"Esther M. Friesner - At These Prices" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

own game. The law profession would never know how much it had lost when Bella
Franklin turned to hawking lipsticks instead of litigation. The list of party specs
showed the master hand of a highly gifted and vindictive nitpicker. Everything was
there, from appetizers and aperitifs to desserts and décor. There was only one thing
that she seemed to have missed.
“Stupid dust-muncher really dropped the ball on this,” Melusine said to
herself. “What a thing to overlook! She knows we’re not obliged to include anything
left off the list, but I’ll bet she’ll fly into a snit if we don’t take care of this. Ah well,
it’ll be easy enough to fix.” Mel pulled out a waterproof pen and scribbled an
addendum to the list. “I’ll just go visit Lyndon and—”
The ondine stopped short, pen hovering a hair above the page. “Ooooh!” A
radiant smile of inspiration lit up her face and she ran a chartreuse tongue over sharp,
fishy teeth. She raced back into the Hotel Tiernan so fast that Hork the door-gnome
was left puzzling over whether he had or had not actually heard an ondine utter a
throaty, gloating, Mwahahahaha.
 ****
Bella Franklin’s party was a small yet sumptuous brunch, the tasteful confines
of the Hotel Tiernan’s Oberon Suite contrasting nicely with the primped and
polished vulgarity of her guests. The higher-ups of Speranza Storm Cosmetics
crowded around the buffet table as though their lives depended on building up a
layer of shrimp-based flesh to see them through the winter. When a waiter emerged
from the kitchen with a tray of crab-stuffed mushroom caps, he almost perished in
the stampede. The chef manning the prime rib carving station clutched his knife with
dew-browed desperation as he begged the ladies to give him a break; he was flinging
slabs of dripping red meat onto their plates as fast as he could. High above the
guzzling, gulping crowd, Selina hovered unnoticed. The pixie chef had every right to
look pleased; she’d outdone herself with this spread. There was even a whole
roasted pig up for grabs, complete with obligatory apple-in-mouth and gratuitous
tattoo of Bella Franklin’s face across the porker’s left buttock.
As for the lady thus immortalized, the insult rolled off her like sauce à
l’orange off a Long Island duckling’s back. She leaned against the open bar, sipping
a dry martini and surveying the scene. A leer of triumph crawled across her lips as
she topped off her glass with the last dribble from the individual cocktail shaker at
her elbow. Then, habit being habit, she wrapped the shaker in a napkin and stuffed it
into her purse, a be-sequinned behemoth she’d acquired precisely for its stowage
capabilities.
“You look happy, milady,” Bixby said dully. He was still hermetically sealed
in his Hawai’ian hottie glamour, but for tonight he’d been tricked out in a tux.
“And why shouldn’t I be?” Bella plucked the bar clean of matchbooks,
dropped them into her abyss of a bag, then added two peanut bowls (peanuts
included) for good measure. “So far, six Speranza Storm vice presidents have made
it a point to talk to me. They reeked of free oysters Rockefeller. They’ll surely
remember my name when it’s time to hand out the big rewards at next year’s
convention.”
“Bully for you, milady.”
Bella showed her teeth in a panther’s smile. “Poor Bixby, you don’t look
happy at all. Maybe a drink would cheer you up.” She called for the bartender’s
attention. “Another dry martini for me and an Irish coffee for my friend over here.”
She fattened avidly on the light of hope that kindled in Bixby’s eyes, then
extinguished with a quick, cruel: “Hold the coffee.” She patted Bixby’s stricken face