Show Business is Murder

Blonde Moment by ELAINE VIETS

“KILLER,” SAID JASON the producer, as he admired the blonde in the blue dress.

“Kill her,” is what Evelyn Blent heard.

That’s exactly what she wanted to do. Kill Tiffany Tyler Taylor.

It was Jason who gave Evelyn the idea to kill Tiffany. It was Evelyn’s grandmother who showed her how to do it.

Tiffany. The little blonde was sitting at her new morning show set for the first time, but she looked like she’d been there forever. Breakfast With Tiffany the show was called, and the new set was created for her. It was all in shades of blue-sky blue and Dresden blue, peacock, azure, and sapphire-to set off Tiffany’s rich buttery blondeness.

Blonde ambition, that’s what Tiffany was. Five-feet-two inches of simpering, slithering ambition. Tiffany was after Evelyn’s anchor slot. Evelyn knew it. There was only one reason why she’d get it. She was blonde.

Whenever Tiffany Tyler Taylor walked through station KQZX, every man looked at her like he’d been marooned for a decade on a desert island. From the station manager to the mail clerks, the men stared at Tiffany with dazed looks and sappy smiles. But Evelyn knew the station manager-Mighty Milt, as his toadies called him-was the real problem. In TV, mistakes started at the top. If Milt didn’t treat Tiffany as his golden girl, that brown-noser Jason wouldn’t fawn over her.

Jason was Evelyn’s producer, too, but he had only perfunctory praise for Evelyn. “Nice job,” he’d say. Or, “Thanks for covering that light plane crash. Nobody else would be on the scene at five A.M.”

Certainly not Tiffany Tyler Taylor. She’d never trudge through a muddy field to get to the crash site. She’d mess up her little blue shoes.

But Jason never looked at Evelyn in that same dreamy way. Even Rick, a cynical, sarcastic cameraman, stared at Tiffany and said with a lovesick sigh, “God, she looks good.”

“She’s a poodle,” snarled Evelyn. “An empty-headed little nothing. What is wrong with you, Rick? You’ve never fallen in love with the talent before.”

Rick shrugged. “Blondes are easier to light,” he said.

Evelyn almost believed him. When the harsh TV lights hit Tiffany, her blonde hair glowed like molten gold. She looked like a blue angel with Meg Ryan bangs.

Evelyn looked dark and a little angry on TV. Her brunette hair seemed to absorb light. Her olive skin created strange shadows. TV did odd things to her. If Evelyn gained a pound or two, the camera gave her a double chin and a pouchy stomach. That never happened to Tiffany Tyler Taylor. She always looked petite and perfect.

Tiffany couldn’t get a scoop in an ice cream parlor. But St. Louis viewers were as dazzled as the fools at the station. In six months, Tiffany rose from feature reporter to morning show host. Now Evelyn was afraid that Tiffany would go after the ultimate prize-Evelyn’s own hard-won spot as six o’clock anchor.

Already Tiffany had made two guest appearances on St. Louis’ highest-rated news show. Co-anchor Dick Nickerson threw back his head and laughed so hard at Tiffany’s mild (and scripted) joke about the weather that his comb-over flopped up like a pot lid. Dick got derisive letters from readers, calling him a drapehead. He didn’t care. Dick adored Tiffany.

Nobody but Evelyn saw the hard little climber under that soft surface. Nobody but Evelyn heard Tiffany’s catty remarks.

“Eeuww, are you really eating a bacon sandwich for lunch?” said Tiffany, pointing at Evelyn’s BLT. “Bacon has nitrates and nitrites. And it’s bad for your skin.” Evelyn could feel the zits popping out on her face like dandelions after a rain.

“Bacon makes you fat,” Tiffany said, staring at Evelyn’s waistline until she felt her gut plop over her belt.

“That’s why I stick to salads,” she said, smugly. She tapped her green-heaped plate with her fork. Then Tiffany stuck her knife in Evelyn’s back. “But I suppose a mature woman like yourself doesn’t have to worry about her figure.”

