Drop Dead Gorgeous

By Patti Larsen

A Model’s Life

“I would die, just die, for these cheekbones, darling.” The stylist’s enthusiasm gushed through his aura as much as it emerged from his mouth, his perfect set of veneered white teeth as flawless as his own makeup, hair and carefully selected hipster casual button up, vest and dark wash jeans, the single gold earring in his right ear flashing with a well-sized diamond accent. “Honestly, and these eyelashes.” He’d already finished applying a thin layer of mascara, discarding the false set someone else had handed to him while I fought my amusement, observing my transformation in the brightly lit interior of the white tent where a collection of other locals—all of us recruited for this interesting activity of what amounted to being background props for the “real” models—chattered in their own excitement while trying on items from the racks of clothing assembled behind me. “Girl, how old did you say you were? Twenty-four?”

I allowed myself a grin at last, knowing Valiant Oslo was only being sweet—much as his heavily dosed cologne. He batted his own false lashes at me, the liner he wore so flawless I had to imagine it was somehow applied without a human hand behind it. “Forty, and thank you for the compliment.”

When Georgia agreed to join her young neighbor, Holly Henry, as background for a pro photo shoot, she wasn’t expecting to have to trade her glamorous dress for a pair of gloves when one of the crew on the set dies during the session. With the victim’s nasty personality creating multiple suspects, Georgia discovers beautiful photos can hide ugly secrets. Welcome back to the Whitewitch Island Paranormal Cozies!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patti Larsen
• Release date: Jun 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781989925249

Patti Larsen

About me, huh? Well, my official bio reads like this: Patti Larsen is a multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in her head. But that sounds so freaking formal, doesn’t it? I’m a storyteller who hears character's demands so loudly I have to write them down. I love the idea of sports even though sports hate me. I’ve dabbled in everything from improv theater to film making and writing TV shows, singing in an all girl band to running my own hair salon.But always, always, writing books calls me home.I’ve had my sights set on world literary domination for a while now. Which means getting my books out there, to you, my darling readers. It’s the coolest thing ever, this job of mine, being able to tell stories I love, only to see them all shiny and happy in your hands... thank you for reading.As for the rest of it, I’m short (permanent), slightly round (changeable) and blonde (for ever and ever). I love to talk one on one about the deepest topics and can’t seem to stop seeing the big picture. I happily live on Prince Edward Island, Canada, home to Anne of Green Gables and the most beautiful red beaches in the world, with my pug overlord and overlady, six lazy cats and Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn.

Book preview

Drop Dead Gorgeous

Whitewitch Island Paranormal Cozies: Four

Patti Larsen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2021 by Patti Larsen

Find out more about me at

http://www.pattilarsen.com

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Chapter One

I would die, just die, for these cheekbones, darling. The stylist’s enthusiasm gushed through his aura as much as it emerged from his mouth, his perfect set of veneered white teeth as flawless as his own makeup, hair and carefully selected hipster casual button-up vest and dark wash jeans, the single gold earring in his right ear flashing with a well-sized diamond accent. "Honestly, and these eyelashes. He’d already finished applying a thin layer of mascara, discarding the false set someone else had handed to him while I fought my amusement, observing my transformation in the brightly lit interior of the white tent where a collection of other locals—all of us recruited for this interesting activity of what amounted to being background props for the real models—chattered in their own excitement while trying on items from the racks of clothing assembled behind me. Girl, how old did you say you were? Twenty-four?"

I allowed myself a grin at last, knowing Valiant Oslo was only being sweet—much as his heavily dosed cologne. He batted his own false lashes at me, the liner he wore so flawless I had to imagine it was somehow applied without a human hand behind it. Forty. And thank you for the compliment.

He stood back a moment one thin hand pressing to his heart, mouth in an O of denial. "If I could only look half as good at forty, he said before finishing the mascara application and setting aside the tube to give me a solid pass of scrutiny, full lips pursing, his lip gloss shining in the bright bulbs around the mirror in front of me. Delicious, he said at last. Hair? She’s up." He snapped his fingers at the young woman waiting a few steps away, as the door to the tent swept aside and a tall, impossibly thin blonde strode in, slinking to the chair next to me and flopping herself into it with nothing at all of grace about her, head down over her phone while Valiant leaped on the twentysomething with a squeal of glee.

