Lethally Blonde. Nancy Bartholomew

      Jeremy’s dining room is a lesson in too much money, too little design taste. I look around and for a moment wonder if Jeremy watched reruns of Bonanza as a child. There are, no joke, not one, but three candle-lit wagon-wheel chandeliers above the massive, heavy oak dining table. He has us all drinking out of silver flagons that are set before, I swear, gold-plated chargers. There are black, wrought-iron accents everywhere and a thick, Persian rug on the floor. The only thing missing are pictures of Jeremy’s ancestors lining the walls. It is a designer nightmare, and yet, when I take in the accent pieces, I know Jeremy hired the work. I mean, there is nothing personal in the entire room. Every knickknack is professionally placed and that is just the kiss of death as far as I’m concerned. I mean, you either live in a home or you visit a shrine. Jeremy was living on a movie set.

      “Consuela has prepared one of her village specialties,” he says.

      “Shut up!” I say under my breath, wondering if he changed the poor woman’s name to fit the tableau.

      Sam and I take our places at the long table and I study Jeremy more closely. He’s sniffing and talking nonstop. His face is flushed with the alcohol he’s been drinking, but the tiny traces of white powder around his nose are a giveaway; Jeremy’s been doing cocaine.

      I look around the table, searching for his companions in crime and notice two tiny spots of red on Zoe’s high cheekbones. Andrea is sitting on one side of me and Sam on the other. Andrea sips steadily on her wine and watches her husband across the table. Mark is flirting with Diane, who seems fascinated by his every word. She lays a beautifully manicured hand on his arm and smiles up at him, and I find myself wondering what she wants from him. I’m learning. Hollywood’s a stage and we are but the actors.

      I turn to say something to Andrea, anything to distract her from the unfolding scene across the table, but a shrill alarm suddenly emanates from a small panel set into the wall near the French doors leading outside. Everyone stops talking, searching for the noise, but Sam is already in motion, pushing his chair back and crossing the room. He opens the panel, pushes a button and the sound stops. Without another word, he opens one of the doors and vanishes outside.

      Jeremy stares stupidly after him and laughs. “Well, loveys,” he says, “I suppose my visitor has returned.” He’s drunk and high. What a combination.

      I push my chair back slowly and leave the table to head for the open French door. No one seems to notice. They are all talking at once. Zoe sounds frightened. Diane is still telling Mark stories and Andrea is trying to get Mark’s attention. I slip outside and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

      The crackle of a walkie-talkie startles me. I make out Dave standing poolside.

      “I got nothing here,” he says and moves away.

      I start to follow after him, moving quietly around the edge of the pool. A rustle in the bushes to my left sends my heart up into my throat. A high, feminine scream from the dining room chills my blood and I turn to run back inside. I’m a fool, I think. The danger wasn’t outside, it was inside.

      I start to move and time seems to flow in slow motion. Suddenly there is pain, sharp and nauseating in the back of my skull. I fall forward into darkness.