Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Twenty-nine

I emerge from my yellow cocoon to peek into the hotel's full-length mirror. The last of the green gunk flakes off my sweater dress, disappearing before it touches the carpet. Just as Derek promised, my puncture wounds are gone, as though they decided to cross over shortly after Carlita.

The television is set to a local news show, some moms engaged in a lively debate about vaccinations. The hostess, a lovely reporter named Liz, interrupts their argument with a breaking news update: Margaret Bertwinkle, socialite and daughter of entrepreneur Harold Bertwinkle, has been found dead in her Harbor Island apartment. The moms give their condolences to the Bertwinkle family and resume their discussion as ticker tape with the news of the murder scrolls across the bottom of the television screen.

Lanie exits the bathroom, her hair sleek and makeup fully applied. She's wearing a green turtleneck sweater with trouser jeans. Her black Jimmy Choo ankle booties are in her hands, one of them sporting a fresh water spot. She passes the television and freezes when the reporter mentions Margaret's murder.

Her breath catches as Liz shares that police have a suspect and plan to make an arrest later in the day. A glimpse at her cell phone reveals no missed calls or texts. With a sigh, she stuffs the phone into her Fendi and her feet into the booties, removes her keys, and slings the purse over her shoulder, before turning off the television and giving the room a once-over for valuables.

The ride to International Mall is punctuated with blaring horns, curse words, and stop-and-go traffic. After a couple laps around the parking lot, Lanie finally pulls into a spot halfway to Ybor City.

"Should've worn tennis shoes," she mutters as she steps out of the car.

I hide in her Fendi until we are safe inside the mall. Navigating the thick crowd, Lanie heads straight for the Hermes store. She passes racks of scarves with tigers, horses, and various paisley-like prints on them.

"Merry Christmas, Ms. Hayes. Is there anything specific you are purchasing today?" The saleswoman is about the same age as us. She's decked out in a red shift dress and has a Christmas-y scarf wrapped in a rosette around her neck.

Lanie jumps several inches. With her hand over her heart, she says, "You scared me, Brittany! I'm hoping you still have some of the flamingo scarves you had over the summer. I have a friend who's crazy about them and this might be the perfect gift for her."

Which friend of hers is worth a four-hundred-dollar Christmas gift? With Margaret and me out of the picture, that list is virtually non-existent. I shake my head at her idiocy. What the hell is she up to?

"I helped your fiancé purchase one for you last summer. So you must have really liked it? He came up with such a beautiful color scheme. Artistic, loving, and handsome, what a catch."

Lanie frowns. "I loved it, but we broke up shortly after he gave it to me. I gave it back to him."

"Ah." Brittany starts walking toward the back of the store. "So, is the friend you're buying for really you?"

"Oh, no." She follows Brittany. "She's a friend from college, who really needs a pick-me-up. I thought this would be the perfect gift for her."

Lanie combs through the scarves, rejecting each as she lifts it from the rack, but eyeing one that is closest to the robin's egg backdrop of her original scarf. This one is more of a turquoise.

As she lifts the turquoise scarf from the rack, Brittany says, "She must have really liked that scarf of yours."

Lanie tenses then returns the scarf to the rack. "She actually never saw the scarf, but you're probably right. It's too similar to mine. Perhaps one of the tiger designs will be just as nice."