Elaine Viets & Victoria Laurie, Nancy Martin, Denise Swanson - Drop-Dead Blonde (v5.0) (pdf) by Unknown (howl and other poems .TXT) 📕

``More bad news?''

Lexie smiled wryly at my question. ``You listen to all the wrong gossip, sweetie. Haymaker's is performing poorly. It's the dreaded third-generation syndrome.''

``The what?''

``Alan Rutledge is the third generation to own the store. His granddaddy started by selling pencils on the street and built Haymaker's from nothing. Then Alan's father joined the biz and made it into a regional chain. The two of them worked like dogs to build Haymaker's, but they never showed Alan how to get his hands dirty. Now he's on his own, and he doesn't know how to mind the store. He'd rather go see a musical. It's a classic business story. The third generation bungles the family store.''

``Haymaker's is going out of business?''

``No, but the vultures are circling. I've heard a couple of big retailers are looking to buy out Haymaker's.''

``Maybe that's a good thing,'' I said. ``Alan will be free to enjoy what he really loves.''

Lexie nodded. ``He's a closet song-and-dance man. I heard a wild rumor he got engaged to Cindie Rae Smith. That can't be true, can it?''

``It can, and is. I saw Cindie Rae at the store tonight. She was acting as if she owned the place already. I think she's the closest Alan could get to a leading lady.''

Lexie leaned closer. ``Did you get a good look at her? I mean, is she as . . . enhanced as everyone says?''

``Put her in the warm sunshine and she'd melt like a Hershey bar.'' 26 Nancy Martin

``Ugh. I hear her Web site is beyond revolting, too. What is Alan thinking?''

``We both know what he's thinking.''

Lexie shuddered. ``Everybody knows I'd rather make money than love. I have no sex drive whatsoever. It's so messy, for one thing, and all those dreadful emotions that make people do crazy things like--Oh, sorry, sweetie. I didn't mean you.''

``No offense taken.''

Lexie wagged her head. ``But Alan . . . What a waste of a solid family fortune.''

I took a deep, steadying breath and let it out slowly. ``I can't believe Popo is dead.''

``Me neither. She may have been universally hated, but she was indispensable to a lot of my friends.''

Just a few minutes with Lexie had made me feel better. But I didn't want to spoil her party. ``Look, I should go. I'm sorry to bring bad tidings. I should have waited until morning to call you. But I thought I'd better stop by to apologize for not picking up your package in case it was something you needed tonight.''

``Oh, forget about that! Heavens, you shouldn't have bothered. It was only a little evening bag I planned to use next weekend.''

``A little evening bag?''

``Right. Popo called and said it would match a dress I'm wearing to a charity ball on Saturday. A Lettitia McGraw handbag.''

I couldn't help myself. I laughed.

She cocked her head. ``What's the story?''

``It's a very popular bag tonight, that's all. Look, I'd bet- ter run along. You have a lovely party to host, and I--''

``Don't beg off,'' she commanded, getting to her feet and extending her hand to help me up. ``You have to stick around. If nothing else, you could use a stiff drink, I'm sure. And everybody wants to see you.''

Although I simply wanted to go home to my own bed, I could hardly walk out without saying a few hellos. I picked up my bag with the sleeping puppy inside and shouldered it. ``All right. Tell me who's here.''

``The usual suspects.'' Lexie linked her arm with mine to pull me into her home. ``That nutty writer, what's-her- SLAY BELLES 27 name, with the book about cloning babies or something. And the new curator for the museum.''

``Belinda, the one with the red glasses?''

``Yes. It's a good blend, although I accidentally invited too many politicians. It seems everybody's running for mayor except that handsome John Fitch, who's also here. You've met him before, right? I think he has a shot at the Senate. Plus a handful of my best friends for sex appeal.''

``And there must be one of your billionaire clients or two in the mix.''

She grinned. ``Of course.''

``Are you raising money for the museum?''

``Always. Tonight I'm targeting Vince Scuddy. Do you know him? He owns a truckload of cable television stock, so he can afford to spend most of his time playing street hockey with underserved kids in South Philly.''

``Sounds like a mensch.''

�

``Who needs something cultural to balance his resume, � and then I suppose he'll run for mayor, too.''

We arrived in her living room, which was packed with guests. For a woman of her income and a family history at least as old as my own, Lexie lived in remarkably small quarters. Her boathouse was sparsely and inexpensively furnished, but hung with spectacular art from the collection her mother had inherited and Lexie's own investment pieces. The president of the art museum board, she had the combination of serious scholarship, instinctive good taste, and the gargantuan disposable income needed to possess paintings and sculpture that were the envy of many long- time collectors.

``You moved your Warhol out of the bedroom.'' I ob- served the pop-art portrait that dominated the living room wall.

``I moved a Vermeer oil study over my bed instead, which is ever so much more restful.''

Two friends approached and gave me air kisses, and someone offered to get me a drink. I tried to make conver- sation, but I felt as if my body were floating on the ceiling as the party whirled around me. I tried to fake being socia- ble. The mental image of Popo Prentiss's body kept pop- ping into my head. Even handsome John Fitch couldn't distract me with his usual intelligent charm. 28 Nancy Martin

Soon one of the hired