Fleur De Lies (16 page)

“It’s on account of what happened to him on the bus yesterday,” offered Nana.

I looked Osmond in the eye. “What happened to you on the bus?”

“I fell asleep.”

I waited. “And?”

“And I didn’t wake up until we got back to the boat because with Margi’s collar bracing my neck, my head wasn’t flopping all over the place. Best nap I’ve had in years.”

“If Dick had been wearing one during the presentation on Chateau Gaillard today, he wouldn’t have almost broken his neck when he nodded off,” charged Grace.

“They’re an excellent deterrent against whiplash,” agreed Tilly.

“And Osmond’s experience proves they promote longer, more uninterrupted sleep,” added Alice.

“So we’re startin’ a daily lottery to see who gets to wear ’em,” said Nana. “But Margi only brung three with her, so the odds of winnin’ aren’t real good.”

I narrowed my gaze at today’s lucky three winners. “Well, that’s a relief. You’re wearing them for show rather than for any therapeutic purpose. When I saw you, I thought—” I hesitated. “I don’t really know what I thought, but I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Do I look taller?” asked Helen as she lifted her chin off the foam rubber. “I feel so much taller with my head so high off the ground.”

“I feel like a giraffe,” said Lucille.

Osmond directed his gaze downward. “I can’t see my feet. Can you guys see your feet?”

“Now that we have
that
taken care of—” Jackie scooted Margi and Bernice toward the center of the group. “The last of the makeovers are complete. What do you think?”

EH! I darted a look from Bernice, to Margi, to Bernice again. I swallowed slowly. “What have you done?”

“Margi’s complexion looks
sooo
translucent,” cooed Grace. “She looks like an airbrushed version of the real Margi.”

“How come Bernice’s complexion don’t look so good as Margi’s?” asked Nana.

Dick Teig grabbed his belly as he burst out with laughter. “Bernice looks like she was standing too close to a vacuum cleaner when the bag blew up!”

“Is Bernice’s face
supposed
to be gray?” asked Alice.

Bernice fired an irritated look at Jackie. “My face is gray?”

Jackie smiled with all her teeth. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves, people.”

“Did you apply cream or powder blush on Margi’s cheeks?” asked
Grace. “It looks so natural.”

“It’s a cream mousse that’s formulated especially for Mona Michelle. I chose
Baby’s Breath
for Margi because of the blue tones in her skin, but it’s available in eight delicious shades for every color palette.”

“Why does Bernice have two black eyes?” questioned Tilly. “Is it from the eyeshadow you used or did you hit her?”

“MY EYES ARE BLACK?” Bernice’s fingers flew to her cheeks. “I want a mirror.”

Jackie flicked her hands away. “Don’t touch. So”—she addressed the whole gang—“the object of this exercise was to demonstrate that makeup, when properly applied, can have a life-altering effect on a woman’s life from cradle”—she gestured toward Margi—“to grave.” She gestured toward Bernice.

“Why did
I
get stuck being the ‘grave’ part of your stupid demonstration?” griped Bernice. “Margi would make a better dead person than me. I used to be a magazine model!”

“I know,” said Jackie. “I understand why the camera loved you. Your bone structure makes your face a canvas that just screams out to be painted. No offense to Margi, but you have the more perfect skeletal structure to illustrate the magic a makeup artist can wield with a corpse.”

Bernice sidled a smug look at Margi. “Hear that? I’m going to look
better than you when I’m dead.”

“That’s what you think,” Margi shot back. “I might just decide to have a closed casket. So there.”

“I don’t wanna be sportin’ two black eyes when I’m laid out to rest,” said Nana as she studied Bernice. “It don’t look healthy.”

“Dead people aren’t supposed to look healthy,” hooted Dick Stolee.
“They’re supposed to look dead.”

“There’s some folks what’s died what don’t look dead at all,” argued Nana.

“More than likely due to the efforts of a
great
makeup artist,” gushed Jackie.

“Marion’s quite right,” Tilly agreed. “Some corpses appear so robust, they look as if they could rise from their coffins.”

“They’re called
VAAM
pires,” Dick Teig wisecracked in a Count Dracula vibrato.

