French polished murder by Elise Hyatt

Author:Elise Hyatt [Elise Hyatt]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Policier
ISBN: 9780425233467
Published: 2010-08-15T07:00:00+00:00

As I made my way through the crowd, I did notice that the current Mrs. Mahr was indeed attired in a dress that defied description, though I’ll do my best to try. Imagine a dress that starts as a tank top in blue satin that shades to white in horizontal stripes. Right at the crest of her breasts, which were more inconsequential than mine, she had . . . a hoop, sewn into the fabric, so that it stood stiff and proud, well away from her breasts. So far so good, right? I mean, no one has circular boobs, but it could give her a slightly more imposing figure. However . . .

However, she could not let a good thing go. So farther down, just above her waist, there was another hoop just slightly bigger, and so on all the way to her mid-thighs where the dress stopped on a ball-end fringe much like the ones that had been used in lampshades in the seventies.

Since there was a sort of inverted-bucket thing in the same color as the dress and with the same fringe perched on her bleached blond hair, I considered, momentarily, the possibility that she was, in fact, trying to imitate a lampshade, but it seemed so unlikely. Besides, if that were her intention, surely she could at the very least have put a little flashlight inside the hat or something, so we knew what she meant.

The second hypothesis was that she was trying to look like a wedding cake, an impression reinforced by the fact that she was wearing popular—if artificial looking—frosting colors.

What was worse, I thought, as I realized that, yes, I was going to go talk to them, was that this . . . confection . . . had probably cost her as much as my entire wardrobe combined. Had to. There was no way a normal seamstress, no matter how much fabric glue she might have inhaled, would come up with such a design. Heck, even the so-called designer lines available in our stores were not so crazy or ugly. To achieve such a level of awful—just as to achieve the casually elegant—it took massive amounts of money. That dress had probably been purchased right off a runway show, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the show had taken place in Paris or Milan or some other capital of fashion.

“I’m sorry, Michelle,” I said, as I approached with a terribly bright and happy smile on my face. “I didn’t recognize you at first. I must compliment you on your installation.”

The effect was immediate and beyond my wildest dreams. Both of them turned and exclaimed at the same time, “Candyce!” If they had pointed fingers, turned pale or clutched hands to chest, it would have given a good impression of the worst Shakespearean acting possible.

As it was they came close. “What are you doing here?” All-ex asked. “I thought you were supposed to be watching Enoch?”

Michelle looked at me and said, in a slow, puzzled voice, “Installation?”

I smiled brightly first at All-ex.

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