Waffles at the Wake (Murder in the Mix #29) - Addison Moore Page 0,29
Your Man Nicole. Tell her you’ll seat yourself and then give her the evil eye so she doesn’t come sniffin’ around again.”
Flo’s hair is teeming with tiny onyx-colored stars tonight, her face glows like the moon, and her beauty looks ever so much sharper as if she, too, dropped by home to spruce up for dinner.
“We’ll seat ourselves,” I tell the woman as I pull Everett in close by way of his arm. But as it turns out, I don’t have the heart to give her the evil eye.
“Have it your way, honey.” Nab-Your-Man Nicole whips out her notepad, scribbling something over it before handing it to Everett. “Here’s my numba. Use it, don’t lose it. I’m certified in Pilates. I specialize in six way stretches.” She gives a sly wink before taking off.
I can’t help but scoff in her wake. “Can you believe that?”
Flo rolls her eyes. “Oh hon, you’re not in Kansas anymore. You should have left that hottie at home to warm the bed. And yet you’ve brought him right into the lion’s den.”
Carlotta takes a breath. “Why do you think I didn’t bring Harry? I know this bunch. Things are gonna get messy, Lot. I’d stamp your lip prints all over his face and collar if I were you.”
Flo shakes her head. “Not gonna help. Half the women here aren’t even interested in a man until he’s taken. You’ll just up his value.”
A dark chuckle rumbles through Everett’s chest. “Don’t worry, Lemon. I’ve only got eyes for you.”
Flo laughs at the thought. “Oh sweetie, your eyes are nice, but they’re the last thing this crowd is after.”
Flo leads the way, and soon we’re taken to a round table in the back buzzing with women with matching long dark hair, furry lashes, bright painted lips, and matching inch-long nails. Four large pizzas sit between them, and dotting the center of the table is a ceramic replica of the Pope’s head in a glass box. Seems about right.
Both Cat and Connie Canelli look up and wave.
“Spider’s here!” Cat announces to the crowd. “Make room. We’ve got guests.”
No sooner does she say the words than the three of us are seated to Cat’s left.
Without thinking, I end up ensconced between Carlotta and Everett, leaving the women to Everett’s right free to paw and pet him, and believe me, about four brunettes have wasted no time in getting right down to it.
Three seats down from him is Lorena, and next to her sits her bestie Donata and we all share amicable greetings.
“So glad you’re here,” Connie says. “We were just picking out the duds for Flo’s big day.”
Flo slaps her hands together and gives a little hop. “With Connie in charge, there might be hope for me yet.”
“Here are the looks we’ve got planned.” Connie plucks a gold sequin gown from her lap and holds it up for us all to see.
No sooner am I blinded by the glitzy accouterment than Flo lets out a deafening groan like only the dead can do.
“There’s no way in hell she’s planting me in the ground looking like an Oscar.” Flo stalks over and bunches up the fabric in her fist. “What the heck? This is nothing but glorified aluminum. Tell them it’s a no-go or I’m going to flip a table.”
Carlotta shakes her head. “You can’t bury the kid in that. It’s too flashy. You gotta go with something timeless, something mellow.” She looks to Flo. “Something black?”
The entire table groans in unison, as does Flo.
“No dark colors,” Flo is quick to insist. “I want pink—hot pink and I want Nona Nina’s tiara. She always said I could have it, and I’m taking it with me.”
Carlotta looks my way, and I shrug.
She clears her throat. “I bet Angel Face would look really good in a nice bright pink. And do you know what pairs well with bullet wounds? Nona Nina’s tiara.”
Good grief. Everett and I exchange a look. The only thing that pairs well with bullet wounds is insanity, and tonight we’re eating it by the heap full.
The table breaks out into moans and grumbles.
“See here, Spider”—Cat has that no-nonsense look in her eye—“we’re not entertaining pink ’cause she was killed in that color. And Nona Nina’s tiara is off-limits. Once Flo bit the dust, she was no longer in the running for that intricate piece of Italian artwork. It’s been in the family for generations. There’s no way the diamonds stop here. Besides, it won’t work with the bouffant hairdo I’ve