Deadly Rich Read Online Free Page B

I’ll see to it.”
    The voice sent an icy needle of recognition down Leigh’s spine: it was unmistakably the voice of the woman whose son had murdered Nita.
    Ms. Hansen returned carrying a dress and jacket ensemble. “Usually I work in very bright colors. This is one of my first pastels.” She laid the dress along a countertop. It was silk, patterned in white, black, and pale lavender swirls. The cut was extremely simple, with a slightly pulled-in waist. “And then you have the jacket, which matches.”
    “Where do you hire your saleswomen?” Oona said.
    For just an instant Ms. Hansen looked baffled.
    “Oona, please,” Tori said. “Let’s concentrate on the dress.”
    “And as a caprice,” Ms. Hansen continued, “the lining is a silk screen of Warhol’s Mao.” She reversed the jacket to show the Warhol. “But naturally that can be changed. Some people don’t like Mao—even as a joke.”
    “Oh, all right,” Oona said. “Give it to me, I’ll try it on.”
    “You can change right over there.” Ms. Hansen pointed to a curtained doorway.
    There were two crashing sounds, as though a display case had shattered.
    “I don’t believe this,” Oona said.
    Leigh turned. A Hispanic-looking young man in jogging clothes had come into the boutique. In his left hand he was carrying a two-foot long radio and a voice was booming out of it:
    Nickel-dimin’ two-bit pipsqueak squirt,
    Bleedin’ Thursday blood on your Tuesday shirt—
    A woman had come in after him—a young black woman in a pale coffee-colored clinging lace dress. She had a strikingly aquiline profile and dark, wavy hair and she looked like a fashion model.
    “Someone had better tell him to turn that racket off,” Oona said.
    Xenia Delancey approached the black woman. They walked over to a display rack. Xenia Delancey suggested a cream-colored blouse. The black woman held it up to her bosom. She studied her reflection in the mirror. After a moment she shook her head and handed the blouse back. Xenia Delancey began looking for another.
    On the other side of the boutique, the Hispanic sauntered over to a costume-jewelry display. He set the boom box down on the counter and boosted the volume. The glass display case added a rattling vibration of its own.
    Spilled a pint of plasma and you still don’t hurt—
    Oona’s eyes had become burning slits. “This is beyond belief. Things are falling apart in this lousy city. Isn’t anyone going to take a stand against that racket?”
    “Oona, sweetie,” Leigh said, “please don’t get excited.”
    Oona drew in a breath, and then she was in motion. She crossed directly to the Hispanic.
    “Will you kindly turn that racket off?” she said.
    He turned. Sweat gleamed on the steep ridges of his cheekbones. His dark eyes returned her gaze unflinchingly. “What?”
    “I said,” Oona shouted, “turn that garbage off!”
    “What?”
    It occurred to Leigh that the Hispanic needed a translation.
    Oona walked to the boom box, snapped it open, and yanked out one of the batteries.
    The music stopped.
    Oona turned and picked up her dress and took the battery with her into the changing room.
    The black woman burst out laughing.
    “Verdict, please.” Tori was holding up a green beaded bolero.
    “Twenty-four hundred.”
    “You mean for the whole dress,” Leigh said.
    “There isn’t a whole dress. This is it.”
    “It seems a little expensive,” Leigh said.
    “I suppose.” As Tori crossed back to the display rack the black woman intercepted her.
    “I love that jacket on you.”
    “Do you really?” Tori said.
    The woman nodded. “It picks up the green of your eyes. But you know, the violet might look even better.” She walked to the rack and pulled out a violet bolero. “ Voilà. Let’s see it on you in the daylight.” She carried the violet bolero over to the door, and Tori followed.
    An alarm went off.
    “Excuse me,” Ms. Hansen called, raising her voice above the jangling bell. “That