trouble I'm going to here, maybe a little fooling around in a futon might not be all that bad. I'll cover for you and we can split that fifty thou. Just a thought."
"Yeah, well here's a thought for you. No! Now put those flowers in my hair."
Jan wears her hair in a chin-length bob cut shorter in the back, so I braided in the flowers down one side. We added an extra scarf or two over that bikini for the cocktail party.
She whirled on her three-inch espadrilles and vamped. "Whaddya think?"
"Drop-dead gorgeous."
The way our lives had been going for the past few months—okay, years—I should probably be a little more cautious when using the term, dead, but she sure looked capable of causing an up-tick in defibrillator sales.
CHAPTER FIVE
With Jan off to her benefactor's cocktail party, I celebrated our opulent digs by opening some icy champagne. Taking the bottle with me, I swanned (as best as a short, somewhat chunky gal can swan) towards an oversized bathtub I'd spiked with lavender bath crystals and had started filling while I was weaving flowers into Jan's hair. Now that I had the place to myself, I lit a couple of candles, turned off the lights, slid into piping hot water, and reveled in the scent and caress of a real bath after so many months of showering on Raymond Johnson.
I'd about decided I'd skip the luau altogether and stay submerged in the tub when I heard our room door open and slam shut. Cursing myself for not hanging out the Favor de no molestar sign before heading for my bath, I sloshed out of the water and grabbed a big fluffy towel. I was making for the bathroom door lock when the door flew open, almost knocking me on my butt. My towel slithered to the floor as I grabbed the only weapon within reach and held it over my head, prepared to do battle.
Ice-cold, two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle champagne cascaded over my head and into my eyes. Through bubbles I saw a face whiter than my lost towel, and checked my swing just in time. "Jan! What on earth?"
She sank to the floor, settling into a puddle of water, bubble bath, champagne, and flowers that fluttered down from her hair. I flipped on the light, grabbed my towel, wrapped it around me, and sat on the side of the tub. Jan slumped over, her face hidden in her hands, and began to wail. I realized there was still a little bubbly left in the bottle and drained it before saying, "This better be good, Chica. You just screwed up a primo bubble bath."
"Is there more of that?" She pointed to the bottle.
"Yep, but unless you get up off that floor and tell me what's wrong, you ain't gettin' any."
She struggled to her feet, dogged me into the living room and hiccupped little sobs while waiting for me to uncork the second bottle. I filled a flute, she melted into a chair, downed the whole glass in one gulp, and stuck it out for a refill.
I moved the bottle behind me. "No way. Not yet, my friend. Talk!"
The woman who, minutes before left the room looking like a million—or should I say at least fifty-thousand—bucks, now sat in disarray, mascara running down her face a là Alice Cooper, one lone bedraggled flower dipping over a bleary blue eye, and the only reason she wasn't white as a ghost was the blush on her cheeks, some of which was tear-and-eye-makeup smudged. And, dang it, she still looked good. Life is not fair.
She sighed deeply. "You pour, I talk. And Hetta, I'd really, really appreciate it if you put on some clothes."
While she downed another flute and reached for the bottle, I went back to the bathroom and donned a luxuriously soft hotel robe. The moment I returned, she whimpered, "Dead."
"You drank the whole damned bottle?"
"Naw, there's a tad left. Ishi's dead."
"So, I guess that means the fifty grand is out?"
"Not funny, Hetta."
"Did you kill him?"
"Nah."
"Are you sure?"
"Am I sure he's dead, or that I didn't do it?"
"Either. Both."
"When I got to his suite, the door was open a smidge. I heard music, but no voices, so I peeked
"Yeah, well here's a thought for you. No! Now put those flowers in my hair."
Jan wears her hair in a chin-length bob cut shorter in the back, so I braided in the flowers down one side. We added an extra scarf or two over that bikini for the cocktail party.
She whirled on her three-inch espadrilles and vamped. "Whaddya think?"
"Drop-dead gorgeous."
The way our lives had been going for the past few months—okay, years—I should probably be a little more cautious when using the term, dead, but she sure looked capable of causing an up-tick in defibrillator sales.
CHAPTER FIVE
With Jan off to her benefactor's cocktail party, I celebrated our opulent digs by opening some icy champagne. Taking the bottle with me, I swanned (as best as a short, somewhat chunky gal can swan) towards an oversized bathtub I'd spiked with lavender bath crystals and had started filling while I was weaving flowers into Jan's hair. Now that I had the place to myself, I lit a couple of candles, turned off the lights, slid into piping hot water, and reveled in the scent and caress of a real bath after so many months of showering on Raymond Johnson.
I'd about decided I'd skip the luau altogether and stay submerged in the tub when I heard our room door open and slam shut. Cursing myself for not hanging out the Favor de no molestar sign before heading for my bath, I sloshed out of the water and grabbed a big fluffy towel. I was making for the bathroom door lock when the door flew open, almost knocking me on my butt. My towel slithered to the floor as I grabbed the only weapon within reach and held it over my head, prepared to do battle.
Ice-cold, two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle champagne cascaded over my head and into my eyes. Through bubbles I saw a face whiter than my lost towel, and checked my swing just in time. "Jan! What on earth?"
She sank to the floor, settling into a puddle of water, bubble bath, champagne, and flowers that fluttered down from her hair. I flipped on the light, grabbed my towel, wrapped it around me, and sat on the side of the tub. Jan slumped over, her face hidden in her hands, and began to wail. I realized there was still a little bubbly left in the bottle and drained it before saying, "This better be good, Chica. You just screwed up a primo bubble bath."
"Is there more of that?" She pointed to the bottle.
"Yep, but unless you get up off that floor and tell me what's wrong, you ain't gettin' any."
She struggled to her feet, dogged me into the living room and hiccupped little sobs while waiting for me to uncork the second bottle. I filled a flute, she melted into a chair, downed the whole glass in one gulp, and stuck it out for a refill.
I moved the bottle behind me. "No way. Not yet, my friend. Talk!"
The woman who, minutes before left the room looking like a million—or should I say at least fifty-thousand—bucks, now sat in disarray, mascara running down her face a là Alice Cooper, one lone bedraggled flower dipping over a bleary blue eye, and the only reason she wasn't white as a ghost was the blush on her cheeks, some of which was tear-and-eye-makeup smudged. And, dang it, she still looked good. Life is not fair.
She sighed deeply. "You pour, I talk. And Hetta, I'd really, really appreciate it if you put on some clothes."
While she downed another flute and reached for the bottle, I went back to the bathroom and donned a luxuriously soft hotel robe. The moment I returned, she whimpered, "Dead."
"You drank the whole damned bottle?"
"Naw, there's a tad left. Ishi's dead."
"So, I guess that means the fifty grand is out?"
"Not funny, Hetta."
"Did you kill him?"
"Nah."
"Are you sure?"
"Am I sure he's dead, or that I didn't do it?"
"Either. Both."
"When I got to his suite, the door was open a smidge. I heard music, but no voices, so I peeked
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