Read Slay Belles for Free Online Page B

“Don’t be upset about Monty. This thing will blow over.”
    “And then what?”
    “I’m doing my best,” he said, already nibbling his way down my ribs one by one. “It takes a while for the tiger to— What did you say before? To change his stripes?”
    “Michael . . .”
    “Hmm . . . ?”
    His mouth felt better and better, and I sighed. “Never mind.”
    Later, we slept tangled up in each other’s limbs, breathing in sync and perhaps dreaming together, too. Only once, when my subconscious mind began to churn with images of Popo’s death, did Michael nudge me awake.
    “You’re having a nightmare,” he murmured, half-asleep himself.
    I held him tighter and tried to forget about crime.
    In the morning, he dressed and went out to buy a newspaper while I showered. In my pajamas and with wet hair, I went downstairs and found coffee made and Michael reading the paper at the kitchen table. He read aloud while I puttered with oatmeal at the stove. Spike trundled his little cart around the kitchen, his front paws propelling him while his hindquarters healed from his accident. When the bell chimed in the front hall, Michael and I exchanged a look.
    “Expecting company?” he asked.
    “Not at this hour.”
    “Want me to get scarce?”
    I ruffled his hair. “No need.”
    Spike dragged his cart to the entry hall. When I hauled open the front door, I found a former
Penthouse
Pet on the porch.
    Cindie Rae Smith glared at the sagging doorjamb and the warped porch floor. “God, does this museum even have indoor plumbing?”
    “Hello, Cindie Rae,” I said. “Is it cookie season already?”
    Cindie Rae’s morning attire did not resemble a Girl Scout uniform. She wore a hilarious attempt at a business suit—pinstripes with a white blouse that actually bow-tied under her chin. But the jacket barely buttoned around her wasp waist, and her breasts threatened to explode from their prison any moment. The pants were tighter than the skin of a tomato, and she tottered precariously on very high heels. She had managed to stuff the hugeness of her blond hair into a Monica Lewinsky beret. No amount of Botox or plastic surgery on her face could have hidden the fact that she hadn’t slept much since I’d seen her the night before.
    “I need to talk to you,” she said.
    “I can guess what this is about, Cindie Rae, and I don’t think the police would be pleased to hear we tried to get our stories straight.”
    “I don’t care what your story is,” she snapped. “I need your help.”
    She pushed past me into the house. “Boy, that’s an ugly dog. Do I smell coffee?”
    She headed for the kitchen, hesitating only when she arrived in the butler’s pantry and couldn’t figure out which door to choose. I led the way into the kitchen. Spike followed Cindie Rae, ready to bite her if she made a wrong move.
    Michael lowered the newspaper and looked at Cindie Rae over the tops of his reading glasses.
    She stopped dead at the sight of him, too. “Oh, wow.”
    “Morning.”
    “You must be . . .” She simpered, awaiting a formal introduction.
    Briskly, I said, “Cindie Rae, this is Michael Abruzzo. Cindie Rae Smith.”
    Michael appeared not to notice the jiggle in her blouse or the camel toe in her pants. He picked up the newspaper and went back to reading. I suspected he was playing it safe.
    I could almost see the steam rising from Cindie Rae’s overtaxed brain as she desperately tried to figure the best way to engage Michael in a conversation that dealt with her area of expertise. Before she reached a decision, I poured her a cup of hot coffee and pushed it into her hands. “Here you go. Sit down.”
    “Thanks.” She took a tentative sip and eased her bottom into the chair opposite Michael’s. She leaned sideways to peer around his newspaper. “I, uh, hope I’m not interrupting.”
    “What’s on your mind, Cindie Rae?” I knocked my knuckles on the table to get her attention. “You said you needed my