The Body in the News: Samantha Newman Romantic Mystery #3 by Gay Yellen

Author:Gay Yellen [Yellen, Gay]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gydr Press
Published: 2023-09-26T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Hot Pink

From the moment I opened my eyes in the morning, I deeply regretted the decision to play along with Tweedy. My shoulder pain had returned, thanks to the makeover session with Jojo. The last thing I wanted to do was squeeze into that hot pink straitjacket again.

I shuffled into the kitchen to fuel up and reconsider my options. One: quit my job without having a backup plan. Or two: hang on until they fire me. Both choices resulted in the same thing: unemployment, again.

I slumped to the bedroom, opened the closet, and gazed longingly at what remained of my old business wardrobe. I’d saved my pennies to buy well-tailored suits for my executive career. I’d even managed to rescue a few from the flood at Gertie’s house.

My favorite blue one had perished pre-flood—after the ill-advised pity party—but three suits survived. I pulled out the jade green one, held it up in front of me, and checked the mirror. It still brought out the green in my eyes, but the once-trendy cut now looked stodgy. Which left a gray pantsuit, and a brown one. In the mirror, they offered all the pizzazz of a nun’s tunic. Tweedy-repellent, for sure.

With a sigh, I tugged the hot pink number down over the push-up bra thingy and hot-rollered my hair into the glamour curls Jojo suggested. His highlights played in the light as planned. So did my bake-’n-fresh twins, all bouncy and pert atop the plummeting neckline. I nearly broke my ankle putting on the stilettos. Would’ve served me right if I had.

I ventured one last check in the mirror. It would take a sizeable amount of mental maneuvering for me to dwell inside the image that stared back. But I needed to play the game long enough to find another job. Or maybe Lloyd’s killer would murder me first, though I hoped I wouldn’t die looking like this.

On my way down to the garage, the elevator stopped on eleven. Pansy Gump and her husband, Hubert got on. When not lounging in her flowing caftans, Pansy often dressed as if she were heading to a board meeting for a very old and stuffy women’s club. Today she was in a navy sheath with a matching purse and her ever-present strand of pearls.

I said good morning.

Her powdered, pie-crust face screwed into a frown as she looked me up and down and harrumphed. “Is that get-up supposed to be an improvement?”

“Not really. It’s the uniform the new station owners prefer.”

“Good heavens.” She eyed me again. “I certainly hope they won’t force that wonderful Brad Hudson to do the same.”

An image of Brad, stuffed into the dress I had on popped into my brain. I laughed out loud.

Pansy marched out as soon as the elevator opened on their garage level. Hubert trailed behind, giving me a wink and a thumbs-up.

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