Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too by Nancy Martin Page A

Cupcakes T-shirt. Her gaze was alight with the fire of a girl just discovering the power of her sexuality.
    A photographer crouched beneath her at the bar, snapping pictures. The flash popped like a strobe light, drawing attention to her alone amid the other girls. Likewise, Clover projected every atom of her being directly into the lens of the camera. As if the rest of the room did not exist, she beamed herself into the world of the photographer, and somehow that made her more magnetic, more clearly the center of the Cupcakes storm.
    â€œWho’s the photographer?” I asked Delilah over the music. I pointed at the drab young woman taking pictures. She also looked very young.
    â€œNot one of the usual suspects,” Delilah replied. “You know her?”
    I shook my head. The young woman wasn’t a journalist I recognized or one of the well-known professional photographers around town.
    Still, her actions seemed to focus the whole room on Clover, who was the worst dancer but by far the most charismatic of all the girls. She was taller, livelier, more sexual than the others. Even Clover’s makeup—a lacquered-on sheen of colors dusted with sparkling powder—seemed to glow with more radiance than that of the others.
    As we watched, Clover lifted her fist to her mouth and began to lip-synch to the pop song blasting from the speakers. Her dancing companions shot her glares, but Clover didn’t care. She was the center of attention.
    I tipped my head to get a better look. “Are those real?”
    Delilah understood my meaning. “I hear it’s the latest thing. Getting a boob job for your sweet sixteen. But when my little girl gets to this age, she’s gonna get a computer and a chastity belt. You missed the first act of the floor show. Clover and ChaCha just had a screaming fight in the office.”
    â€œThey did? About what?”
    â€œI didn’t understand, really. There was a lot of cussing going on, though.” Delilah put her hand over mine. “Listen, honey, you should go home.”
    I rubbed my forehead, trying to dispel the headache that threatened. “I wanted to talk about Saturday night’s party at the museum.”
    â€œOh, Lord, did I forget something? I don’t know what’s wrong with me! Zell had me spooked, I guess.”
    â€œIt’s okay. I wanted to touch base with you, that’s all, for my piece that will run on Saturday. The invitations went out today.”
    Delilah switched gears smoothly like the professional she was. “The BlackBerry cell phone thing? Honey, that invitation is so hip I can’t stand it.”
    A few months ago, I’d been asked to make some suggestions to the art museum board to attract a new demographic of charitable donors they wanted to call the Young Collectors. The museum constantly fought the image of being a fuddy-duddy organization that catered to octogenarians who stared at old masters while sucking on their oxygen tanks. To attract new money and new energy, I had suggested an “underground” party, to be held after midnight in the museum basement, and by invitation that would go out only at the last minute via cell phone text message and by BlackBerry—the latest in high-tech gadgetry among the young, moneyed crowd. The party committee had leaped upon my ideas. But the party was only days away, and many details were still up in the air. I’d been asked to light a fire under Delilah, and I thought I could do so in the guise of asking her questions for a pre-party mention in my newspaper column. Delilah saw through my ruse.
    â€œDon’t worry,” she said. “I’ll get all the bases covered, honey, I promise. We’ll talk tomorrow if you like, when you can concentrate better. Why don’t you go home? Richard was just here. He could take you—”
    I had been massaging my temples, but stopped. “Richard’s here?”
    â€œAs big as life.