“Mature” was not a compliment in television. Tiffany had called her old and fat. No one else heard the insult.

Another time Tiffany suggested that Evelyn get some blonde highlights in her dark hair. “The lighter color around your face will make you look ten years younger,” she said. “Go to Mr. John. He’s the best colorist in the city. You’ll look so natural.”

No one heard that little dig, either.

Only Evelyn heard Tiffany on the phone to her stockbroker every afternoon before the markets closed. Only Evelyn seemed to catch Tiffany calling her agent. That’s when Tiffany dropped all pretense of being the city’s sweetheart.

“I don’t know how I can live on a lousy two-hundred-fifty thousand a year,” St. Louis’s sweety pie hissed. Evelyn would love to have that quote on tape. She’d play it for all the Tiffany fans who said, “She’s so down-to-earth.”

Evelyn saw red when she heard how much green the gold-digging Goldilocks was trying to pry out of the station. Evelyn didn’t make near that, and she’d been at the station ten years.

It was time to have a talk with her mentor, Margaret Smithson. Evelyn would demand to know why she was underpaid and underrated. Margaret would make things right.

Evelyn’s anger boiled and seethed as she marched across the newsroom. It burst like a geyser when she opened Margaret’s office door, and she spewed out a stream of hot words.

“Stop it!” Margaret said. “Evelyn, you must stop this stupid jealousy.”

Evelyn felt like she’d been slapped. Margaret looked small and stern in her smart black suit. She weighed about ninety-five pounds, and most of that was her mop of dark hair. But Margaret was tough. Right now, she turned that toughness on Evelyn.

“Your petty jabs at Tiffany are getting back to the wrong people. I’m warning you. They’ll come back and bite you in the ass.”

“You’re on her side, too,” Evelyn said. She knew she sounded whiny.

“I am not,” Margaret said. Even when she was angry, Margaret was striking. She had black hair, dark blue eyes, and pale skin. Evelyn often wondered why Margaret wasn’t on camera. But Margaret preferred to be a special projects producer. Everything she touched turned to Emmy gold. The lustrous statues lined the shelves above her desk.

“I’m on your side, Evelyn. But you’re making yourself look bad. It’s contract renewal time, and I have to tell you: Milt is talking about making Tiffany the six o’clock anchor. I think I can head him off, but I don’t know for how long if you keep undermining yourself. Milt wants team players.”

“It isn’t a team. It’s a support system for Tiffany,” said Evelyn, bitterly.

“See, that’s what I mean,” Margaret said. “How many times have I told you? Success in television is by the numbers. Right now, Tiffany has them. Viewers will tire of her professional cuteness. They always do. Then Milt will decide she’s overpaid and dump her. She’ll be gone soon. Sit tight and keep your mouth shut.”

But the next morning, while Tiffany was doing a live remote in front of City Hall, a yellow blur of fur raced by her and ran into Market Street. The whole city saw Tiffany run after the dog and rescue it, just before it slipped under the wheels of a truck. In case anyone missed the dramatic rescue, it was shown on the six and ten o’clock news.

The following morning, Tiffany was on the set with the little yellow mutt. Saved and savior looked remarkably alike. Both were small and perky, with yellow hair and floppy bangs. Both oozed cuteness. The mutt licked Tiffany, and Tiffany smooched the dog. Evelyn couldn’t decide which one she wanted to kick first.

Evelyn nearly choked on her breakfast eggs when Tiffany announced a contest to name the dog. She lost her appetite totally three days later when Tiffany said she’d received two thousand e-mails and faxes. Evidently, viewers also thought Tiffany looked like her dog. The winning name was Tiffany Too.

A week later, Milt sent out a memo that Tiffany and Tiffany Too would be featured at the Fair Saint Louis on the Fourth of July. Tiffany would be the dayside anchor, then do color commentary on the fireworks that night.

