Excerpt: A Darling Death- (A Dagney Darling Thriller)

A Darling Death
A Dagney Darling Thriller
Chapter 1.
An Appetizer Before Dying

The ballpoint pen, the end of which had previously been resting on firm, pouty lips, now flowed smoothly along the powder blue notepad with the grace and style usually associated with an Olympic ice skater; the letters flowing together creating words in a rapid, yet graceful progression. The penmanship was surprisingly crafted, despite the rapidity at which the marks were created. The words would have appeared to be a strange code to the casual on-looker, but to the author, they made perfect sense and were of vital importance to the coming days:
Weinsteins-230 people.
Jacques of Orange County; phone to confirm Tuesday; menu as featured in last month’s issue of Bon Appetite.
Miguel to return with bid for floral arrangements. Expect further resistance. Remind him who used him after Gerard incident and furthered his career with exposure to East Hamptons television chef.
Esther Weinstein’s nephew music (?) Delicate issue as a) he is hosts nephew, and b) he is a god-awful, talentless troll with an over active libido, grabby hands, and zero couth and musical tastes.
The pen stopped its dance and went back to the pouty lips. Dagney Darling sighed. She tilted her head back, and her long, dark hair- tied back in her customary work ponytail- brushed against the white pillow behind her. Dagney looked at the blue pad which rested on her right knee which was crooked; her left leg stretched outward lengthwise on the white couch she now lounged upon. This couch, along with the ponytail, were customary tools for her party pre-planning stage; tools that while necessary and obligatory in her current profession, were in stark contrast to those she had used in her previous life.

Dagney Darling, aged 30; much sought after party planner to the wealthy and influential, let her right leg slip down alongside the left; the pad of notes dropping along with it. The lithe young woman pulled both arms behind her to stretch; letting the tension and frustration she was feeling with the upcoming Weinstein fund raiser slip away. Her arms popped slightly and she sighed again, feeling the energy return to her slightly. The Weinstein’s were influential; a successful event planned by Dagney would increase her marketability as well as her profitability. Not that Dagney wasn’t already becoming well known within the upper-class circle; she had already engineered a few well received, highly profiled events, and was already becoming known for her creativity, her ability to think fast under pressure (and budget), and as for Dagney personally, her charm itself was only surpassed by her beauty. It was true that Dagney was sought after for her event planning skills as much as she was for her desirability as a woman. The sons, nephews, brothers (and, unfortunately at times, husbands) of her wealthy clients made no hesitations in their pursuit of her as something more than a vendor. Already she had rebuked several offers of dates, long-term companionships, a few marriages, and even a fast romp in a limo parked in the underground lot of the Shasta Convention center by a newly bar-mitzvah-ed Gerald Rabowitz. The Weinstein Fund raiser, however, would be an important jewel in her already expanding event planning crown.
At this point, Dagney knew that she was stuck; trying too hard. She had most of her vendors lined up for the event which was less than three weeks away, but she was stuck for a theme. To this date, all of her parties had also become quite well known for there themes. Each event had evolved into what was known as an Event; capital “e”, and the Weinstein affair could be no different. In fact, she must somehow outdo herself this time.
Dagney rose. She moved as she always did, even under normal circumstances, with an elegant cat-like flow. The slight twitch of her hips and the small steps she took made you almost expect to see a tail peaking out from the back-end of her hounds tooth Capri’s’. Yet her movements were not comical; they were not some Mae West parody, nor were they the gyrations of a pole dancing entertainer. Dagney’s graceful walk was, while subtle and unobtrusive, imbibed with the same elegant power of a cat of prey.
Dagney moved to the long brown wet-bar of her fabulously appointed San Francisco apartment, and began to concoct her signature drink: vodka on the rocks, three limes. Taking a sip, Dagney began to let the thoughts of the fundraiser slip away from her; much as the cold liquid slipped past her ample lips. She moved her gaze through the apartment, letting her eyes wander outside the siding glass door to the balcony some thirty floors up, and toward the grey clouds which were beginning their customary hug of the Bay Area. Almost in a capitulation to cliché, shapes in the clouds began to take form of recognizable images in the mind of Dagney Darling. Images of a past she did not dwell upon; not because she harbored any pain or resentment, but because they were, in fact, the past. Always forward, Dagney’s father, a naval captain had always told her, never back. Damn right, daddy, she thought, never back. Full speed ahead.
It was at this moment the soft knock came to the door of her apartment. So soft that when Dagney turned to face the door, the tinkling of the ice in her glass sounded louder in her ears than did the knock; so softly that had anyone else been in the apartment with the young woman they surely would not have heard it. But Dagney, who, among her many attributes was possessed of keen hearing, heard the soft tapping. Her brow furrowed. Why would anyone rap so softly at a door she wondered? As if the question had been spoken aloud, there was a sturdier rap at the door, followed by two outright pounds. Dagney moved toward the door; her eye instinctively judging the distance from the doorknob and her left hand to the letter opener on the near-by end table and her right hand. Dagney reached for the large brass doorknob on the dark wooden door and turned the knob, pulling the door open swiftly yet cautiously. The figure on the other side was a male; Dagney at once recognized the face, the short brown hair, parted conservatively on the left side, the cool grey eyes behind the smart glasses; all of this she recognized despite the blood that now seeped into those eyes, the bruises swelling upon the cheeks of the handsome, boyish face, the bloodied and swollen bottom lip.
“Hello, kitten,” said Thomas Mason. He then promptly collapsed onto the floor of Dagney Darling’s fabulously appointed apartment.