So, far, Nikki didn’t think so.
But she would keep digging.
Chapter 10
Seated on her tufted vanity stool, Mavis Greenlee frowned at her foot, specifically her right foot and the polished nail of her big toe. It was painted a shimmering shade of coral, the precise color of her lipstick, and, of course, her fingertips.
But there was a flaw in the polish, a tiny chip, just noticeable enough that she couldn’t possibly wear open-toed shoes to the Honey wells’ patio party. If she couldn’t wear her gold sandals, then her entire ensemble would have to be rethought. The peach-colored, frothy blouse and beige skirt and jacket needed the glitter and dash ofje ne sais quoithat the sandals and her coral-tinged toes provided.
“Damn it all to hell,” she muttered, as Princess, her cat, wandered into the bathroom and hopped lithely onto the vanity. Absently, Mavis stroked the Persian with the beautiful lilac points on her long, creamy fur. A lovely creature who usually distracted Mavis from her problems.
But not today.
Not with this horrendous toe, for God’s sake!
It was the fault of the girl who had applied the color. The girl at the salon. The one who could barely speak English. The girl whom Mavis had deigned to let apply the polish because Marta, that littlesneak, hadn’t been in this afternoon. Even though Mavis had a standing appointment with her.
Marta was good with toes and gave the most delicious calf massages.
Marta understood exactly what Mavis wanted.
Marta would never have let Mavis leave the shop unless the polish was set and hard.
But then Marta hadn’t been in the salon this afternoon, and the watery excuse that she’d felt ill didn’t sit well with Mavis. Not at all.
Well, nothing did.
Because not a thing, not one blessed thing, was going right!
Just take the other day, about a week or so ago. It had been a nightmare. First thing in the morning, the blender had died, so no perfectly balanced smoothie.
To make matters worse, her Mercedes coupe had decided to die, right there in the garage, making her late and forcing her to drive Arch’s pickup, as he, of course, was already driving his Aston Martin.
Unbelievable!
Then there had been the horror of the lunch at the country club. Not only had the kitchen run out of shrimp bisque, but also that revolting Charlene Gillette had shown up with her artsy-fartsy daughter and granddaughters, only one of whom was legitimate, mind you. The little one, with the curly reddish hair and big eyes. She at least had a known father. But she was a brat if there ever was one. Just like that mother of hers. Nicole. The reporter. Mavis couldn’t help but sneer when she thought of “Nikki.” A pushy little tart, that one.
But it was Charlene’s older daughter who had shown up at the club with her kid. A “tween” or whatever you called them these days. The rail-thin granddaughter seemed churlish and uncouth, just like her mother, Lily—that head-in-the-clouds heathen who had dared have a child out of wedlock and raise her as a single mother.
As if she had that right!
Faux avant-garde, that was who Lily Gillette was. A horrid piece of work, just like her mother, Mrs. Hoity-Toity, the widow Gillette, still mourning for “The Judge,” as she’d referred to Big Ron. Mavis scoffed. Ronald Gillette was a womanizer if there ever was one.
Mavis should know.
And she did.
Oh, she surely did.
Her lips curved a bit at the memory of slyly sneaking away with Ron at one particular Christmas party, right under Charlene’s perfect little, surgically sculpted nose. Mavis and Big Ron had nuzzled behind the oversize fir tree with its sparkling lights and glittering garlands. If she tried, Mavis could still smell the scents of evergreen boughs and juniper berries and feel the heat of Big Ron’s lips upon her décolletage. She’d wondered then, as she did now, if the “Big” in his name referred to something other than his stature. She smiled because she knew it was true. That night, right before the dinner bell had been rung, she’d let him hold her close. His moustache had tickled her skin, and she’d grown warm deep inside …
Dear God!
She snapped back to the present.
Dismayed, she caught her image in the vanity mirror. In the glow of the Hollywood lights surrounding the reflective glass, she noticed her face had flushed at the memory and she was breathing a little too hard. With a cotton pad, she dabbed at the little beads of sweat that had sprouted on her forehead, then, slowly, let out her breath. “Give me strength,” she said in a whispered prayer and touched the necklace with its tiny cross that she always wore around her neck and, she knew, close to her heart.
She felt an immediate sense of calm. That’s better, she thought, admiring her reflection.