Every year, some two million people sweltered on the St. Louis Riverfront, under the Gateway Arch. The temperature and the humidity were in the nineties-if the city was lucky. Sometimes, it was a hundred degrees or more.

The staff complained about covering the three-day fair in the broiling St. Louis sun, but they knew it was a career showcase. For four years running, Evelyn had been the dayside anchor and nightside commentator. This year, Milt’s memo demoted her to a lowly reporter. She’d be trudging through the almost liquid heat to interview boring people who said things like, “We’re having a wonderful time. There’s nothing like this in Festus.”

Milt gave that sneaky, simpering blonde Evelyn’s assignment at the fair. Soon she’d have Evelyn’s anchor slot, too.

Evelyn told her mentor Margaret that she felt sick and wanted to go home. She wasn’t lying. Her stomach heaved when she read Milt’s memo. She barely made it to the restroom before she threw up.

Evelyn had to save her career before that fair-haired fathead took everything from her. She felt hot angry tears. This was dangerous. She couldn’t be seen crying in the newsroom.

She ran to her BMW and started driving anywhere, nowhere. She didn’t want to think. But Evelyn’s driving was not aimless after all. She found herself on Christopher Drive, the road to Granny’s house in the country. Granny was common sense itself. She’d help Evelyn.

Granny was the last real grandmother in America. No facelifts and hair dyes for her. Granny had a comfortable flour-sack figure and crinkly gray hair.

Granny’s little white house had yellow plastic lawn ducks and red geraniums. It was surrounded by acres of Missouri woods. Across the street was a horse pasture. Subdivisions were creeping up the road, but you couldn’t see them yet.

Granny had grown up on a farm in Tennessee, and she loved to talk about old-time remedies from her girlhood. As a teenager, Evelyn was disgusted when Granny told her that country people used to tie moldy bread to a bad cut to cure the infection.

Later on, Evelyn realized they were using a primitive form of penicillin.

Of course, not all of Granny’s old-time remedies were useful. Evelyn didn’t believe a pan of water under a bed would break a fever, but it did no harm.

Granny ran outside when she heard Evelyn’s car and gave her a comforting hug. Evelyn breathed in her grandmother’s old-fashioned violet sachet. Granny’s kitchen was perfumed with the warm sweetness of fresh-baked blackberry pie.

“You’re too thin,” Granny said, which made Evelyn feel better. You could never be too thin on TV.

“And how’s my other favorite TV girl?” said Granny.

“Who’s that?” said Evelyn, as she felt her insides go dead. Had that tinselly Tiffany seduced her Granny?

“The little blonde who rescued that dog,” Granny said. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“Too bad there’s nothing in it,” said Evelyn.

“Evelyn, is that the green-eyed monster I see in your eyes?” said Granny.

“No,” Evelyn lied.

“Then have some homemade pie and tell me why you’re dropping in on me in the middle of the day,” Granny said.

“Because I haven’t seen you in awhile,” said Evelyn. She couldn’t tell Granny the real reason. Not now. Not after she knew Granny was a Tiffany worshiper.

Granny cut a big slice from the blackberry pie cooling on the rack. Warm purple juice oozed out on the plate and dripped on the counter, but Granny ignored it. She was staring out the window.

“Those new people have their white horse in that pasture again on a sunny day,” Granny said. “They know that field’s full of rue plants. I’ve told them and told them, but they won’t listen to me. Damn yuppies think I don’t know anything. If that horse suffers, it’s their fault.”

“What’s wrong with rue?” asked Evelyn.

“It’s poisonous to white animals, especially in the sunshine,” said Granny. “Grows right there.” She pointed to some weedy-looking plants by the pasture fence.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Evelyn said. “Why would they poison only white animals?”

“Don’t know, but they do,” Granny said. “Poison white people, too.”

“Come on, Granny, plants don’t discriminate,” said Evelyn. She wondered if age was eroding Granny’s sharp mind.

