DROP- DEAD BLONDE
NANCY MARTIN DENISE SWANSON
ELAINE VIETS VICTORIA LAURIE
A SIGNET BOOK SIGNET Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. First Printing, February 2005 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Copyright � Penguin Group (USA) Inc. ``Slay Belles'' copyright � Nancy Martin, 2005 ``Killer Blonde'' copyright � Elaine Viets, 2005 ``Dead Blondes Tell No Tales'' copyright � Denise Swanson Stybr, 2005 ``Blind Sighted'' copyright � Victoria Lane, 2005 All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK--MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publi- cation may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copy- right owner and the above publisher of this book. PUBLISHER'S NOTE These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resem- blance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as ``unsold and destroyed'' to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this ``stripped book.'' The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. CONTENTS
SLAY BELLES
Nancy Martin
1
KILLER BLONDE
Elaine Viets
00
DEAD BLONDES TELL NO LIES
Denise Swanson
000
BLIND SIGHTED
Victoria Laurie
000
v SLAY BELLES A BLACKBIRD SISTERS MYSTERY
NANCY MARTIN Chapter 1
In the hope of starting a Christmas tradition that didn't end with throwing food at a sibling, I took my niece Lucy to visit Santa at Haymaker's department store. Afterward, we snagged the best table in the Mrs. Claus Tearoom on the mezzanine, where Lucy licked the sprinkles off half a dozen cookies and told me family secrets while we waited for her mother.
``Mummy says she has too much juice in her caboose right now, Aunt Nora, and she can't face Christmas,'' Lucy volunteered. ``So she's getting a massage every afternoon from Jason and yelling about electrolysis and her chin. What's electrolysis?''
After I told her, I asked, ``What kind of massage does Jason give, exactly, Luce?''
My niece was saved from ratting out her mother when Libby arrived. ``Hello, darlings!''
My sister swept up like a zaftig Italian film star with her whoosh of auburn hair and a red sweater so revealing that three of Santa's teenage elves nearly suffered whiplash as she sailed by. She carried enough shopping bags to cripple a Nazareth donkey, and dropped the loot on an empty chair with triumph. ``What a night!''
``Mummy,'' Lucy said with a Machiavellian gleam in her eyes, ``Santa didn't ask if I was good this year.''
I said, ``We were very relieved. Waiting in line was begin- ning to feel like a perp walk.''
``What about you?'' Libby skewered me with a look as she sat down. ``Have you been naughty or nice lately?''
``Santa didn't ask me.''
``You hardly look angelic,'' Libby observed. ``In fact, you
3 4 Nancy Martin have a distinctly postcoital glow. Have you been seeing the gangster again?''
``He isn't--''
``Because I just bumped into Alan Rutledge at the top of the escalator. And he's looking adorable these days.''
``Does owning a department store make a man adorable?''
�
``It helps.'' Libby fluffed her hair and adjusted her decol- letage. ``He isn't bad to look at, really. Rather like a teddy bear--cute ears and that little tummy, of course. And he always smells divine.''
My sister had been widowed twice and still enjoyed men of all shapes, sizes, and proclivities. With her uncanny radar for available partners, I firmly believed she could find an eligible man if she were cast adrift in the Amazon River. I said, ``You got close enough to smell him?''
``It was a friendly holiday greeting, that's all.'' She took out her compact and checked her lipstick for damage. ``I'm not interested in him in the least, despite all his money. I need someone with more fire. But you've been a widow for two years now, and Alan might be exactly the person to bring you to your senses.''
``Too late,'' I said.
She forgot about her lipstick. ``Oh, dear heaven, you haven't eloped, have you?''
``No. Alan's engaged.''
``How disappointing! Not to Bitty Markham, I hope. Ever since her poor Stanley's little financial mixup, she's been looking for another meal ticket.''
``Poor Stanley bilked his best friends, Libby, and it's for- mally called investment fraud, which is why he's in jail. No, Alan is engaged to Cindie Rae Smith.''
``You're kidding!'' My sister dropped her compact and stared at me with round eyes. ``Cindie Rae? The Penthouse girl with the X-rated Web site?''
Lucy looked up from her cookies. ``Mummy, what's a Penthouse girl?''
``A woman who lives in an apartment, darling.'' While her daughter frowned, Libby said to me, ``That gold digger finally hit her jackpot, huh?''
``I guess her Web site isn't as lucrative as she hoped.''
