In Part 3 of Patti Abbott's, LaRonde series, "Provocateur" by KA Laity, http://katewombat.blogspot.com/2010/10/le-ronde-part-three-provocateur.html we were left with a man making love to a purple bra. It also left me wondering where do we go from here?
ENTER THE FAT LADY
by Sandra Seamans
Jeanette sat on the edge of her rumpled bed clicking through the photos of James Preston that she'd capture in her cell phone. She could hear muffled moans coming from the connecting room and wondered if James was crying about getting caught in a compromising situation or jerking himself off with that tacky purple bra. Jeanette shivered. She had actually believed that he still wanted her, loved her. It was pretty depressing to realize that he'd been lusting after her underwear for the past two years and not her. Well, she'd find a way to make him pay.
The photos gave her a number of options. The first would be to sell them to the scandal sheets for a nice little nest egg, but then she'd be out of a job and no one would ever hire a PA who splattered her boss' secret life all over the front page. The truth was, she rather enjoyed the perks that came with being Preston's personal assistant. Which reminded her, she had the UNM party to attend and important people to schmooze. She might even find a chance to console that poor poet with a peek at her pictures. Grady Disch was an attractive man and just maybe...she let the thought trail off as she changed into her sexiest party dress.
Walking off the elevator into the hotel lobby Jeanette found herself facing the paparazzo's darling, India Hamilton. The fact that the woman was James' wife would forever leave a bitter taste in Jeanette's mouth. Barely a month ago India had financed her way onto the set of Tarantino's new movie and slept her way into James' life. After a staggering total of three dates with her uber-thin, yoga-flexible body, India managed to talk James down the aisle of a Vegas wedding chapel. She was rich, useless, and the world's poster girl for accessorized malnutrition. Everything Jeanette yearned to be.
"Fashionably late as usual, I see," whispered Jeanette as she leaned in for India's standard double kissy-cheek greeting for the paparazzi.
"I may be late, but people are still thrilled to see me, which is more than I can say for a fat bitch like you. I can't fathom why James keeps you around, you're not that talented. I'd have fired your ass ages ago."
Jeanette smirked as she pulled away from the imitation greeting. "After what I saw tonight, I doubt if he'll ever fire me."
"I wouldn't count on that, if I want you gone, you'll be gone."
Jeanette took her phone out of the evening bag she was carrying and flashed India a look at her husband in all his purple lace glory. "Now, that's what I call job security. I guess you're stuck with the fat bitch forever, you anorexic whore."
The surprised look on India's face as she flounced onto the elevator was just the beginning of a fairytale evening for Jeanette. She managed to convince Rav Noonan that James would be perfect in the supporting role of her next project and an audition was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon that would cinch the deal. Jeanette also discovered that Disch was not only attractive, but a most appreciative and experienced lover. Life was beautiful she thought as the cab pulled up in front of her hotel.
She was so wrapped up in the bliss of her evening that she barely noticed the police cars blocking the street, their lights strobbing a caution warning to passersby. Getting caught in a barrage of paparazzi camera flashes as she exited the taxi brought her thumping back to reality. Whatever happened inside must be big to bring out the trash collectors and the police.
As Jeanette pushed through the lobby doors, the crushing sound of voices went quiet and faces turned to stare at her. Was it James? Had something happened to him? Why was everyone so quiet?
"That's her! Jeanette Campbell. She murdered my husband."
Before the word murder could infiltrate Jeanette's brain, India launched her emaciated body in a poor imitation of a bottle rocket, bouncing off Jeanette's solid body and falling to the floor in a heap of tears. The sound of cameras clicking and whirring filled the air.
Police officers pushed Jeanette to the floor beside India, pulling her arms behind her back and cuffing her. As one of them read to her from a printed Miranda card, India inched closer.
"James was strangled tonight with a lovely purple silk bra," whispered India. "I'm willing to bet that the pretty pink box it came in will be found in your room."
"But I didn't kill him."
"Too bad the evidence says otherwise," said India.
As the cops pulled Jeanette to her feet, India stood, Jeanette's purse clutched firmly in her hands. She leaned in for a final whisper, "Funny, it sounds like the anorexic whore is singing the fat bitch right off the stage."