“I mean really white people, like blondes. It won’t hurt dark-haired types like you,” Granny said. “And that’s no old wives’ tale. It’s a scientific fact. If white animals eat rue, celery, and plants like that, then stand in bright sunlight, they can get real sick.

“But a chestnut horse can eat the same plants and nothing happens. Dark-haired animals and people don’t get sick. The plants are only poisonous to very white people and white animals.”

“What happens?” asked Evelyn.

Granny loved to describe symptoms. “Their face, throat, and eyelids swell up,” she said gleefully. “They get dizzy and stagger around like they’re drunk.” Granny staggered around the kitchen, clutching the purple pie knife to her chest.

“Happened to your Aunt Virginia,” she said solemnly.

Evelyn tried to picture her stout gray-haired aunt staggering. “When?”

“When Virginia was a young girl. At the Cedar Springs church picnic,” Granny said. “I know you’ll find it hard to believe, but Virginia was a little bit of a thing then, and had platinum-blonde hair down to her hips. Wild as a March hare, too. Some boy dared her to eat a plant in a field. Your Aunt Virginia saw a brown horse eating it and figured it was safe. But it was rue. Her throat swelled up terrible. That girl liked to died. Couldn’t get Virginia to touch anything green again, not even a plain old lettuce salad.”

Evelyn could see another little blonde eating a salad, then going out into the sweltering Fair Saint Louis sunshine. She could see her white throat swelling and closing up, and the blonde staggering and dying just before the paramedics arrived.

Then Evelyn saw herself taking back the fair assignment that was rightfully hers.

Granny had given her the solution to the Tiffany problem after all. In fact, she’d served it on a plate.

“What’s this phenomenon called?” Evelyn asked.

“Photo… photo… photo-something,” Granny said.

Photosensitization.

“A pathological sensitivity caused by eating certain plants that are not ordinarily poisonous,” Evelyn’s researches at the library revealed.

“A form of light dermatosis,” said one old book that was a virtual manual for poisoners. Evelyn couldn’t risk checking it out, so she stole it from the library, burying it in her briefcase. At home, she read the section on photosensitization over and over, gloating over each sentence.

“Its symptoms are an inflammatory swelling of the ears, face, and eyelids, with throat and lung disturbances, dizziness and a tendency to stagger,” the book said. “When, in rare instances, death follows, it is due to mechanical asphyxia from the swelling of the nose and throat.”

Death would be nice, Evelyn thought. But she would settle for seeing the golden girl swell up like a red balloon. Maybe she’d pop, right on camera.

Evelyn giggled, but it was not a cute Tiffany Tyler Taylor giggle.

Her researches only got better: Rue and celery, especially the green leafy parts of celery, were rich in furanocourmarins. The name alone was enough to make you turn red and swell.

Some people were supersensitive to them. They’d get a horrible sunburn-like reaction. The lighter-skinned you were, the more intense the reaction. Especially if you went out into the sun.

And if you were taking a drug like Coumadin, it further intensified the reaction, Evelyn read. Lots of people took the blood thinner Coumadin. It was also the main ingredient in rat poison.

All Evelyn had to do was make a nice salad with rue and celery, then spice it with a little rat poison. Not enough to make a brunette sick. Just enough to blow up a little blonde.

It was so easy.

Evelyn knew where to get the rue plants. The pasture near Granny’s was filled with them.

Evelyn knew how she would serve them, too. She’d make a field greens salad, then add the rue. It was a field green, too. When people were chomping baby oak leaves and stuff that looked like it had been raked off a lawn, who’d notice some rue? Then she’d sprinkle on green celery leaves for color. Everyone used celery.

A cheese dressing would disguise any bitter taste. I’ll make raspberry vinaigrette with Gorgonzola, she thought. I’ll add walnuts and dried cranberries to make it nice and healthy.

For everyone but Tiffany.

For good measure, she’d Cuisinart a little rat poison and add it to the dressing. It would blend in with the herbs and spices. She’d calculate exactly the medicinal dose for a small woman-divided by three salad eaters. Sun, celery, rue-and rat poison. Tiffany would rue the day she went after anything of Evelyn’s.

