Carillon Tower Murder

Looming white in the blue January rain, it is so "Buck Rogers," bound by rounded rectangular arches and odd gutter streaks like blaster scorches. I am Colonel Wilma Deering, reporting for duty, in a skin-tight satin flightsuit and helmet fit for Esther Williams. I stand on the round retro balcony. We attend the after-party. I slink in gold lamé Halston, one sleeve and a hole in the side to flaunt my belly chain, my henna hair ironed. He grips my shoulders with tan, Courvoisier-ad hands, and turns me. My flute spills a sparkling rose trickle; it tumbles through the railing... He kisses me full on the mouth and pushes. My eyes return to the wet pavement; it rushes upward. These bags are heavy, my fingers numb.