``Taking requests from perverts on a live camera?'' Libby SLAY BELLES 5 cried. ``How can that not make scads of money? She'll per- form anything with that hilarious fluorescent dildo she's got for sale.''
``Mummy, what's--''
``An extinct bird, sweetheart. Would you like some hot chocolate? With marshmallows?''
While Lucy scrambled off to order a diversionary drink, I sat back in my chair to better gauge the seriousness of my sister's pre-Christmas hysteria. Although the wills of her late husbands left Libby financially capable of rearing her children, she didn't have enough extra cash for a Christ- mas blowout. And the flash in her eye looked more manic than simple holiday high spirits. I wondered what crisis might be brewing.
But I said, ``You seem to have a thorough knowledge of Cindie Rae's Web site, Libby.''
``I feel it's important to keep my computer skills up-to- date. Haven't you peeked? Honestly, Nora, she's utterly
icky. No romance, no mystery. It's just plumbing, and not very nice plumbing at that. What would Alan's parents say if they were still alive?''
``Maybe they'd say it's about time Alan did something with his life besides go to matinees.''
Libby sat up straighter, aquiver with indignation. ``You mean a job? Why should a man with his resources have to work for a living?''
``Because sloth is a deadly sin that kills the soul?''
``Oh, you're just sorry that we lost our own fortune, aren't you?'' She patted my hand. ``It's natural to grieve. Admit it, Nora, you thoroughly enjoyed the life of leisure before Mama and Daddy left. The hardest work you ever did was decorating charity balls.''
Ever since our parents absconded from Philadelphia to sail off for South America with our trust funds tucked in their matching Louis Vuitton luggage, my sisters and I had struggled to make ends meet. I'd found employment as the lowly assistant to a newspaper society columnist, while our younger sister, Emma, tried to make a career out of train- ing show jumpers for the Grand Prix circuit. Libby, how- ever, had bounced from one scam to another in the pursuit of a line of work that could simultaneously support five kids and unleash her spiritual and sensual potential. Most 6 Nancy Martin of the time, I just hoped she wasn't going to get herself arrested by the vice squad.
With a smile, I said, ``A job isn't the worst thing that's happened to me.''
``Well, Alan should be allowed to enjoy his money and leisure time while he's got them. You should have moved in on him, Nora. If you keep seeing the Mafia prince, you'll end up like Bitty Markham--languishing at home with no sex life while your man sits in jail.''
``Libby, Michael is not involved in his father's business.''
``That's what they want you to think, isn't it? Nora,'' she said with a perfectly straight face, ``it's possible for a vulnerable woman to be blinded by great sex. Personally, I've always been able to prioritize even in the arms of an excitingly primitive lover, but you're venturing into a new phase of your life that could be very--''
Lucy saved me from the same lecture that had been driv- ing me crazy for months. She returned to the table with her lower lip pouting. ``They aren't making any more hot chocolate, Mummy. They say the store closes in ten minutes.''
My sister reacted as if she'd been jabbed with a cattle prod. ``Oh, heavens, and I haven't found anything to wear to this weekend's reawakening!'' She jumped to her feet and grabbed Lucy's velvet coat. ``I've got to find the plus- size department immediately. Why do these stores always hide the large sizes? Do they think size sixteen is contagious?''
While Libby gathered up her shopping bags, I helped Lucy fasten the toggles on her coat. `` 'Bye, Luce. Thanks for coming with me.''
`` 'Bye, Aunt Nora!'' She gave me a sprinkle-encrusted kiss. ``You're coming to my school play, right? On Friday. I play the Third Pickpocket.''
``Typecasting,'' said Libby. ``I'm in charge of the PTA refreshment table. We're doing Christmas cookies and raf- fling off a day-spa treatment with the delicious new man at Jason's.''
``I'll be there,'' I promised.
Holding hands, Libby and Lucy set off through the crowd like mother and daughter killer whales cleaving the rough waters of the North Atlantic. SLAY BELLES 7
``Who the heck is Jason?'' I asked their departing figures. ``And what on earth is a reawakening?''
I pulled myself together with the firm admonishment that I didn't want to know.
Putting my loopy sister out of my mind for the time being, I gathered up my handbag and stepped around San- ta's workshop--still teeming with the last few howling chil- dren and camcorder-carrying parents of the night. The frazzled elves hurried their final customers out, and I was willing to bet that Santa would sell his soul for a boiler- maker. Only the animated reindeer looked tireless as they blinked and nodded in their white plastic wonderland.
