Death Turns A Trick (Rebecca Schwartz #1) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) Read Online Free PDF Page B

is a Mr. Goodbar, Richard Nixon is a licorice whip, Pat Nixon is a frosting rose from a birthday cake. I could go on forever.)
    Kandi had frilly blond hair and a figure that bounced with self-congratulation. But I don’t have to describe her too much because you know her: think of the homecoming queen at your high school, and there you have it. Half all-American girl, half budding starlet, and so radiant your eyes hurt to look at her. Only Kandi had passed out of the girl stage and the budding stage, and had flowered into a confectioner’s idea of a prostitute. She wore an apricot chiffon dress, long-sleeved and form-fitting, with a furbelow of a skirt like skaters wear. Neckline, cuffs, and hem were fluffy with tiny, downy apricot feathers.
    As for Hilary, Renée, and Stacy, if they’d come to court in the outfits they had on, they’d have been spending that November in the pokey. Hilary had on a nurse’s uniform, thigh-high with white sequins all over.
    Renée—a large, fortyish woman—wore a scarlet, plunging blouse of some shiny material, a wide belt, and a tight black skirt that hugged her opulent fanny and fell nearly to her knees, but not quite.
    Stacy, scarcely five feet tall and flat as a boy, wore a dress of white dotted swiss trimmed with a Peter Pan collar and tied in the back with an old-fashioned perky sash. She had braided her hair, tied it with pink ribbons, and painted freckles across her nose.
    I had to admire Elena. She had certainly provided for every fantasy, from Kandi the prom queen to Renée the storybook whore. Even an exotic woman of mystery. Me.
    My musical plan for the evening was to intersperse Scott Joplin with old-timey whorehouse blues and, since the guests would have dates and so would I, a few romantic favorites: “These Foolish Things,” “As Time Goes By,” that sort of thing. But Scott Joplin first, to set a rollicking mood.
    Every light in the place was controlled by a dimmer, and Elena had set them low to produce a rosy glow. As I sat down at the piano stool, Renee walked by and made me think of the Place Pigalle, so I played “Milord” instead of “Maple Leaf Rag.” It upset my plan, but it was perfect guest-welcoming music.
    The FDOs and their dates arrived in breathless groups of twos and fours, practically shaking themselves like wet birds. They lost no time in handing their raingear to the genial hostesses and getting into the party spirit. I tried to give each new group what I believe is called a broad wink.
    They were dressed for a party, those people, the men in coats and ties and the women in silk dresses, showing lots of skin.
    For a while, Elena was kept busy answering the door, while the other four served champagne, which is the only appropriate drink for a bordello. Every time Kandi swept by, she left a little cloud of tiny feathers in her wake, causing me to sneeze and miss an occasional note. But that, and the fact that working the pedals made it nearly impossible to preserve any semblance of decency—with that slit in my skirt—were my only hardships. Every now and then, someone brought me a glass of champagne, so I was in a wonderful mood by the time Parker arrived.
    It was time for a break, so I took one. “Irma La Douce, I presume,” he said by way of greeting.
    I got up and showed off. “Like my outfit?”
    “What there is of it.”
    “Am I fascinating?”
    “Scintillating,” he said. “You look like a mill—I mean, at least three or four hundred.”
    I put a hand on my hip and thrust my chest out. “I could give you a deal.”
    “Rebecca!” said a female voice. It was Stacy, holding a silver tray loaded with full champagne glasses. “What is this—amateur hour?”
    “Stacy,” I said, “this is Parker. My date.”
    She gave us champagne and floated away. “One of your clients?” asked Parker.
    “Uh huh. You can tell the whores by the length of their skirts.”
    Parker looked horrified. “What’s the big deal?” I asked. “We