Festive in Death (In Death #39)(73)

“Hey!” Her voice bright, Mavis bounced to Trina. “Dallas is all done, and early! We can get this part of the party started. How about we have a drink?”

“I want a shower,” Eve said. “But go ahead.”

“When you’re done, if you’d come out in just a robe,” Trina said, voice subdued, eyes on her tools. “We’ll start with the massage and body glo.”

“What the hell’s a body glo?”

“It’s a hydrator with a light sheen. We can test it on your arm to make sure you approve. I also brought the no-sheen if you decide against it.”

Eve narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like the real Trina, with her brisk bossiness and sneaky ways. But she liked this fake, mealymouthed Trina even less.

“Whatever.” Eve spotted the gift bag on her dresser, poked at it, noted Trina’s name on the tag. Roarke had, as promised, seen to it.

“This is yours.” Eve picked up the bag, pushed it at Trina.

“What?”

“A thing. A Christmas thing.”

Eve turned away, started toward the bath, spun back when she heard the blubbering sobs.

Trina, with her tower of swirly hair, wept into her hands while Mavis cooed and stroked.

“Shit. Shit! Why is she doing that? Stop doing that. I mean it.”

“It’s my fault. Sima’s a wreck, and it wouldn’t be so bad if she hadn’t seen him. He’d still be dead, the f**ker, but she wouldn’t have seen him so she wouldn’t be so bad. It’s my fault. And you gave me a present.”

“I’ll take it back if you stop that. I don’t even know what the hell it is. Roarke did it. Go find Roarke if you’re going to do that.”

“I thought, what if I’d talked her into going and whoever killed him was there, and killed her. I thought—”

“Snap out of it!” Eve slapped out the order, causing Mavis’s mouth to drop open in shock, and Trina’s head to jerk up.

“What-if’s aren’t dick. It didn’t happen. It’s not your fault she went there. Did you drag her kicking and screaming? And even then, he’d’ve been dead anyway. He was a shit. An ass**le. A ra**st. A blackmailer and a cheat. I’ll find who killed him because that’s my job, but if she’s wasting tears over him, somebody needs to tell her she’s just stupid. And if you’re blubbering over what can’t be changed anyway, you’re stupid.”

“Dallas,” Mavis began.

“Shut up a minute. You want what-if? What if she’d gone back in there to get her things or to confront him, and found him herself? Alone. Without you there to hold it together? She didn’t have the first clue what to do. You did. You tagged me. The f**ker deserved more than toeless socks and itching powder—not that it was your place to give that to him—but he didn’t deserve dead. He deserved a couple decades in a cage, but am I blubbering because I don’t get to give him what he deserved? So snap out of it.”

There was a moment of absolute silence. Then Trina sniffed. “You’re right. You’re f**king A right. And when I’m done here I’m going back and having a come-to-Jesus with Sima, even if I have to get her drunk first.”

“Great. Now that it’s settled, I want a shower.” She remembered, pulled the box from her pocket. “Roarke wants this in my hair.”

Trina opened it. Both she and Mavis oooohed. Both she and Mavis swiped tears from their cheeks, looked back at Eve.

“It’s a total winner,” Trina decreed. “I’m going to do something different with your hair.”

“What? No. No, you’re not.”

“Not with the cut or color. For Christ’s sake, have I f**ked up your hair yet?”

“No, but—”

“You get a piece of art like this to wear in your hair, your hair should earn it. I’m going to think about it. Get the shower, but don’t use any scent. I’m going to take care of that.”

“I don’t want to have—”

“You don’t know what you want. I’ll take care of it. You’d better get in there and wash up. Unless you want me to take care of that, too.”

“Keep out of the bathroom.” Eve stalked off.

Real Trina was back. Maybe, if she’d given it time, she’d have liked fake Trina. Now she’d probably never know.

15

It could have been worse, Eve supposed. She could have been attacked by flesh-eating cows. No one would ever convince her cows didn’t occasionally enjoy a meaty snack.

So it could’ve been worse.

She told herself so while Trina slathered stuff on her—the mostly naked her—and Mavis cheerfully babbled. To take her mind off what was going on, Eve knew very well, especially when Trina shifted gears, shifted her, and layered some sort of toxic-looking green goo all over her face.

Then told her to relax for ten minutes.

Who could relax with toxic-looking green goo all over their face, that was possibly literally toxic?

But Mavis stuck a glass of champagne in her hand, and eagerly sat while Trina started painting Mavis’s face with the arsenal of paints, brushes, powders, and God knew what else she armed herself with.

Apparently, from the conversation Eve tried to ignore, Mavis had been through the green goo stage—self-inflicted—that morning.