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She was less than thirty, and plastic surgery had already ruined her face.
“What do you want, Margaux?” Brother George spat.
“I want my deadbeat child to come home and help his family in our time of need. Instead of hiding and playing dress-up in some fake paradise in the forest, he should keep his family out of jail.”
“Based on this, I’d say he was right to leave,” Brother George said.
One of the older monks practically fainted, putting his head down between his hands.
“Take off the costume and come home, Brother George. Who needs God when you’re Cecil LeClaire?” Margaux asked, hanging up on the monks.
Six short years ago, Brother George was the heir to a multi- million-dollar fashion empire he did not want: LeClaire Model Management.
As the monks gave Brother George bewildered stares, Muffintop flopped onto the table.
“Down, cat. Down,” one of the monks barked.
But an undeterred Muffintop pranced down the refectory runway, flabby belly swaying triumphantly like the fringe on a dancer’s dress. Her stubby legs barely peeked out from beneath the fat rolls.
“Get her off the table. Off. She’s got bloody paws!”
She tilted her head up with pride, showing off her trophy kill, which was a bit presumptuous as Muffintop never actually caught the mice herself. She stole them out of mousetraps and took all the credit.
“Muffintop!” Brother George yelled, climbing off the bench. “Please don’t drop the mouse’s head on the table.”
He stuck his hand out, and Muffintop plopped an object into his palm. But it wasn’t a mouse head. It was a piece of blood- soaked cardboard.
Muffintop rubbed her neck against Brother George’s wrist, giving off a contented purr.
The chapel bells chimed for vespers, but as the refectory