There was one problem. How would she get Tiffany to eat the salad? Everyone knew Evelyn hated the woman. She barely said hello to Tiffany in the newsroom. She had one month to make friends with her enemy: Evelyn would have to swallow her pride so Tiffany would swallow her salad.

Next morning, Evelyn walked into Margaret’s office and said, “You’re right. It’s time I buried the hatchet.”

“In Tiffany’s forehead?” Margaret said, suspiciously.

“For real,” Evelyn said. “Yesterday, I had some time to think about what you said. I’m only hurting myself. I want to take Tiffany to lunch. My treat. Would you come as referee?”

“Delighted,” Margaret said, her pale face turning pink with pleasure. “I’m so happy you’re taking my advice.”

Tiffany was wary when Evelyn invited her, even when she explained that Margaret would be there, too. But she could not resist Evelyn’s handsome apology. “I’ve behaved stupidly, Tiffany,” she said. “I want this lunch to be a peace offering.”

Tiffany looked flattered. She considered Evelyn’s olive branch a tribute to her power. During a two-hundred-dollar lunch at a premier power spot, Tiffany prattled on about her favorite subject-herself.

“Tiffany Too and I are the marshals for the Hill Day parade,” she said, while the worshipful waiter refilled Tiffany’s water glass, and forgot Evelyn’s.

The Hill was the Italian section of the city. “Your dog will love the fire hydrants,” said Evelyn. “They’re painted red, white, and green.”

“Oh, no, she isn’t allowed out of the parade marshal’s convertible,” Tiffany said seriously. “Not in those crowds.”

Tiffany babbled on. Mentor Margaret smiled benignly. Evelyn cut her swordfish into smaller and smaller pieces until the waiter took her plate away. No one ordered dessert. The reconciliation lunch was over, and declared a success.

Evelyn suffered through two more Tiffany lunches with Margaret’s approving company. Because she silently endured Tiffany’s monologues, the beastly blonde now considered Evelyn her friend.

“I can talk to you,” she said. “You’re such a good listener.”

Peace was declared. The nasty newsroom rumors ceased, and the gossip mongers went after the noonshow anchor, who was having an affair with the consumer reporter. The jokes about what she was consuming were relentless.

At their third lunch, Tiffany finally gave Evelyn the opening she needed.

“I’m not looking forward to covering the fair,” Tiffany said, sighing dramatically. Evelyn knew Tiffany was dying for an excuse to talk about her big assignment. At least, Evelyn hoped the twit would be dying.

“It’s going to be such a long day,” Tiffany cooed. “Almost ten hours. The station is keeping Tiffany Too in the air-conditioned satellite truck. My little puppy will be cool, but I’ll be out on the hot fairgrounds all day from eleven o’clock on.”

Evelyn ground her teeth as she thought of Tiffany’s taking over her assignment, but she forced herself to sound sympathetic. “That is a long day. What are you doing about lunch?”

Tiffany shuddered delicately. “I can either eat the station’s food-tuna salad and ham sandwiches-all fat-or the fair food-hot dogs and buffalo burgers. Yuck.”

Actually, the fair offered delicacies from chicken satay to, yes, buffalo burgers. But how would Tiffany know? She’d never covered the fair.

“I come in at noon,” Evelyn said. “How about if I bring salads for you, me, and Margaret? I have this terrific recipe, with field greens, Gorgonzola, walnuts, and dried cranberries. A good healthy salad will get us through the day.”

“Super!” said Tiffany. “You’re a lifesaver!”

Yeah, thought Evelyn. I’m saving my life. And my career.

The night before the fair, Evelyn drove to the pasture near Granny’s and climbed over the fence. Her pants were full of stickleburrs and her hands were scratched with brambles, but she picked the plants she needed by moonlight. The lights were off at her grandmother’s house. Deep shadows along the pasture fence hid Evelyn. Even the night conspired to help her.

