He bent her back and, with a cracking sound, she felt her spine surrender. She was on the floor, pushing up with one arm, trying to reach the bench, when a blade danced down in front of her eyes, winking right, left, up, and down.
She screamed and it was like a cartoon because she didn’t hear the scream, she saw it—a red scream, liquid and hot and flying in twenty directions at once. The bubbling scream flowed back into her throat, choking off her air.
And the blade’s bloody kiss went on. And on.
“THIS IS INSANE,” Leigh said. “It can’t take her twenty minutes to change into a simple dress.”
“Take it easy,” Tori said. “Oona’s insecure, she’s a perfectionist.”
“Not on my time she isn’t.”
Leigh crossed the boutique to the little doorway that led to the changing rooms. She stepped past the curtain, and her glance took in a corridor with an emergency exit at the end and three doors on each side. On the right two stood half ajar.
She moved past them and stopped at the third door.
“Oona? Are you in there?” She rapped on the door. No answer. She leaned her ear against it and felt a sort of coiled stillness radiating through the wood panel.
Oh my God, she thought, if Oona has passed out in the dressing room …
Leigh tried the doorknob. It turned. She gave a push inward. The room was empty.
She went to the door directly opposite. She knocked. “Oona?”
No answer. She tried the handle. The door swung inward. The room was empty.
She went to the next door and rapped sharply. “Oona—are you in there?”
She felt the first stirrings of concern. The doorknob turned and she pushed the door open. A flash of green whooshed up in front of her face.
She recoiled.
A dress left hanging on a hook was trembling in the air current from the open door. She saw it was green linen—not the dress Oona had been trying on.
A green linen belt had been thrown across the seat of a chair, and a woman was leaning toward it.
“Excuse me,” Leigh said, and when the woman refused to acknowledge her, she realized she had apologized to her own reflection.
She went to the last door.
The sounds of voices and bells floated in from the main floor—luxuriously muted as if they’d had to pass through layers of lamb’s wool and silk.
“Oona!” With one rap she gripped the handle and pushed.
She stood staring at a trash basket with a botany print wrapped around it, filled with sheets of pink tissue paper. Resting in a nested indentation on the tissue were three pins with fat heads.
Damn Oona, she thought. This can’t be—there’s no way out of here except the fire exit or through the boutique—
She stepped back into the corridor. Her eye went again to the first changing room with its half-open door. She realized now that she hadn’t actually looked in that room or in the one next to it—she had assumed that with their doors ajar they had to be empty.
She went to the nearest half-open door. “Oona?”
“GET AN AMBULANCE.”
Ms. Hansen’s eyes swung up and around as though she’d been slapped. “I beg your pardon?”
Leigh seized the telephone from the counter and thrust the receiver at Ms. Hansen. She felt her voice grow teeth. “Get an ambulance this minute, or I will sue the ass off this store.”
Buy Deadly Rich Now!
About the Author
Edward Stewart (1938–1996) grew up in New York City and Cuba. He was educated at Phillips Exeter Academy and at Harvard, where he edited the famed Lampoon humor magazine. He studied music in Paris with Nadia Boulanger, and worked as a composer and arranger before launching his career as a writer. His first novel, Orpheus on Top, was published in 1966. He wrote thirteen more novels, including the bestselling Vince Cardozo thrillers Privileged Lives, Jury Double, Mortal Grace, and Deadly Rich.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1988 by Edward Stewart
Cover design by Kathleen Lynch
978-1-4804-7073-6
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
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