With Bing Crosby's croon fading behind me, I headed on my way, passing first into Haymaker's luxury bedding department. Immediately, a display bed blocked my path, and I slowed my pace to admire it. Heaped with red satin cushions, the sensuously plush mattress was covered with a polar bear faux fur and draped with a gauzy white curtain-- a perfect spot for Mrs. Claus to await Santa's return from his rounds.
But standing beside the bed was no long-neglected wife hoping to make a little Christmas merriment with her over- worked husband.
``Alan?''
Alan Rutledge lingered at the marble mezzanine railing in exactly the same spot his father had stood at closing time every evening, and his grandfather, too. The diminutive owner of Haymaker's smiled down upon his domain like a kid who couldn't tear himself away from the final innings of a baseball game. He obviously didn't see hundreds of crabby customers slapping down their credit cards one more time before rushing off into the night. A much more serene fantasy transfixed him.
I almost hated to disturb his pleasure, but I touched his arm and tried again. ``Alan?''
He shook himself as if from a trance and turned to me with a sweet-natured smile. The corona of his strawberry- blond hair glowed like a halo behind his receding hairline and caused his round ears to stand out from the sides of his head exactly like a teddy bear's.
``Nora Blackbird!'' he said. ``How nice to see you.''
I bent down so he could give me a kiss on the cheek and 8 Nancy Martin noticed that Alan did indeed smell divine. I wondered if he hadn't been spritzed as he wandered through the men's cologne department. He often ambled daydreamily around Haymaker's as if lost in a paradise. Vigilant store employ- ees sometimes managed to spiff him up as he floated by. Tonight he wore a perfectly tailored suit that screamed Bri- oni and disguised his rotund shape. Handsome Italian shoes must have been slipped on his feet by an alert clerk when he wasn't looking.
``Happy holidays, Alan.''
``Don't you look fetching.'' He held my hand and gave me an appreciative once-over. ``The working life must agree with you.''
``Why, thank you, Alan. I understand congratulations are in order? I hear you're getting married.''
For a man of thirty-odd years, he could still blush like a teenager. ``Yes, I am. Have you met Cindie Rae? She's a lovely girl.''
``She's beautiful.'' Floundering for something genteel to say about a woman who had exposed every portion of her body--and a few portions of its interior, also--to anyone willing to plunk down a few dollars to buy a magazine or sign on to her Web site, I said ineptly, ``I hope you'll be very happy together.''
``We're very well suited,'' Alan said. ``She's so full of energy.''
Well, energy was one euphemism, I supposed. I noticed he carried his own coat as well as a voluptuous fur over his arm. ``Are you on your way out this evening?''
``Yes, Cindie Rae and I are going to the theater tonight.''
I checked my watch. ``Oh, dear, you've missed the curtain!''
The news didn't spoil his amiable mood. ``I suppose we have.'' He gave a little shrug. ``We'll catch the second act.''
``How disappointing!''
``Not really.'' With a shy smile, he admitted, ``We saw the show last night, and the night before, too.''
``My goodness. Cindie Rae must share your enthusiasm for theater.''
``Well, I hope she'll learn to enjoy it as much as I do.'' Alan's face glowed with a rhapsodic bliss. ``There's nothing like a great play. I'm lucky she puts up with my obsession.'' SLAY BELLES 9
A more cynical man might think his future wife ``put up with him'' because he was worth millions and had access to the world's most luxurious goods at wholesale prices.
� But Alan seemed flattered to have a fiancee who made him miss the overture.
He focused on me again. ``Are you doing some Christmas shopping tonight, Nora?''
``I'm going to a party shortly, but first I must pick up a package for a friend. From Popo Prentiss.''
Alan's sweet smile faltered only for an instant. ``Popo never stops working, does she?''
``She must be a great asset to the store.''
<
br /> ``Oh, yes.''
With a nearly invisible frown, Alan considered his pre- mier personal shopper--the sales associate who pampered high-end customers into spending astronomical amounts of money in Haymaker's store. Everyone from blue-blooded heiresses and the trophy wives of the nouveau riche, to time-strapped executives or discerning consumers of high- priced goods--they all used Popo. She dashed around the store to personally select merchandise that best suited her demanding clients. With her innate sense of style and abil- ity to predict trends, Popo helped even the most hopeless cases build fashionable wardrobes and enviable lifestyles. Many former fashion failures could attribute their best dressed status to Popo's skill and energy.
Elaine Viets & Victoria Laurie, Nancy Martin, Denise Swanson - Drop-Dead Blonde (v5.0) (pdf) Page 1