She barely looked up when he hugged her around her shoulders, her own full lips lifting into the proximity of a smile. Vals, she said.

Lynds, he air-kissed to her. Missed you.

The hair stylist who’d stepped in behind me grinned at them, though unlike the two now chatting quietly—with Valiant doing the bulk of the talking and the blonde model muttering to keep him going—was local. Kika Richmond knew my hair, at least, my first stylist when I came to Whitewitch Island and my go-to now for trims. Luckily for me, like my mother and grandmother, dark hair without a trace of silver ran in our family until at least the age of one hundred, so I had decades left to enjoy my black tresses. I wasn’t sure Kika believed me when I’d told her I didn’t color it but shrugged off the need to explain myself.

Magic could be used for a lot of things, including the vanity of women of a certain bloodline. I wasn’t about to argue with the feminine side of the Drakes for ensuring we didn’t gray young. Because yes, I was just as vain as they were and not apologizing for it, either.

You look amazing, Kika said, taking a moment to admire the makeup job Valiant had done. Rather a waste, really, as far as I knew, since no one would be seeing me aside from perhaps as a blurred shape in the background of the photos about to be taken. I’d only agreed to sign on for the task thanks to Holly Henry and her plea for me to join her, so she didn’t have to do it alone. And while my thirteen-year-old neighbor didn’t really require a chaperone or company, I was sure, I’d never been part of a professional photoshoot before.

I’d try anything once, though I really hoped I wasn’t going to regret this. I’d spent the last two hours waiting for instructions, walked through the setup in Parthenon Park and its picturesque gardens prior to sunset so we’d all know our place, then brought here to the prep tent in order to wait another hour before being made up and, hopefully soon, finally get to the main event.

Do you know who that is? Kika leaned in to whisper in my ear as her deft hands started shaping my hair. She’d obviously had a prior conversation with Valiant about what he wanted because she didn’t stop to ask. Her black eyes flickered toward the blonde next to me, white teeth in a huge, wide grin when she answered before I could. Lyndsi Hartleman, Kika said, rather breathless, her tightly contained curls struggling to bounce free from the red and black headscarf she wore, the silver beads she’d woven into a section of braids tinkling together as she shook her head. Amazing, right? And that’s Manning Lovato, she said, pointing out the tall, muscular and handsome young man who’d just risen from the fourth chair, discarding his robe without any sort of self-consciousness despite the multitude of people in the space, many of whom stopped to admire his gorgeous physique—yes, me included—while one of the dressers came forward with his suit. I can’t believe they’re both here on Whitewitch Island.

I had never been one to admire fame, I suppose partly because of the notoriety of my own family. Being a Drake might not have meant being pursued by paparazzi or endlessly photographed in the normal human way of things. However, my bloodline was about as powerful as they came in my world and that meant more than enough whispers, gossip and watchful discomfort so I had more sympathy than awe for the lovely young woman and man who’d at least gotten to choose this life.

Not complaining, I swear. I’d chosen, too, hadn’t I? Even if that choice meant alienating my family and distancing myself from the one person I hadn’t expected to cut me off for deciding to leave Guild Artemis and retire to this place.

Yes, my grandmother Arimanthia’s silence at my attempt to contact her still rankled. And would, more than likely, until I had the chance to talk to her in person. Which was, I’d decided, her point. She didn’t want to have this conversation through any channel but a direct one and the fact I’d failed to say goodbye?

Time to take some responsibility for her refusal to speak to me.

And. Annoyed.

I realized I was staring at Manning’s lusciously warm brown skin as he slid into a cream silk shirt, caught his dark gaze locked on me, and actually blushed. I hadn’t meant to, was thinking of other things, and offered an apologetic smile before breaking eye contact. Not that I minded the slow wink he’d give me or the sweet grin, but honestly, I wasn’t looking for anything and hoped I didn’t give the wrong impression.