“There’s no such thing as vampires,” scolded Lucille. Then more skeptically, “Are there?”

“Okay, Mrs. S.,” said Jackie, “the charcoal eyeshadow and liner might not work for you, but I wanted to use it on Bernice to create a mood. I wanted her to look hopelessly sullen and bereft—you know, like she wasn’t really happy about spending the rest of her life dead.”

Nana gave a little suck on her teeth. “You done a good job of that.”

“Would you write down the exact products and color combinations you used on Margi?” asked Grace. “I’d like to be waked with my face looking exactly like hers.”

Margi swiveled her torso around to make a face at Bernice.

“I could do that,” explained Jackie, “but for your sake, I’d prefer not to.”

“Why not?”

“Because Margi is wearing our makeup line that allows a woman to transition seamlessly from daytime to happy hour, and Bernice is wearing a slightly exaggerated version of something we recommend our clients wear to either the opera … or a midnight showing of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
.”

I slapped a hand over my eyes and gave my head a woeful shake.

The loudspeaker system crackled an alert for a pending announce
ment. Heavy breathing on the microphone, followed by, “Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames and messieurs, before we open the doors to the dining room this evening, we would ask you to assemble in the lounge so we might share with you a message of some importance. We look forward to seeing you at six thirty. Thank you.”

“Should I leave my makeup on?” fretted Bernice.

“Only if you wanna scare folks,” said George.

Nana peeked at her watch. “Six thirty? That only gives us a half hour!”

And the race was on.

Elbows flew. Joints popped. Sneakers squeaked. Osmond, Helen, and Lucille were last out of their chairs and slammed headlong into each other while trying to exit, tangling themselves in a hopeless Gordian knot of arms and legs. I let out another whistle that stopped the gang dead in their tracks.

“Hey! You don’t have everyone!”

While Jackie and I began the task of untangling limbs, the Dicks
sprinted back. “Come on, you guys,” exhorted Dick Teig. “There won’t
be any seats left.”

“Don’t rush me!” sniped Lucille. “I’m trying to figure out where my feet are. I can’t see them.”

“Told ya,” said Osmond.

“Shoot,” scoffed Helen. “I haven’t seen my feet since the day I snapped on my first training bra. DICK!” She grabbed her husband’s hand and slapped it into Lucille’s. “Now everyone else join hands. Okay, boys. Punch it.”

With a Dick at either end of the trio, they shuffled their way
across the deck like a Lionel train set.

“Careful on the stairs,” I called after them.

Jackie clasped her hands beneath her chin, watching them with affection. “Aren’t they adorable? When I’m old and wrinkled, I want to be just like them.”

I drilled her with a narrow look. “Cradle-to-grave cosmetics?”

“Wasn’t that brilliant? Honestly, Emily, sometimes I surprise even
myself with my genius. They were so over the moon with Walt and Ed’s powerpoint presentation that I knew I could figure out some way to capitalize on it.”

“Are you talking about the undertakers?”

She gasped in horror. “Planning specialist consultants. Really, Emily.
Undertaker is
so
twentieth century.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t people in the funeral industry hire their own staff to do hair and makeup?”

“Yes. But if
they
can offer pre-funeral planning, why can’t
I
offer pre-funeral makeup? I can help people reach decisions about all kinds of difficult cosmetic issues
before
they die. Liquid foundation or pancake? Glitter eyeshadow or noncrease matte? Sheer gloss lipstick or long-lasting stain? My clients can choose for
themselves
rather than turn the decision making over to someone who might not know the difference between the seasonal palette of a summer and an autumn.”

“Won’t this new sideline interfere with the job you already have?”

Sparks ignited in her eyes. “There’s a whole untapped market out there for Mona Michelle products, and
I’m
the one who discovered them. So if Bobbi and Dawna are planning to get rid of me the same way they got rid of Krystal, they better hurry, because I’m talking to Victor about my idea at dinner. And if they start talking smack about me again, they’re going to be in for a rude awakening, because I
will not
allow myself to be mean-mouthed. I’ll say my piece to Victor, then follow the example of what other truly mature females have done.”

“Ignore them?”

