Killing Monica

“I see. And what about this rumor that Pandy’s ex-husband, Jonny, thinks you’re not really Hellenor?”

Pandy cocked her head. She knew Jonny was looking for her, but this last piece of information was new. “I’ve heard he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“If you had a message from PJ Wallis to all those Monica fans out there today, what do you think it would be?”

Pandy stared straight into the camera and glared. “That’s easy: Don’t ever get married.”

“Thank you, Hellenor.”

“Hellenor?” someone else said. “Can we get a shot of you with the Monica shoe?”

“The Monica shoe is here?” Pandy asked.

“From now on, those shoes go everyplace SondraBeth goes. She’s got to wear them to the unveiling,” Judy explained. She spoke into her mike. “Can someone bring me the Monica shoes, please?”

In the next moment, the stylist’s assistant appeared, holding a pair of fringed red suede spike-heeled booties stuffed with tissue paper. Pandy held the booties up on either side of her face and smiled into the flashes.

“What do you think about the big memorial service SondraBeth is planning for your sister’s funeral?” another journalist asked.

Pandy’s smile stiffened.

The photographers shot off a few obligatory snaps and turned away.

“A memorial service?” Pandy said to Judy. She spun on her heel and began marching down the hall to SondraBeth’s dressing room.

“Hellenor?” Judy said, hurrying after Pandy. “You can put down the booties. I need to return them to wardrobe.”

Pandy ignored her, rapping on the door with the cruelly sharp heel of one of the booties. “SondraBeth? I need to talk to you.”

“Come in,” SondraBeth purred.

“Hellenor?” Judy said, catching up to her. “Is everything okay?”

“I need to talk to SondraBeth alone. It’s about my sister, and her death.” She turned the knob, pushed inside, and shut the door firmly behind her.

SondraBeth was standing in the middle of the room. The hinged skirt was attached to a stiff black bodice covered with tiny rhinestone M’s.

“Oh, good.” SondraBeth reached out her arms for the booties. “You’ve brought me my shoes.”

“Monica’s shoes,” Pandy said. SondraBeth took the shoes and toddled the few steps to the makeup counter to deposit them. She turned stiffly and swayed back toward Pandy, slowly lowering her arms. “So talk,” she said as she held up her nails and examined them.

The sight made Pandy gasp. Each of SondraBeth’s fingers sprouted a different miniature masterpiece of a famous building. Pandy picked out the Chrysler Building, the Eiffel Tower, and the Space Needle. She tore her eyes away and plopped herself onto a folding chair. “What’s this I’ve just heard about you planning a memorial service for Pandy?”

“Oh, that.” SondraBeth smiled and pointed the Empire State Building at her. “It was just something that popped into my head.”

“When?” Pandy glared.

“Just at that moment. The journalist asked me if I knew anything about a memorial service, and I—”

“Well, pop that idea right back out of your head. Because at the end of the day, I will once again be alive. Meaning there isn’t going to be any memorial service.”

“Of course there isn’t. But if I told the journalist that, it would look fairly suspicious, don’t you think? PJ Wallis dies, and there’s no funeral?”

“I guess.” Pandy narrowed her eyes. “I just want to make sure that we’re both on the same page. Right after the Woman Warrior of the Year Awards, I go back to being Pandy.”

“SondraBeth?” Judy knocked on the door, then opened it an inch and stuck her nose in the crack. “They need you in rehearsal.”

SondraBeth slowly made her way out into the hallway.