Too Pretty to Die Read Online Free Page B

over to Delaney Armstrong, who promised to have someone drop the silver Jag off at Miranda’s by morning.
    Personally, I could not have cared less what happened to Miranda’s fancy vehicle. My brain was still trying to wrap around the sight of my former classmate having a nervous breakdown in front of a dozen women who’d be on their cell phones all night, spreading the word about Miranda’s messed-up face and lousy gun handling.
    I assumed that Miranda had at least a few snooty friends among the party guests, and I expected one of them to step forward and assist the broken-down beauty queen. But when no one volunteered a shoulder for Miranda to lean on, I stupidly offered an ear and a Kleenex, reaffirming my title as “Collector of Strays.”
    I couldn’t turn my back on a wounded creature, even the dumbest of the two-legged variety.
    Besides, Miranda could hardly stand upright without assistance, much less drive a car, and her state of mind was too questionable to just stick her in the back of a taxi and send her off alone.
    I figured that once I got her safely to her door, I’d call her mother. Or, rather, have my mother call her mother. Cissy had been pals with Deborah Santos since their own stint at Hockaday, many moons ago. Debbie had been married more times than Erica Kane on All My Children , but she’d always doted on her only daughter. In fact, when I’d exasperated Cissy, she used to sigh and say to me, “Why can’t you be more like Miranda DuBois? That girl respects her mother.”
    Only I wasn’t sure how to get in touch with Miranda’s mummy, since she wasn’t exactly listed in the yellow pages and more often than not was gallivanting around the globe to her villa on the Riviera or her palazzo on Lake Como or her beach house in Costa Rica.
    I wanted to find her, though, if I could, as Miranda needed someone with her who truly cared . . . and who might possibly drop her off at her therapist’s for a new Prozac prescription first thing in the morning. I’ll warrant someone like Miranda had her shrink on speed dial. The bigger the ego, the more fragile the psyche, wasn’t that how it went?
    And Miranda’s psyche had shattered tonight like Tiffany glass, scattering into a million sparkly pieces.
    Following her bungled attempt to put a bullet in Dr. Sonja—or, at least, threaten her with a bullet—she’d dropped the gun, broken down in tears, and sobbed about Dr. Sonja ruining her life and her career.
    When I came up off the floor after the gunshot, I’d seen little beyond Miranda’s tragic figure kneeling in the midst of Delaney’s living room, her head in her hands; the dozen women who’d taken refuge behind furniture emerging to surround her, all the while yammering like squawking geese.
    I’d heard Delaney profusely apologizing to Dr. Sonja, who’d been busy herself, packing up her syringes and potions and lotions and vanishing with her hard-bodied sidekick before the air cleared.
    One of the other guests must’ve removed the .22 during the melee, because it was no longer on the floor near Miranda by the time my reflexes kicked in and I went over to help her stand. I figured someone had snagged it for safekeeping, which wasn’t a bad idea.
    That was the first chance I’d had to get a good look at Miranda’s tear-stained countenance. She was still slightly bruised and puffy around the eyes and mouth, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Her left eye had a chronic tic, and her mouth drooped noticeably on one side.
    No wonder she’d been off the air for a couple weeks. Anchor babes were required to look perfect, even if their male sidekicks had receding hairlines and age spots as big as Australia.
    What exactly had happened to Miranda? I’d wondered. Were the ill effects permanent? Could she ever return to TV?
    And was Dr. Sonja truly to blame?
    If so, why didn’t Miranda just sue her, instead of coming after her with a small caliber weapon in front of witnesses? For Pete’s sake,