Free A Stiff Critique by Jaqueline Girdner

interrupted his harangue. I turned in time to see Donna Palmer come galloping through the doorway. She wore a white peasant blouse and swirling skirt topped by a multicolored hand-woven sleeveless vest that hung all the way to the floor. She was smiling and brushing her dark, tangled hair with her fingers as she rushed toward us.
    She was only a yard away when her body jerked suddenly.
    And then she fell to the lavender carpet with a muted thud.
     

 
    - Six -
     
    My heart jumped in my chest. And in the same microsecond, my mind screamed at me, telling me that the woman who had just fallen face down on the carpet was Donna Palmer, beleaguered daughter of organized crime. Had they shot her? I hadn’t heard a shot. But maybe they’d used a silencer.
    In the next microsecond, I was on my knees next to her body. I reached to take a pulse, hoping I would find one. Hoping she was still alive. But just as my hand made contact with warm flesh, the body rolled over and sat up in a tangle of swirled skirt and sleeveless vest. With a smile on her face, the woman I had been afraid was dead extricated an arm and stuck out her hand.
    The smile couldn’t overshadow the red patch on her forehead however. I’d have bet it would be a bruise soon enough. I ignored her outstretched hand.
    “Are you all—” I began.
    “Jesus, not again,” I heard someone say from behind me. I turned in time to see Nan Millard shake her head, gold earrings flashing.
    When I turned back, Donna was running her hand along the top of her peasant blouse. Her hand snagged in the chain that one of her many crystals was hanging from.
    “Do I still have my ribbons?” she whispered.
    I nodded. There were two ribbons pinned to her blouse, one red and one blue. I knew the red one was for AIDS awareness. I wasn’t sure what the blue one was for.
    Then I swiveled my head to look around the room. What was wrong with everyone? Nobody but me seemed to be so much as looking at Donna.
    “I can be so incredibly klutzy sometimes,” Donna confided. She jerked her hand through her tangled hair and winced. “But the benevolence of the universe always protects me from harm.” She stuck out her hand again. “I’m Donna,” she told me.
    “I’m Kate Jasper,” I answered and this time I reached out and shook her hand. “I met you last Saturday.”
    “Oh, that’s right,” she giggled. “The gag-gift maker.” Her hand felt small and soft in mine.
    “What the hell just happened?” I asked.
    “She tripped over her skirt,” Nan explained in a drawl from behind me. “It’s so damned long, it’s a wonder she didn’t strangle herself in the process. But we can only hope for so much.”
    Donna stared up at Nan without any visible sign of rancor in her soulful honey-colored eyes. Or any comment.
    I could have made a comment, though. Donna’s skirt may have been too long, but Nan’s beige linen one was close to nonexistent, barely skimming the top of her tan thighs. I shook my head to clear it. I wasn’t here to observe relative skirt lengths.
    “Do you need help getting up?” I asked Donna.
    “Oh, no. But thank you, anyway,” she said with a sweet smile. In fact, her whole face had a sweet innocence to it. She must have been at least thirty, but when she smiled she looked all of ten years old.
    We both stood up together. Donna’s rise was a little shakier than mine though, since she was still standing on the hem of her skirt. I turned away when she tried to pick up her purse by its long strap, which was tangled up with her vest now. It was too damned painful to watch her struggle. Now I realized why no one else would look at her.
    “Well, no harm done,” said Mave briskly once we were standing. “How’s about using the dining room table for the meeting? I think I’ve got enough chairs.”
    She began counting us, using her fingers to keep track. When she got to nine, she squinted her eyes for a moment, then smiled. “Oh, that’s right,” she said