The Undead Next Door, - Kerrelyn Sparks
CHAPTER 1
Heather Lynn Westfield was in hog heaven. Who would have believed that a famous fashion designer from Paris would open a fancy store smack dab in the middle of Texas Hill Country?
Whatever Jean-Luc Echarpe had been drinking when he'd made that decision, it had to be strong enough to knock your socks off. In his case, two-hundred-dollar silk socks embroidered with his famous fleur-de-lis logo.
Heather wanted to buy some kind of souvenir to commemorate the grand opening of Le Chique Echarpe, but the socks were the cheapest thing she could find. Hmm, should she buy a pair of socks she didn't need or make next month's payment on her Chevy four by four? With a snort, she tossed the socks back onto the glass shelf.
A brilliant alternative popped into her head. She'd grab one of the free hors d'oeuvres, stuff it in a plastic bag, label it Echarpe's Grand Opening, and hoard it in the freezer for all eternity.
"Heather, why are you looking at men's socks?" Sasha's baffled look shifted into a sly grin. "Oh, I know. You're buying something for a new lover."
Heather laughed as she nabbed a crab cake from a passing waiter. "I wish." She'd never had a lover. Even her ex-husband didn't qualify for that. She wrapped the crab cake in a paper napkin, then slipped it into her small black purse.
Female customers strutted about, wearing gowns that cost enough to rebuild New Orleans, their stilettos clicking on the gray marble floor. Heather hoped they couldn't tell that her black cocktail dress was homemade.
Glass counters displayed purses and scarves, designed by Echarpe. An elegant staircase curved up to the second floor. A portion of the second floor was lined with reflective glass. One-way mirrors, Heather figured. As much as this merchandise cost, there was probably an army of security guards up there watching the customers like hawks.
The walls on the ground floor were painted a soft gray and boasted a series of black-and-white photos. She wandered over for a closer look. Wow, Princess Di wearing an Echarpe gown.
Marilyn Monroe in an Echarpe dress. Cary Grant in an Echarpe tuxedo. This guy knew everybody.
"How old is Echarpe?" she asked Sasha. "In his seventies?"
"I don't know. I've never met him." Sasha pivoted like she was working the runway while she looked around to see who was watching her.
"You never met him? But you were in his show in Paris just a few weeks ago." Heather and her longtime friend Sasha had both dreamed of glorious careers in the world of high fashion from the moment they'd discovered their Barbie dolls had cooler clothes than anyone else in the small town of Schnitzelberg, Texas. Heather was now a schoolteacher, while Sasha had become a successful fashion model. Heather waffled between being enormously proud of her friend and being reluctantly envious.
Sasha snorted through her surgically shortened nose. "No one sees Echarpe anymore. It's like he disappeared off the planet. Some say he's suffered the cost of his own genius and lost his mind."
Heather winced. "How sad."
"He stopped coordinating his own shows. And he certainly wouldn't be bothered with a shop like this in the middle of nowhere. He has little people for that." Sasha pointed at a slim man across the room and whispered, "That's Alberto Alberghini, Echarpe's personal assistant, though I have to wonder just how personal he is."
Heather eyed the man's frilly lavender shirt. The lapels on his black tuxedo were encrusted with lavender beads and sequins. "I see what you mean."
Sasha leaned closer. "Do you see the two women by the old man with a cane?"
"Yes." Heather noted the two emaciated women with pale flawless skin and long hair.
"They're Simone and Inga, famous models from Paris. Some say Echarpe's involved with them. Both of them."
"I see." Maybe Echarpe was more like Hugh Hefner than Liberace. Heather eyed the two models. She probably weighed as much as their combined weight. Nonsense. Size twelve was normal. She turned to admire a daring red gown on a white mannequin.
"The media can't decide whether Echarpe is gay or into multiple partners," Sasha whispered.
The gown had to be size two. "I could never get into that."
"Threesomes? I didn't care for it much, either."
Heather blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Though I'd probably like it better if it was me and two guys. Better to be the central focus, don't you think?"
"Excuse me?"
"But with my luck, the guys would be more interested in each other." Sasha lifted her hand and studied it. "I'm thinking about adding some collagen to my hand. My knuckles are so bony."
