Free An Affair to Dismember by Elise Sax

importance of chairs made of twigs. She had kindly left me a lunch of hot dogs and onion rings on the kitchen table.
    “They’re all crazy. I am never going over to that house again. I’m with my grandmother on this one. I wish Betty Terns would sell and they would all leave”—after they told me about Randy Terns’ murder. Was that so much to ask?
    I told Bridget all about crazy Jane and crazy Peter and Holden running interference.
    “Sounds like Arthur Holden has a Superman complex,” Bridget said. “Men are all alike. How dare he think he can save you? You’re some kind of hopelessfemale, and you need his help? You can’t take care of yourself like a grown-up? Tell me more about his chest.”
    We talked all about murder, the crazy Terns family, and Holden’s body parts until I finished the hot dog and two orders of onion rings.
    “You know, Gladie, you can’t just let this Randy Terns death drop,” Bridget said. “Those crazy people think you can help, and they might not leave you alone until you do. You might have to see this through just so they’ll get off your back.”
    “I’ve got other things to worry about. I have to fix up Holden. I have to get my waistline back, and I just ate thirty-five hundred calories. I should have spit.”
    “It sounds like Holden is an easy one. Pick a match at random from your grandmother’s index cards.”
    I jumped a foot off my chair as the kitchen door swung in and slammed into the wall with a loud crack. Lucy Smythe stood in the doorway in a sparkling blue and black Chanel cocktail dress and four-inch black Prada pumps with white silk bows. She had an air of achievement around her, as if she had just conquered Mount Everest or the Hermès twice-yearly sale.
    She pointed at my phone with an imperious gesture. “Whoever that is you are talkin’ to, darlin’, tell them you will call them back later. You and me, we’ve got business to attend to.”
    “Who’s that? Who’s that?” asked Bridget on the phone. I hung up. She would figure it out eventually. There weren’t too many Southern belles in Cannes.
    “You can’t go like that,” Lucy said, eyeing me.
    “Can’t go where?”
    “You are going to die when you hear what I’ve got to tell you. Let’s get you changed. Come on, get up. I’m not going with you dressed like that.”
    A minute later, we stood in front of my closet. Lucyshook her head. “I don’t believe this. I know there’s more.”
    “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
    “If you tell me where the real clothes are,” she said, tapping her foot on the floor.
    “These are the real clothes. These are my clothes, Lucy.”
    Lucy poked my chest with her manicured finger. “You are holding out on me, Gladys Burger. I’m convinced there is an inner tramp in there somewhere.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and don’t call me Gladys.”
    “I know they’re around here. I can smell fashion, you know.”
    Lucy walked slowly around my room, pointing at drawers and doors. “Duck, duck, duck, duck,” she said, “and goose.” She stopped at a narrow door in the corner. I ran and threw myself in front of it.
    “It’s nothing. It’s the ironing board,” I cried.
    Lucy tried to push me away. We struggled. She was stronger than she looked. “This has to happen, darlin’. You have been a nun for too long.”
    She had a point. Besides, I had had enough physical violence for one day. I stood aside. Lucy opened the door. The closet was stuffed with garment bags from ritzy stores, and the floor was lined with shoeboxes.
    “I knew it! I knew it! Don’t worry, darlin’. This won’t hurt a bit,” she said, pulling out the garment bags and throwing them on my bed.
    “I don’t want to wear them until I lose weight,” I explained.
    “Hogwash. Don’t you know that clothes are supposed to fit? They’re not supposed to hang on you like potato sacks. I’m sure the police chief isn’t fond of potato sacks. He