Free Death of a Trophy Wife by Laura Levine Page A

darn.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “The doorbell’s ringing. Hold on just a sec while I get it, okay?”
    “Of course,” he said. “Take your time.”
    I did not take my time. Au contraire. I put the phone down on the car seat and hightailed it back into the store.
    Carlton looked up, surprised to see me.
    “You’re back,” he said, covering the mouthpiece.
    “Yes, I changed my mind.”
    “I’ll be right with you; I’m just writing up a sale.”
    “No problem,” I said, trotting over to the mattress sample.
    Then, bold as brass, I picked it up and trotted back to the front door.
    “Hey!” Carlton shouted, jumping up. “Where are you going? You can’t take that with you!”
    Wanna bet?
    I was out of there in a flash.
    For a brief second it looked like he was going to chase me, but in the end, he did what I thought he’d do. He stood there, holding on to the phone, unwilling to let the commission on a Comfort Cloud slip through his fingers.

Chapter 9
    B ack home, I barely had enough time to shower, dress, and scarf down my now ice-cold Sausage & Egg McMuffin. Then I grabbed my car keys and raced out the door, praying I wouldn’t be late for my meeting with Marvin.
    But I needn’t have rushed.
    “Marvin isn’t here,” his mousy receptionist informed me when I showed up at the store. “Mattress emergency at the main warehouse.” Waving toward a row of no-frills plastic chairs, she said, “Have a seat. He should be back soon. And help yourself to a donut while you’re waiting.”
    I looked over and once more saw a box of Krispy Kremes nestled next to the Mr. Coffee machine. Marvin may have had lousy taste in trophy wives, but he sure knew what he was doing when it came to office snacks.
    I was still a bit peckish after my hurried McMuffin. But I wasn’t about to stuff my face with empty calories. No siree. Not moi. Instead I took out my briefcase and began fine-tuning my slogans.
    You’ll be happy to know I kept this up for a whole thirteen seconds.
    After which I tossed aside my slogans and made a beeline for the donut box. I was just about to reach for a chocolate-glazed beauty when Ellen Cooper came out from her office.
    “Hi, there,” Marvin’s ex-wife said, flashing me a friendly smile. What a difference from the last time I saw her, when she was shooting death ray looks at Bunny.
    But now she had returned to her apple-cheeked, Norman Rockwell persona.
    “You here to present your ideas to Marvin?” she asked, pouring herself some coffee.
    “Yes.” I tried not to sound as nervous as I felt. “I hope he likes them.”
    “I’m sure he will.” Then a wary look crept in her eyes. “You’re Bunny’s friend, aren’t you?”
    “Oh, no,” I assured her. I didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that any friend of Bunny’s was an enemy of hers. “I just met her recently. Through my neighbor, Lance Venable. Bunny’s one of his most loyal customers at Neiman Marcus.”
    “This month she is,” she said with a bitter laugh. “Bunny’s fickle.”
    In more ways than one , I thought, remembering Bunny’s recent tryst with Owen at Casa Extravaganza.
    “Poor Marvin,” she chirped merrily, as if reading my thoughts. “Sooner or later, Bunny’s bound to break his heart.” Then she added with a wink, “And it couldn’t happen to a more deserving fellow! Well, good luck with your ideas, sweetheart.”
    Then she trotted back to her office, no doubt to stick pins in her Marvin and Bunny voodoo dolls.
    Alone at last with the Krispy Kremes, I plucked my chocolate-glazed beauty from the box. Then I took a seat opposite the receptionist, whose name, according to the nameplate on her desk, was Amy Flannagan. She sat hunched over her computer, her bony fingers tapping away at her keyboard. How she could work so close to all those donuts without grabbing one was a mystery to me.
    A mystery I pondered as I gulped mine down in record speed. The last thing I wanted was for Marvin to come