The Real Werewives of Vampire County

“Hi there, I see you have an interest in fashion,” I said as I approached her with a full glass of punch. I motioned to her empty glass, trading it for the full one in my hand.

After nodding a thanks, she said, “I’m a stylist and personal shopper.” She gave me an up-and-down look. I was wearing one of my own dresses. “Who are you wearing?”

“Actually, it’s my own. I’m a designer.”

“Really?” She gave my dress a closer look. “Nice. Have you had samples made? I’d love to show this piece to a few of my clients.”

“Not yet. I’m working on it.”

She dug into her purse, produced a card. “When you do, I hope you’ll keep me in mind.”

“I will. Thanks. I understand you worked for Michelle Stewart.”

“Michelle was one of my best clients.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Rachel gave me a sad look. “Actually, she was my best client. My business has taken a nosedive since she died, and—don’t tell anybody—I had to take a part-time job, working at JCPenney to make ends meet. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Good. I’d hate for them to know.” She plucked a nonexistent piece of fuzz from her skirt. “My business is all about appearances, you know.”

“That, I know.”

She smoothed her sleeve. “I mean, who would want to pay top dollar to a part-time sales clerk to be their stylist?”

“I’m sorry your business has suffered. Has it been a long time since you’ve shopped for a client?”

She didn’t answer right away. “Yes, it has been a long time, since the week before Michelle died.”

“That long ago? That’s terrible.”

“I’d met with Michelle the week before she … you know. She had a few events coming up, and she wanted me to come by. In fact, we had an appointment for that very day. But I didn’t get the chance. I was … well, detained.” Her face turned red. “Parking tickets. I was in jail.”

“Oh.” I patted her shoulder. “Sorry for dredging up unhappy memories. Hopefully you’ll pick up some new clients soon. I’d better move on to the other guests.” Feeling a little guilty for pretty much dumping her after that confession, I explained, “I’m new in town. Would hate for anyone to feel slighted. Say, maybe you can come back another day, and I’ll take you down to my studio, let you get a firsthand glimpse of my collection.”

Her eyes actually sparkled. “I would love that.”

After making the rounds, filling punch glasses, I was the first to return to our predetermined meeting spot. The other ladies soon joined me. “I’m pretty sure we can cross Rachel off the list,” I said. “Her business has tanked since Michelle died. She has no motivation to kill her best client. She was anticipating more business from her in the upcoming weeks. So if her motivation was money, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Plus, she has an alibi that should be pretty easy to verify.” I glanced at the other ladies. “Anybody get something good?”

“Got nothing from Kelly,” Lindsay said, “other than she was very sad to learn about Michelle. Evidently, she called her often to talk about her troubles with her husband.”

“Heather seems to be a dead end, too,” Samantha said, frowning. “That big so-called fight was just about Joshua borrowing a pair of her son’s gym shoes. The shoes were ruined, and there’d been conflicting stories about who was responsible. I don’t know. Even if they were Alexander McQueens, a pair of shoes is hardly worth killing over.”

All of us shared a heavy sigh.

“But wait. All’s not lost,” Erica said. “I had Theresa, Dr. Orenstein’s nurse. I’m thinking we need to follow up on the doctor. Evidently, he had a secret thing for Michelle.”

“Thing?” I echoed.

“Obsession,” Erica clarified.

“A secret obsession,” Lindsay repeated. “That could be a motivation for murder.”

“Maybe,” I agreed.

Erica continued, leaning in, “Evidently, Jon’s story about her going to a fertility specialist was partially true. Michelle did ask for a referral. But Dr. O insisted she didn’t need one and persisted in treating her himself. It’s possible Michelle didn’t tell Jon the truth, letting him think she was going to someone else. Jon wasn’t fond of Dr. O and had told her to change doctors.”

Lindsay’s eyes widened. “Now, that is interesting—”

“You bitch!” someone shouted from the living room.

I jerked around, catching Heather tossing a glass of punch into Rachel’s face.

“How dare …” Eyelashes dripping, mouth agape, Rachel grabbed the first thing she touched—a potted plant—and threw it. Heather ducked. The pot hit the wall and shattered. Dirt flew everywhere. The plant landed on Kelly’s head.

“What the hell?” Kelly screeched, untangling philodendron leaves from her hair. “I just paid two hundred dollars to get my hair done.”

“Uh-oh,” I mumbled, watching Kelly lurch to her feet. “This is getting ugly. Fast.”

“Ladies,” Erica shouted over the mounting wave of expletives filling the room. She waved her arms. The cuss words just kept flowing.

“If you paid that, you were robbed,” Rachel sneered. “I’ve seen better dye jobs walking out of Fantasic Sams.”

Kelly charged at Rachel like a bull, nostrils flaring, fury burning in her eyes. She tackled Rachel to the ground, and a catfight ensued. There was hair flying, clothes tearing, fingernails clawing. A couple of the other guests jumped into the fray before we could get it broken up, and before we knew it, we were ducked behind the kitchen island while things crashed and shattered all around us.

“Samantha, what the hell did you put in that punch?” Erica snapped.

Crack.

Samantha shrugged.

“Just alcohol,” I said. “Right, Samantha? You only put alcohol, like you said.”

“Well …”

Crash.

“Dammit, I think that was the plasma TV.” Erica poked her head up. “Yes, that was the plasma.” She glared at Samantha.

“You’ll pay for that, whore!” Kelly screeched.

“What did you put in the punch?” I repeated.

“No drugs.” Samantha raised her hands. “I swear.”