Blood Always Tells Hilary Davidson (e reader comics .txt) 📖

“You got married to wear a dress?”

“Well, yes. And no. I had to have a wedding to wear the dress. Occasions are important, you know. Only, I would have married the Chrysler Building if I had the choice. It’s the most beautiful skyscraper in the world. Art Deco perfection.”

“I don’t think you can marry a building.”

“You are bourgeois. What about Erika LaBrie? If she can marry the Eiffel Tower, I can marry the Chrysler Building. No?” She raised her thin, penciled-in brows and cocked her head. “My father didn’t like the idea, either. He said he would cut me off without a dime if I went ahead with it. Instead, he found a man for me to marry.” She sighed, investing the gesture with great drama, and gave a little cough. “It was quite the disaster.”

Desmond had heard so many justifications from Dominique about dating Gary. He’s not really married, his sister would say. He’d always written that off as schoolgirl longing on her part. Now, he wondered if she’d been right, in a way.

“You didn’t want to be married to Gary, I take it?”

“Of course not. Everything about him was common. His name. His sport. If he had been an equestrian, I could have respected that. Even an archer might have been interesting. But boxing?” She simulated a shudder. “I was ashamed of him. He didn’t belong in my world at all.”

Desmond was stunned into silence. Trin stepped into the room to tap the ash from her cigarette into a silver tray. “You’re very easy to shock,” she smirked. “Didn’t my houseboy offer you anything to drink?”

“Your houseboy?”

“Costa!” she shouted, instantly losing that air of mystique she’d tried to craft with her grand entrance.

“Yes, Miss Lytton-Jones?”

“I didn’t want a drink, thanks,” Desmond said.

“Of course you do. Champagne, with two flutes,” she ordered.

Desmond glanced at his watch. It wasn’t even noon.

“Don’t tell me you’re a Puritan,” she said. “That would make you so dull.” She came closer. He wasn’t entirely sure her head was on the right body. The face was heavily made up, with thick black kohl around her eyes that made her look like one of Cleopatra’s handmaidens. Under the paint, her skin was puffy. Her body, by contrast, was just skin clinging to the skeleton underneath.

“Are you gay?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed about it. I’m not judging you. I think everyone should be free to follow their desires.”

“I didn’t think I was stylish enough for anyone to make that mistake.”

“You don’t have to be all defensive about it. I don’t like straight men. I don’t think they can ever be trusted.”

She moved a little closer and he noticed her eyes. The irises weren’t human; they were lavender, but the pupil wasn’t a circle but a long, narrow slit like a cat’s. She was wearing some custom-designed contact lens to get that effect. Nothing about her was natural.

“Why did you want to meet me?” she asked.

“I wanted to talk about Gary and my sister.”

“Ah, yes, the thoroughbred.” Trin nodded. “She was a very fine mannequin. Not the most graceful presence I’ve seen on the runway, to be honest, but she was statuesque. Queenly, almost. She wore clothes beautifully. I remember seeing her once in this Lacroix gown that was absolute perfection. I had to have it, but it never fit me the way it did her. I was envious.”

Her admission caught Desmond by surprise. “You admit you were jealous of Dominique?”

“Yes. Much to my regret, and in spite of my best efforts, I have never been able to wear clothes the way she did.” She inhaled deeply on her cigarette. “Mr. Edgars, I am the bluntest person you will ever meet. I’ve spent my life surrounded by courtiers who would say anything to curry favor with my family. Brutal honesty is the one true luxury wealth has given me. If you want to be truly outrageous and shock people, always be honest.”

“Were you jealous of Dominique’s relationship with Gary?”

“Why on earth would I be?” Trin’s eyebrows shot to the cavernous ceiling. “I certainly didn’t want that big lump. I detested everything about him. He was just so… low and contemptible. I know this will shock you, with your dull little bourgeois ideas, but I couldn’t be happier that he’s dead.”

Chapter 39

They were interrupted by the arrival of the houseboy. “Champagne, Miss Lytton-Jones?”

“Finally,” she said. She took mincing steps toward a burgundy sofa, lowering herself and arranging her legs. Trinity was maybe five foot four without those stagger-inducing high heels. He could imagine her tumbling on that polished marble floor and cracking a birdlike limb.

“Please sit down,” she added. Desmond lowered himself onto the sofa opposite her, feeling himself sink deep into the velvet. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. It felt as if he were being swallowed up in a very soft, delicate trap.

While Costa opened the bottle and poured the champagne, Trin ground out one cigarette and fished a fresh one out of a decorative box on the table next to her. The houseboy lit her cigarette, made a gracious bow, and left.

“What are you going to do with Dominique now?” Trin asked, picking up her glass.

“With her?” Desmond was thrown off by the way she’d phrased the question. “There’s going to be an autopsy. I don’t know how long that will take. I’m organizing a funeral service, but I won’t know the date until her body is released.”

“A funeral. How traditional.” Trin nodded. “Since I heard about Gary, I’ve been thinking of his funeral. Or, more specifically, about what to wear.”

Desmond’s expression gave away his opinion, and she smiled in response.

“Like I said, occasions are important,” she went on. “And I should say, Gary’s will be a memorial service, not a funeral. His body won’t be there. Do you know what I’m going to do with it?”

Taxidermy, Desmond suspected. Like that stuffed pup on the table. “What?”

“I’m going to turn Gary into