1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun Read Free Page B

contact with
Naomi. He had aged considerably since losing the company and
had lost the dapper patina that had attracted beautiful women for
most of his sixty-plus years. His hair needed a trim, his suit a good
pressing. A series of small stains marred his custom-made shirt
and striped silk tie, as though he had dribbled his morning coffee
and either hadn't noticed or no longer cared.
    Now that Marlys had given him the boot, I suspected he regretted walking out on Naomi. The statuesque Naomi, with her wellbred patrician features, cultured tones, Swiss boarding school education, and trademark silver chignon, exuded class. Without the
aid of any plastic surgeon, she looked years younger than her actual age of fifty-nine. Naomi was a true silk purse. Next to her, the
twenty-five years younger Marlys, for all her designer duds and
hours spent at the most chic Manhattan spas, came across as a
sows ear.
    The rest of us certainly regretted the day Hugo hired Marlys,
especially Erica Milano. Erica was Marlys's personal slave, although technically her title was assistant fashion editor.
    "I have everything covered," Erica said, her voice little more
than a whisper directed at the shocking pink folder on the table in
front of her. One of her hands fidgeted with a corner of the folder.
The thumb and index finger of her other hand picked at the rubber end of a pencil stub.
    Erica put in sixteen-hour days, doing all of Marlys's work while
Marlys took three-hour, four-Cosmopolitan lunches and all the
credit. Unfortunately, Erica was a doormat, and Marlys, who
owned a closet full of Christian Louboutin boots, took extreme
pleasure in tramping their trademark red soles all over Erica. Marlys had even bullied her milquetoast assistant into running
personal errands for her during her lunch hour.

    Naomi forced a smile. "Of course you do, Erica. You always do.
And we appreciate your dedication to your job. I have to wonder
why we even bother to pay Marlys a salary." Again, she leveled an
icy green glare at Hugo.
    Around the table, the others traded surreptitious glances. Erica
was fashion editor in all but name, Marlys in name only. Too bad
Erica lacked the backbone-and the looks-to steal the job away
from her bitch of a boss. Poor Erica. As long as she carried around
an extra thirty pounds and refused to apply to her own body the
same design sense and style she used in the pages of American
Woman, she'd stay hidden away in a Trimedia cubicle.
    The magazine couldn't risk the ridicule of the press. A fashion
editor had to look the part. And if nothing else, Marlys looked the
part.
    One by one, each of us gave our status reports for the issues in
progress, pinning copies of layouts and photos up on the corkcovered wall behind me. The Holy Trinity got a bird's-eye view. We
Bottom Feeders needed to twist in our seats. When we had covered
each department, we moved on to planning the July issue.
    "I'd like to do a Lazy Days of Summer theme," said Naomi, "focusing on a patriotic color scheme."
    Her half-Chinese, half-Irish assistant Kim O'Hara, pushed a
lock of straight auburn hair behind her ear and rose to pin some
swatches and photos to the wall in the space allocated for the next
issue.
    "Any ideas?" asked Naomi.

    "Denim and bandanas are making a comeback," said Jeanie
Sims, our decorating editor. She rifled through one of the file folders in front of her and extracted several catalogue sheets which she
handed Kim to add to the wall.
    "Furniture manufacturers are showing denim upholstered
sofas and chairs. We could accent with red and white bandana
throw pillows?" She glanced my way.
    "Envelope pillows," I suggested, "along with a few patchwork
pillows using both denim and bandanas."
    "Good," said Naomi. "What else?"
    I thought for a moment. "We could bring the theme outdoors
onto a patio for placemats, napkins, a tray. Maybe a denim hostess
apron?"
    "Denim hostess apron?"
    Everyone turned as Marlys