Kiki would tear her heart out.
Helen’s arms were strong from hauling heavy wedding dresses. She pulled harder on the door. It wouldn’t budge.
“What’s keeping you?” Desiree tapped her foot impatiently.
“The door’s stuck.”
“Let’s get Jeff,” the bride said.
Helen didn’t want Jeff to see the rose dress squashed in the closet. He might report her to Kiki.
“Just needs a little old-fashioned female force.” Helen tugged harder. Nothing happened.
She would not be defeated by a lousy door. Not when a cold glass of wine was calling. Helen gave the door a mighty yank.
It opened.
Out tumbled a waterfall of red-black taffeta, yards and yards of it, tucked and folded into a giant bouquet. The rose dress must have fallen off the hanger—and fallen into something. It sure didn’t smell like roses.
The slippery dark fabric was wrapped around logs. Then Helen saw the logs were legs, shapely legs ending in size-four heels. She heard screams and realized they were coming from her.
She’d found Kiki.
The missing mother of the bride slid out of the closet in the rose dress. Helen couldn’t see her face. It was covered with a white cobweb. Helen pushed it aside.
Kiki stared blindly at Helen. Her mouth was open and angry, her eyes were wide and cold. She was dead, smothered with her daughter’s marvelous wedding dress.
“Oh, no,” the bride wailed. “Oh, no, no. I loved that dress.”
That’s when Rod the chauffeur burst into the room.
“Has anyone seen Kiki?” he said.
Chapter 7
“Ewww,” Amy said. “What’s wrong with her nails?”
Nails? What nails? Kiki looked like a big, stiff doll. Helen didn’t even notice her fingers.
She felt strangely warm and disconnected, as if she were wrapped in cotton.
Shock, said one side of her mind.
Shit, said the other. I’m never going to get that cold wine.
There were shrieks and screams as a dozen cell phones simultaneously called 911.
Only Amy, the airhead bridesmaid, noticed the dead woman’s manicure. “Her nails are too short.” Amy’s gray eyes were wide with horror. For her, a broken nail was a tragedy. Murder was unthinkable.
Kiki’s small curled fingers seemed pathetically child-like. The gold daggerlike nails were gone. They’d been cut to the quick. Why would she mutilate her manicure?
She didn’t, Helen realized. Kiki would never do her own nails. She’d have a manicurist come to her house the morning of the wedding.
This morning. A thousand years ago.
The curled fingers no longer looked sad. They looked creepy. Anyone who watched TV knew about DNA. If Kiki had scratched her killer, she’d have traces of the DNA under her nails. Her killer had cut them before she—or he—shoved the body in the closet.
Then I opened the door, Helen thought, and left my prints all over it. She felt sick.
Run! she told herself. The police will be here any minute. Everyone heard me fight with Kiki last night. With my past, I haven’t a chance.
Helen looked around frantically for her purse. She could slip out the side door before the police arrived.
Stay! said her rational side. You’re a servant who opened the wrong closet. Nobody noticed you. Nobody cares about you. Sit tight. Of course your prints are on that door. You’re supposed to help the wedding party.
“Somebody help me turn her over,” Brendan said. “I want to look for wounds.”
The father of the bride—and a lawyer—was tampering with a crime scene, but nobody said anything. The groom and the best man rushed over to help. Helen thought she saw Chauncey’s too-red lips form a fleeting smile before he assumed a properly solemn expression. He had reason to smile. His theater was saved. Kiki’s untimely death brought him a hundred thousand dollars.
Chauncey, Brendan, and Luke had trouble lifting the unwieldy body in the outrageous belled skirt. Helen saw the skirt had a huge rip on the side. The stitching had given way in spots, and the roses bulged like
Helen’s arms were strong from hauling heavy wedding dresses. She pulled harder on the door. It wouldn’t budge.
“What’s keeping you?” Desiree tapped her foot impatiently.
“The door’s stuck.”
“Let’s get Jeff,” the bride said.
Helen didn’t want Jeff to see the rose dress squashed in the closet. He might report her to Kiki.
“Just needs a little old-fashioned female force.” Helen tugged harder. Nothing happened.
She would not be defeated by a lousy door. Not when a cold glass of wine was calling. Helen gave the door a mighty yank.
It opened.
Out tumbled a waterfall of red-black taffeta, yards and yards of it, tucked and folded into a giant bouquet. The rose dress must have fallen off the hanger—and fallen into something. It sure didn’t smell like roses.
The slippery dark fabric was wrapped around logs. Then Helen saw the logs were legs, shapely legs ending in size-four heels. She heard screams and realized they were coming from her.
She’d found Kiki.
The missing mother of the bride slid out of the closet in the rose dress. Helen couldn’t see her face. It was covered with a white cobweb. Helen pushed it aside.
Kiki stared blindly at Helen. Her mouth was open and angry, her eyes were wide and cold. She was dead, smothered with her daughter’s marvelous wedding dress.
“Oh, no,” the bride wailed. “Oh, no, no. I loved that dress.”
That’s when Rod the chauffeur burst into the room.
“Has anyone seen Kiki?” he said.
Chapter 7
“Ewww,” Amy said. “What’s wrong with her nails?”
Nails? What nails? Kiki looked like a big, stiff doll. Helen didn’t even notice her fingers.
She felt strangely warm and disconnected, as if she were wrapped in cotton.
Shock, said one side of her mind.
Shit, said the other. I’m never going to get that cold wine.
There were shrieks and screams as a dozen cell phones simultaneously called 911.
Only Amy, the airhead bridesmaid, noticed the dead woman’s manicure. “Her nails are too short.” Amy’s gray eyes were wide with horror. For her, a broken nail was a tragedy. Murder was unthinkable.
Kiki’s small curled fingers seemed pathetically child-like. The gold daggerlike nails were gone. They’d been cut to the quick. Why would she mutilate her manicure?
She didn’t, Helen realized. Kiki would never do her own nails. She’d have a manicurist come to her house the morning of the wedding.
This morning. A thousand years ago.
The curled fingers no longer looked sad. They looked creepy. Anyone who watched TV knew about DNA. If Kiki had scratched her killer, she’d have traces of the DNA under her nails. Her killer had cut them before she—or he—shoved the body in the closet.
Then I opened the door, Helen thought, and left my prints all over it. She felt sick.
Run! she told herself. The police will be here any minute. Everyone heard me fight with Kiki last night. With my past, I haven’t a chance.
Helen looked around frantically for her purse. She could slip out the side door before the police arrived.
Stay! said her rational side. You’re a servant who opened the wrong closet. Nobody noticed you. Nobody cares about you. Sit tight. Of course your prints are on that door. You’re supposed to help the wedding party.
“Somebody help me turn her over,” Brendan said. “I want to look for wounds.”
The father of the bride—and a lawyer—was tampering with a crime scene, but nobody said anything. The groom and the best man rushed over to help. Helen thought she saw Chauncey’s too-red lips form a fleeting smile before he assumed a properly solemn expression. He had reason to smile. His theater was saved. Kiki’s untimely death brought him a hundred thousand dollars.
Chauncey, Brendan, and Luke had trouble lifting the unwieldy body in the outrageous belled skirt. Helen saw the skirt had a huge rip on the side. The stitching had given way in spots, and the roses bulged like
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