“Write snotty things on their Facebook pages under an assumed name.”

“Why would you even
want
to have dinner with them if you’re so afraid they’re going to kill you?”

“I’m a big believer in that famous saying.”

“ ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you?’ ”

“ ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ ”

I gave her “the look.” “So what do you make of this drug overdose speculation?”

“It’s not speculation. I
told
you they killed Krystal. And now we know what method they used. All the police have to figure out is how they slipped it to her and when.”

“Shouldn’t the police first have to determine who had access to the drug?”

“I can tell them that. Bobbi and Dawna.”

“But what if that can’t be proven?”

Her mouth rounded into an O. “Are you suggesting they
didn’t
do it?”

“No! But how can you be sure someone didn’t slip her the lethal overdose even before she left Texas? What if Bobbi and Dawna were only two names in a long list of people who might have wanted her dead?”

Her mouth snapped shut. Her eyes lit up. “
Eww
. You mean like the ex-husband who just remarried and wanted to stop his alimony payments? Or the half sister who was suing her over the family inheritance? Or the woman who was married to the man she was having the affair with?”

I stared at her, dumbstruck. “Holy crap, Jack. Do the police know about this?”

“Not from me, they don’t. Remember? They didn’t bother to interview me. But Bobbi and Dawna know her history, so if the police asked for background on her, the girls probably recited a whole litany of people who wished she’d disappear. Can you think of a better way for them to divert suspicion away from themselves?”

“Well, someone obviously found a way to kill her, but if it was your peroxide twins, when would they have had an opportunity to do it?”

“Dinner two nights ago?”

I crooked my mouth. “I didn’t notice any sleight of hand going on, did you?”

“What about the motion sickness pill Krystal took?”

“It was a softgel. Aren’t softgels pretty much tamperproof ? Besides, she gave one to Woody at breakfast yesterday morning, so if she died from ingesting a lethal softgel from that bottle, Woody should be dead, too.” I replayed the day at warp speed in my head. “Did the four of you pick up anything to eat in Étretat?”

“We bought bottled water, but Krystal never opened hers, at least not while she was with me.”

“Who was Krystal’s cabin mate?”

“No one. Victor wanted us to be able to move around without bumping into each other, so we each have our own cabin, which is an
absolute
godsend. After I hung up all my stuff, there wasn’t an inch to spare in the closet, so if I’d had to share the space, my unlucky roommate would have had to hang her clothes in the bathroom. Can you imagine what that would have done to my daily shower routine?”

“Did you visit each other’s cabins for any length of time the day we boarded?”

“We shmoozed in the lounge.” She flopped her hand backward at the wrist. “You know, greater visibility. When you look as good as we do, you want to be seen.”

I gave her a palms up. “So when do you suggest the dynamic duo slipped her the stuff ? Because from what you’re telling me, there was never a good window of opportunity.”

“If they didn’t do it, I’ll eat my—” She scanned her outfit in search
of edible options. “Well, it’s not going to be my shoes. I don’t relish getting cork stuck between my teeth.” She braced her hands on her hips and trained an accusatory look at me. “Why am I getting the
impression that not only are you unconvinced that Bobbi and Dawna
killed Krystal, you don’t believe I’m next on their hit list?”

“Because if someone in Texas killed Krystal, which is looking more
and more like a good bet, we can wash our hands of the whole affair. No Internet searches. No stalking people. No having to guess who the next victim will be. No having to look over our shoulders. No standoffs. No—”

“But we
always
do Internet searches. We
always
stalk people. We—”

“And you won’t get stuck having to hang out with the gang anymore because you won’t need their protection! Won’t that be liber-
ating?”

“Not hang out with the gang?” Her face started wilting like a wax candle in a hot attic. “But I like hanging out with them.” She lowered her gaze, looking crestfallen. “They don’t act snotty to me because I’m the one person in the room who’s different.”

Awww
. I was suddenly very proud that my little band of Iowans could show as much respect for a six-foot transsexual as they could for each other. “Of course not. Your gender reassignment surgery doesn’t faze them in the least.”

She flashed a quizzical look. “What does my surgery have to do with anything?”