“Yes, that,” Dr. Sonja snapped, and strode toward the cabinets nearer me.

I heard her rummage around, then caught the
snap
of something elastic-sounding. When she turned around, she was tugging on latex gloves.

Oh, great.

“You botched her injections on purpose,” I said, my voice scratching, because hadn’t Lance admitted as much back at the club? “You wanted your boyfriend to stay away from Miranda, so you made her ugly.”

Like the villain in a Disney flick, she laughed. “So the poor delusional Miranda did talk to you before—”

“You killed her,” I finished, and Dr. Sonja laughed again.

“Killed her? My God, but you have a wild imagination.” She stopped doing whatever she’d been doing at the counter and approached the chair where I reclined so uncomfortably. “I did no such thing.”

I saw the needle in her gloved hand and flinched.

Was that for me?

My heart didn’t just leap into my throat, it did a cannonball.

I wet dry lips. “If you didn’t, who did?” I inclined my head toward Lance. “So he did it for you?”

Lance stepped farther into the room, shaking his head. “No, no, no”—he sounded like a petulant kid—“Sonja didn’t do it, and neither did I. Miranda killed herself. You were at the Pretty Party. You saw how nuts she was.”

“And I was with her afterward,” I said, trying to stay calm when I wanted to pee in my pants. Er, my dress. “She wasn’t suicidal. She wanted revenge, and she had the ammunition,” I rattled on, figuring that as long as I was talking, Dr. Sonja wouldn’t stick me with whatever was in that vial. “She had photos on her camera from the Caviar Club bashes, and she sent Janet Graham an e-mail saying she wanted to expose everyone . . . the members who were liars and cheaters. And the owners. That means you.”

I saw Lance look at Sonja.

“You’re the ones who started the Caviar Club, aren’t you?” I said aloud what I’d only assumed until then. “You handpick the membership, maybe even from your own patient list, so you can throw together the prettiest women with the most powerful men in the city.”

“It’s a dating club,” Sonja shot back. “Nothing illegal about that.”

“It’s a sex club,” I countered. “I saw it with my own eyes tonight. And maybe that isn’t even illegal, but it’s not exactly kosher. At least, I’m sure it would be frowned upon by a good deal of Dallas society—half of them your clients—if word got out. And that’s how Miranda was going to bring you down, was it not? If she didn’t get you for destroying her face first.”

Sonja rounded the chair, pausing near my feet, no doubt so I could see her suck the vial’s contents into the syringe. “Miranda was unstable. Any of the women who saw her take a potshot at me at The Pretty Party will vouch for that.”

“But Lance knows what you did,” I said. “And how do you know he won’t crack?”

“Because I won’t!” he growled, and Sonja hushed him.