Heather took a moment to assimilate. Sheesh, she and Sasha didn't have a lot in common anymore. Their lives had certainly gone in different directions since high school. "Maybe instead of cosmetic surgery, you could try something really radical. Like eating food."
Sasha tittered with laughter. Men in the room turned to stare at her, and she rewarded them by flipping her long blond hair over her shoulders. "You're such a hoot, Heather. But I do eat food. I swear I have no control whatsoever. I've eaten two mushrooms tonight."
"You should be flogged."
"I know. Let me show you the new gown I'll be wearing soon." Sasha led her over to a gray mannequin posed on top of a glossy black cube. The mannequin wore a stunning white gown with no back and a front neckline that plummeted to the navel.
Heather's eyes widened. Never in a hundred years would she have the nerve to wear such a dress.
Never in a hundred years would anyone want to see her in it, either. "Wow."
"It's very clingy fabric," Sasha explained, "so I can't wear a stitch underneath. I'll be incredibly sexy."
"Right."
"I might wear it at the charity show in two weeks."
"I heard about that." The proceeds were going to the local school district, Heather's employer. "It was very nice of Echarpe to do that."
Sasha waved her bony hand in the air. "Oh, he doesn't have anything to do with it. Alberto's arranging it. Anyway, I'm thrilled to be in the show."
"Congratulations. I hope I get to see it."
"I'm only on the runway once." Sasha stuck out her collagen-enhanced lower lip. "It's not fair. Simone and Inga get two walks down the runway."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"I've been trying not to worry about it 'cause it would just give me lines. But I swear, who do you have to sleep with around here to get some respect?"
Heather winced. "Why don't you just talk to Alberto?"
"Oh. That's a good idea." She waved at the young man.
"Sasha, darling, you look fabulous." Alberto rushed over and kissed her on both cheeks.
"This is my dear friend from high school, Heather Lynn Westfield." Sasha motioned to her.
"How do you do?" Heather smiled and extended a hand.
Alberto leaned over to kiss her hand. "Charmed." His eyes widened when he noticed her dress. Shoot, she felt like a hillbilly. Heather opened her mouth to speak, but Sasha beat her to it.
"Alberto, darling, could we go somewhere private?" Sasha curled her hands around his arm and gave him a smoky look from under her false eyelashes. "I'd like to…talk."
Alberto's gaze was riveted on Sasha's low neckline. "I have an office nearby. We could…talk there."
"That would be lovely." Sasha leaned closer so her breasts were pressed against his arm. "I'm feeling very…talkative."
Heather watched, fascinated. It was like being in a live soap opera. Was Sasha offended that Alberto was conversing with her breasts? Were her breasts real? Would she slap him into next week or go to his office with him? And what about Alberto? Was he gay or metrosexual? Would they actually talk?
Alberto escorted Sasha across the store. Heather sighed. The show was over. She was always the observer, never the action figure.
Sasha glanced back and mouthed the word bingo.
Heather nodded with a sudden feeling of deja vu. It was high school all over again. Sexy Sasha was making out in the classroom while Helpful Heather waited by the lockers and served as lookout. Would it always be this way? Why couldn't she be the daring one for once? Why couldn't she wear one of these sexy, revealing gowns?
Well, she couldn't afford it, for one thing. And she was too overweight. She circled the gown Sasha had talked about. So what if she couldn't wear it or buy it? She could make something similar to it. And she could probably do it for about fifty bucks.
White had never been a good color for her. She was too fair and freckly. No, she would do it in midnight-blue. Instead of cutting the neckline to the navel, she'd back it up to the top of her breasts. And she'd put a back on the dress. And sleeves. The ideas were coming faster than she could think them through. She opened her purse and found a pencil and pad of paper that the folks at Schnitzelberg Hardware had given her at their last gardening sale.
Jean-Luc Echarpe could take his multithousand-dollar price tags and toss them off the Eiffel Tower. She might be one of Les Miserables, but she didn't have to look like it.
"To Jean-Luc and the opening of his fifth store in America." Roman Draganesti lifted a champagne flute filled with Bubbly Blood.
"To Jean-Luc," the others toasted, and clinked their glasses together.
Jean-Luc took a sip, then set his glass aside. The mixture of synthetic blood and champagne did little to boost his spirits. "Thank you for coming, mes amis. It makes this exile easier to bear."