A Dollhouse to Die For(21)
“Whatever. It was just as well,” said the tall one. “It would have cost Birch Kunes a fortune to get divorced. Guess he was willing to pay the price. Or maybe not. Maybe he didn’t feel like splitting everything.”
“Shh. Don’t talk like that.” Ruthie took a deep swallow. “Bettina is a receptionist at Birch’s medical practice, you know,” she whispered to me, her gaze a little unfocused.
“More like gold digger is her real job.” The shorter one filled up her glass again. There were red curved marks at the corner of her mouth. These two must have polished off their bottle of pinot noir and now were scraping the bottom of the barrel with Ruthie’s pink zin.
Pearl Necklace chuckled. “She’s had a lot of work done, too.” She made quote signs in the air with her long fingers.
Whatever it was, it was well done. Bettina was a beautiful woman, without the usual fish lips or frightened expression from plastic surgery. She simply looked well cared for. And just sixty seconds ago, these two had been acting like her best friends.
A cloud passed over the sun and I shivered, even though the afternoon was mild.
Like someone walking over my grave.
Chapter Five
Bettina left the park at that moment, tripping over the dog’s leash, her camping chair flopping open. As she struggled to put it back in the bag, she flashed a wide smile at us again. There was a smile on my face, too, as I watched her leave. Even though we hadn’t exchanged a word, I liked her. It was sort of endearing that such a beauty was also a bit of a klutz.
“She’s a very attractive woman,” I murmured.
“Humph.” Pearl Necklace peered down at me. “I suppose Birch Kunes is sitting pretty now, too. Don’t suppose Harriet ever changed her will. She was always hoping he’d come back to her one day, the dope.”
“Maybe if Harriet had cared more about her appearance,” said the blonde, blinking against a stray hair in her eye. “She was always more concerned with those stupid dollhouses of hers.”
After a while, they drifted back over to the main group with their coolers that were no doubt full of pricey pinot grigio and chardonnay.
“Who were those ladies?” I whispered.
Ruthie laughed, a raucous, gusty sound. “Is that what you call ’em? The tall one is Virginia Axelrod and the blonde is Bobbie Zwick.”
“It doesn’t bother you that they drink your wine like that?”
“Oh, hell, I got plenty more where that came from. In a box on my kitchen counter. Old Sourface Ginny would die if she knew she was drinking box wine. Sure you don’t want some?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Everyone shares if someone needs a drink. Anyhoo, I really only come here for Max’s sake.”
She fondly watched the shaggy gray dog amble after the pack. Jasper was having the time of his life, gamboling around, his tongue hanging out of one side of his mouth.
The sun had reappeared, and I leaned back on the soft blanket, drowsy in the meadow-like setting.
“Poor Harriet.” Ruthie filled up her plastic cup. “Wonder when the funeral will be?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess they’re doing the au-topsy now.”
“Although at least she had a will. Sophie Rosenthal never even wrote one. She was Harriet’s best friend, you know.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“Probate only just closed. Son of a biscuit. These things take so long to settle.”