After all, I was in the middle of working out some kind of arrangement with the utterly delightful and now open and honest Sam Spencer. My former handyman and now relicensed psychologist had shifted from the quiet, reserved and withdrawn center of my attraction to the confident and charismatic person I knew he was supposed to be. Thanks to his liberation from the past, he’d undergone a remarkable transition. I’d thought him attractive before, but now that Sam was himself again in all his brilliant, open courageousness and humor?

Georgia Drake. Carnal thoughts were not appropriate at the moment.

Of course, we were taking things slowly and I had to admit a renewed sense of discomfort, but not from his lack of sharing. I struggled with my own and the fact I was unable to tell him the utter truth about who I was and why I’d come to Whitewitch Island. And of course, he knew the broad strokes and I’d managed to explain more detail in terms he’d understand without revealing who I really was, but there was no getting around that moment of dishonesty that was me hiding my nature.

Which had me turning down dinner with his parents, Josephine and Lee Spencer, out of concern I might accidentally say or do something I shouldn’t. Sam didn’t seem to mind, and while we weren’t exactly keeping our budding relationship a secret, I needed to figure out a way to either let go of my unhappiness about lying to him or set him free to find someone worthy of him.

Talking with my friend, FBI SSA Tabitha Canard, didn’t help. My question about how she managed it, leaving Guild Artemis herself to take on a role with the Bureau and marry a normal human, having normal human (so far) children, was met with, Just lie to him. The fact Tab was okay with it, had a game plan that involved private school (in other words, shipping them off to a guild institution for training) if any of her children showed power, wasn’t new. In fact, I was surprised to find such falsehoods were typical for many of our kind who’d chosen that path. I’d never really considered the implications, and honestly, the status quo should have been permissive enough I could do the same rather than fight for the right to tell my chosen life partner—I was so getting ahead of myself, but that was my inquisitor brain for you—who I really was.

Why then did I feel like I couldn’t commit to anyone if I wasn’t able to be completely honest?

Georgia! Holly joined me, her slim body draped in an evening gown far too grown up for her thirteen years but, I knew, appropriate for the shoot itself. She’d already sat with makeup and hair and was now ready, it appeared, looking far too close to twenty for my comfort. When did I become a fuddy-duddy? "You look gorgeous."

Doesn’t she? And so do you, miss. Kika took a second from my hair to snatch a bobby pin, swiftly and deftly using it to secure a sliver of Holly’s blonde hair back into the updo she wore.

Thanks, Kika. I glanced over my young friend’s shoulder, noting the trio of giggling girls I’d encountered before, the same three who’d snubbed Holly in the past and earned my dislike for their mean girl attitudes. When I arched an eyebrow at her, Holly smiled, though I could tell there was tension in her, the way she carried herself, how she refused to look their way. It’s almost dark, she said. We’ll be shooting soon.

Not without the star of the show, you won’t, Kika said. As the tent flap opened one more time and someone I could only describe as a queen strode in, her tall, voluptuous body wrapped in a multi-colored sarong, thick, black hair spun into spirals of shining curls cascading over one shoulder, her skin the darkest I’d ever seen a contrast to her huge, amber eyes made up in gold and bronze. Clearly, she’d been undergoing her own transformation in another space, though Valiant whistled and waved to her, the regal and confident woman waving back with perfect poise my mother would envy.

Kika’s soft gasp of joy had me smiling at her while she fangirled with both hands clasping over her heart. Bardot Esté, she said. I can die, now.

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Chapter Two

It was obvious as the stunning model swept her way toward the clothing rack, that she was the center of attention and couldn’t care less about it. She did pause to kiss Manning on the cheek, to murmur a few words to this assistant and that dresser, everyone beaming smiles at her. All but the sullenly glaring Lyndsi Hartleman who refused to look up from her phone after her initial recognition of Bardot’s entry.

Did you pick me something to wear? I decided to focus on Holly since this was her idea and hopefully to sideline her lingering unhappiness with being snubbed by the girls she clearly wished she could join.

There’s this black sequined dress I know you’d look amazing in, she gushed, the distraction attempt working, it seemed, while Kika layered on what felt like an entire can of spray over my piled hair, her clever hands finished creating a towering waterfall of curving lines and cascading