Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Chapter 1 from THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS: Say hello (and goodbye) to fashionista Paisley LaForge



IT’S THREE O’CLOCK in the morning. She’s alone and almost asleep in the voluptuous bed when she hears the rustling sound and feels the gloved hand slide across her cheek and —THWAMMMMP!—clamp tight across her mouth.
A shudder shoots through her like an arrow carved from ice. Every sinew, every membrane, every cell of her imperial body freezes. 
She can’t move. She can’t talk. She can only dread what is happening to the most powerful woman in the world of fashion—the woman her jealous peers, dropping to their knees, have crowned La Fashionista.  
Some ignorant and misinformed lowlife is trying to kill her. 
It’s only been a few hours since her friends from Paris threw the awesome après-ski shindig in her honor—twenty-five Croesus-rich socialites plus the top five international retail-stock moguls, to say nothing of her swarm of magazine people—to present her the gold Aphrodite.
Then the drunken scene with Philo—her kissy-sweet paramour proceeding to make a perfect ass of himself groping the young wife and ex-model thing from Copenhagen. Can anyone blame La Fashionista for storming out—alone and in a huff?        
Returning to the Tower Suite of the elegant hotel, she slams the Aphrodite down on the bar, hurls the chinchilla halfway across the room, splashes brandy into a glass, and takes an enormous swallow. This she follows with five deep breaths before pressing the button on her iPhone.
With Die Valkure blasting, she leans in front of her laptop screen and scans the list of industry peeves and annoyances to unload at the noon staff brunch.  Eagerly, she adds a scornful word or three and highlights a sentence in red for those Neanderthals in legal.              
She tosses down the rest of the brandy and in the mirror catches a final glimpse of the matronly curve of her bust, the skin on her face pulled Botox tight around cat-like eyes and serious lips, the frosted gray curls dangling limply in hopes the Parisian stylist flying in at ten will be on time—and, of course, that gorgeous chain of Tiffany pearls triple-stranded across her throat.
Calm now in her Gucci nightgown, La Fashionista snaps off the light and sinks into the softness of the four-poster with the Louis XIV canopy. She pulls the satin sheet and coverlet up around her shoulders.  Then she turns on her side and faces the row of casement windows, the drapes closed tight against the glistening moonlit slopes of Chamonix.
The eyes flicker, adjusting to the absence of light, seeking to close. When they do, even La Fashionista’s slight smile bears the look of confident power.
And then—THAT DREADFUL GLOVE!
The glove has a sweaty, greasy odor, not the subtle fragrance of the expensive lotions and moisturizers and rare emollients privileged to kiss her body—and, not to be forgotten, those drops of Chanel lingering on her neck and wrists.
But now a second glove replaces the first. She struggles but feels her strength ebbing. The second glove is soaked with a brashly sweet wetness that inflames her nostrils and screams Give up, Lady, for once someone else is in command.
Good Christ, don’t they know La Fashionista is the one and only Paisley LaForge, the voice of Gorjuss, the magazine everybody reads first because it is the Holy Bible of fashion and the editor is God Herself?
Don’t they know she can make or break a new line with a single scathing word from her fertile, chichi vocabulary—and that La Fashionista has come all the way from New York to breathe new life into the dying crop of indolent French designers?
She hears what sounds like the squeak of metal. Or is it a hum? Whispers—yes, there must be more than one.
If only she could talk. If only they could hear her thoughts on the subject, her clever suggestions. But that glove!
You may help yourselves to the pearl thing, she wants them to hear her say—it’s an original.  Sorry for not bringing the rest of the jewels. But if you’d be willing to settle for some fantastic fakes, check the black box on the cabinet. And next to it on the bar is the Aphrodite—take it, please.         
She can arrange other things—this is France, after all. Doesn’t she have the ear of the President after that article on the man’s awesome new wife—her stunning wardrobe?  And she knows the hotel has some terrific job openings—you’ll get to wear spiffy uniforms with dangling gold braid.
La Fashionista can get you into clothes—ooh-la-la, can she ever! How fabulous you’ll look strutting up and down the Avenue des Champs d’Elysees, drawing flattering stares while everyone shouts—look, oh look at them, aren’t they natty, aren’t they sharp, don’t they know how to dress, aren’t they the frosting on the cake, the cat’s meow?
Can’t you please take that nasty glove away—show a little courtesy for La Fashionista and her ideas? I am trying my best to cooperate.
All right, whoever you are, if you want to play hardball yours truly is also known behind her back as the Iron Lady and as such can have your asses ‘renditioned’ (to use the glitzy new word) back to New York where she’s on a first name basis with the Mayor and has friends in the D.A.’s office. 
At the snap of the Iron Lady’s fingers, certain elements of the industry will be privileged to enter your cell in the wee hours to gouge out your eyes, shove a nightstick up your tight, little assholes, and remove your darling little pricks with a switchblade.
One or all of the above, fellas—your choice! Don’t mess with the Iron Lady.
The angry surge of contempt has her going now and she kicks out a leg and moves an arm as she struggles to raise her head from the pillow.
But the black glove moves swiftly from her mouth and with the other glove presses two black thumbs behind her neck while the fingers of both hands spread across her jawbones and begin the process of squeezing. Squeezing tight around her thin neck and those precious pearls. Tighter even. And then—
AAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaack.
The scream is barely out of her mouth. Amid the jangle of pearls she feels the sudden, serious wrench. Much too far—Jesus guys!
She hears the ‘snap’—no, make a note that it is more like the ‘crack’ of a stalk of fresh celery breaking. But it is too late.
 Everything is morphing into the strangest color. Nothing like it in anything La
Fashionista has ever written or seen—nothing at all. Then a blank page.
And now even that is gone.


 ********
 

THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS, the third in the series of Kate Conway thrillers, is now available through Amazon Books in both soft cover and e-book.  And with the action starting with the first sentence on page one, we’ve got another terror-packed thriller to rival THE MOUNTING STORM and THE DEADLY BUDDHA.