In the morning, she concocted the salad, adding the freshly picked rue to the store-bought field greens. She made her salad dressing with a carefully calibrated dose of rat poison. It was the exact dosage for one small healthy woman. Divided by three, of course. Because they’d all be sharing the salad.

She put the salad into a big disposable bowl. She would make sure everyone saw there was only one salad container. At lunch, she served the salad on paper plates, dividing the poisonous portions exactly in three.

“Delicious,” Tiffany said, eating her salad greedily.

“Perfection!” said Margaret. Evelyn was too excited to eat. She forced herself to finish her salad.

After lunch, Evelyn gathered up the serving bowl, paper plates, and forks; even the napkins. After Margaret and Tiffany left, Evelyn threw the trash into an overflowing can at the far end of the fair. The incriminating remains would be taken away by the trash haulers long before Tiffany’s first symptom.

All three women worked in the sweltering afternoon sun. Tiffany, with Margaret’s award-winning assistance, was interviewing the big stars performing on the main stage. Evelyn went with Rick the cameraman for what he called “Bubba bites”-sound bites from dreary fairgoers.

After they interviewed a hefty woman from Herculaneum and a downright fat man from Florissant with two chubby children, Rick whispered to Evelyn, “Is there a weight requirement for this fair? Do you have to weigh at least two hundred pounds to get in the gate?”

Evelyn loved his misanthropic remarks. The sun was beating on her with almost physical blows. Sweat dripped off her nose. She knew on camera her face would look oily and her hair would look French-fried. She prayed that same sun was working on Tiffany’s white skin.

When they heard sirens near the main stage, Rick said, “Maybe one of the fairgoers melted. Let’s go see if there’s some video.”

More sirens screamed. Now police cars, fire trucks, and an ambulance were heading toward the main stage. The music stopped abruptly.

“What happened?” Evelyn asked a woman running from the area, clutching her baby protectively.

“Some TV lady started staggering around and grabbing her throat,” the woman said. “Her face swelled up something awful. Even her eyes were swollen shut. She looked horrible. I didn’t want my Becky to see it.”

Yes! thought Evelyn triumphantly, but she made concerned noises.

Rick was running surprisingly fast for someone with a heavy video camera. He loped past Evelyn. Other fairgoers were running after him, eager to see the tragedy. Evelyn felt a sharp elbow in her ribs. A small boy darted between her legs and she fell on the dry grass.

By the time Evelyn brushed herself off, the excitement was almost over. She saw the paramedics loading a stretcher with a small figure strapped to it. The figure was absolutely still, although the ambulance left with lights flashing and sirens howling.

Evelyn composed her face into a sorrowful mask to hide her glee. She didn’t know if Tiffany was sick or dead, but she was definitely out of action. The fair was hers now. Evelyn would return to her rightful place on camera.

She went looking for Margaret. The satellite truck would be the logical choice. At least someone there could tell her where Margaret was. Evelyn was about to enter when the door opened slowly. Out stepped Tiffany. Her hated rival looked disgustingly healthy.

“How? What?” was all a stunned Evelyn could manage.

“Oh, Evelyn,” said Tiffany, her blue eyes tearing artistically. “Margaret started gasping and choking and staggering around like she was having some kind of fit. Nobody knew what happened to her, and by the time the ambulance got there, she wasn’t breathing at all. It was terrible. They don’t think she’s going to make it.”

“Margaret?” Evelyn said. “Are you sure?”

What had gone wrong? Margaret was a brunette. If rue plants made blondes sick, why was Tiffany well and Margaret dying? Damn Granny and her crazy country remedies.

Blonde Tiffany had eaten no more salad than anyone. But brunette Margaret had the severe symptoms. Evelyn had eaten the greens, too, and they’d had no effect on her. They certainly weren’t poisonous to one brunette-why another?

“I must see Margaret,” Evelyn said.

But Jason, her producer, stopped her. “I’m sorry, Evelyn,” he said. “You can’t do anything for Margaret. We need you to carry on with the fair coverage.”

