Murder on Consignment Read Online Free PDF Page A

dressing room.
    “What took you so long?” Mom asked, spinning me around. “You’re not zipped.” She began yanking with all her might. “Suck it in,” she ordered.
    “I can’t. Stop!” My arms flailed like a ragdoll as she viciously worked the zipper.
    “Well, come on then,” she sighed, giving up the effort. “They’re waiting for us down the hall.”
    I felt like an orange wrapped mummy. The dress was so tight around my thighs I could barely walk. Mom kept one hand on my elbow as I shuffled like a shackled inmate down a long hall of pink curtained chambers. We finally worked our way into a mirrored room where a skinny little twenty-something was perched on a carpeted block with a white sequined train flowing behind her. The seamstress was pinning up extra material while an entourage of blissful supporters stood by gushing with compliments. 
    “I’ll be with you in a second,” the seamstress said as my pumpkin-colored reflection slid into the mirror next to the soon-to-be Mrs. Happiness and her fifteen thousand dollar wedding gown. I heard a few gasps and giggles from the bride-to-be’s posse, confirming what I already knew—this dress was a joke.
    I ignored the girls and struck a few poses in the mirror trying to keep an open mind about the dress. It was a strapless design with a figure-hugging bodice and a large double ruffle around the bust line. The ruffle was ugly, but it did serve to cover the rolls of fat that spilled from my armpits. “What do you think, Mom?” 
    “Uh …well…,” she sputtered. A first for Mom, usually she could find something diplomatic to say about everything.
    The seamstress helped the bride off the block and moved over to me. “Let’s see,” she said, pinching and pulling at the fabric. Then wielding her measuring tape, she worked every angle of my body with dogged determi nation. “I think what we’ll need to do is take some material from the hem and sew in a panel in the back. The dress will be a little shorter than intended, but it should work.” 
    We all tried hard not to stare at the two inch, flesh-colored gap protruding from the back of the dress.
    “I’ll make a few more measurements and see what I can do,” the seamstress offered.
    Bren da poked her head into the room and addressed the seamstress, “Doris, you’re eleven o’clock fitting is here.” 
    “Send her in. I’m just finishing here,” Doris answered, making a couple quick notes. I wished her luck and turned to leave. I’d almost shuffled my way back to the dressing room hallway when in walked Sarah Maloney. We stopped face to face, regarding one another with shocked interest. She looked like an angel adorned in the most beautiful wedding gown I’d ever seen; I, on the other hand, was looking like a rotting veggie. 
    Of course, I recognized her instantly, but I think she was a little baffled by me. We’d only run into each other a couple of times when I was still dating Sean. She studied me for a moment, looking me up and down. Then, with a twinkle in her eye and a smile tugging at her lips she moved aside to let me pass. “Excuse me, Phillipena,” she said, arrogance tinting her tone.
    My gap of protruding flesh in mind, I immediately turned away from her and started shuffling backwards down the hall. Mom, oblivious to whole scene, was still asking Doris questions. “Are you sure you’ll be able to add enough material to make the dress fit?” Then, “Is it too late to order a couple of sizes up? I’d be happy to pay for express shipping.”
    Appalled, I tried to shuffle faster. Unfortunately, that wasn’t so easy with chiffon-bound thighs. With a sharp rip of fabric, I fell flat on my bootie. After catching my breath, I struggled on the ground for a moment. The dress was so tight, I couldn’t bend my legs enough to get back up. Finally, in a last ditch effort, I rolled over on my stomach, dug in my toes, and did a little push-up. By walking my hands back to my feet, I was