But she couldn’t. Evelyn couldn’t concentrate. She missed her first cue for the live remote at the food booths. When she was finally on the air, she looked sweaty and disheveled. Several viewers called the station, asking if Evelyn was drunk. But it was shock, not booze, that slurred her speech.

Evelyn’s “Bubba bites,” the interviews with the boring fairgoers, were dropped to make room for the special report on the death of Emmy-award-winning producer Margaret Smithson.

Tiffany narrated that report. Everyone agreed that she did a splendid job, showing just the right amount of professional sympathy. Tiffany’s story about sharing her salad with the deceased was especially touching.

Evelyn drifted in a fog, waiting for the autopsy results. Maybe the pathologist would find something that would exonerate her. Maybe Margaret had been stung by a bee and gone into shock. Maybe Evelyn didn’t kill her mentor and best friend.

But when the report was released, Evelyn knew there would be no reprieve. Margaret had extensive swelling of the face, lips, and tongue. She’d suffocated. The details were too horrible to think about.

The pathologist said the severe symptoms were caused by an overdose of Coumadin. Margaret had been taking the blood thinner for her heart. The pathologist believed Margaret had mistakenly taken a double dose of Coumadin and died from it. Her death was an accident.

Only Evelyn knew it was no accident. Only Evelyn knew she’d killed her best friend. And she couldn’t figure out how.

At the station, Evelyn stumbled through her standups, missed deadlines, flubbed her lines. She felt numb. She didn’t care, not even when the station did not renew her contract. She knew Tiffany would take her anchor spot.

She didn’t know why Margaret died, and that made her crazy.

Margaret had only had one-third of a normal dose of Coumadin. It shouldn’t have killed her, even if she was already taking the blood thinner. The sun, celery, and rue might intensify the effect, but Margaret was a brunette. It should have been blonde Tiffany who swelled up from the sun exposure. It should have been Tiffany who died.

All Evelyn could do was ask herself, “What went wrong?”

She found out at Margaret’s memorial service. Margaret’s grieving family displayed photos of their daughter throughout her too-short life.

Evelyn saw the first-grade picture of a grinning gap-toothed Margaret. The little girl was blonde-and not just blonde, but so pale her hair was almost white. In high school, a teenage Margaret used too much eyebrow pencil and mascara to darken her pale brows and eyelashes.

By college, Margaret was a stunning platinum blonde. It was only after graduation, when she got her first job at a little station in Sedalia, Missouri, that Margaret had dark hair. She was a brunette in every photo after that.

“You were Margaret’s best friend,” said her mother, a plump gray-haired woman in black. She took both of Evelyn’s hands in hers.

“I didn’t know she was a blonde,” blurted Evelyn.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Margaret had lovely hair. Natural platinum. But Margaret said she couldn’t take the ‘dumb blonde’ jokes at work. She said when she dyed her hair dark, her IQ went up 50 points.”

That’s where I went wrong, Evelyn thought.

Margaret was blonde. And Tiffany? She remembered why Dolly Parton said she wasn’t offended by dumb blonde jokes. “… I know I’m not dumb. I also know that I’m not blonde.”

Tiffany must have dyed her hair blonde. She recalled her nasty remarks about Mr. John being the city’s finest colorist… “so natural.” Of course. He certainly made Tiffany look natural. That’s why the poison salad didn’t bother her. She wasn’t a real blonde.

It was the ultimate blonde joke on a dumb brunette. It never occurred to Evelyn that Tiffany was a bottle blonde. She should have known. Everything else about her was fake. And in TV, mistakes start at the top.

Evelyn realized Margaret’s mother was still holding her hands and talking. “I told her, ‘Margaret, it is a sin and a shame to cover up that beautiful platinum hair.’ And you know what she said? ‘Mother, I would rather die than be a blonde.’

“Evelyn? Are you okay? Why, you’re white as a sheet, dear. Sit down here. It’s not healthy to be that white…”