As she went down, this was the last scene that Marie-Louise registered. Her head, streaming with blood from the bullet that grazed her right temple, in perceptively missed the corner of the concrete planter. However, as she executed her death roll, her right arm cracked the edge, fracturing her wrist and dislodging the diamond necklace clasped in the palm of her hand. The broken wrist was the least of her troubles.
By the time she hit the gravel, her eyes were glassy, and her breathing non-existent. A thick, red ooze of blood puddled beneath her from the second bullet which lodged deep within her chest, creating mayhem upon entry, disintegrating her chest plate and tearing her renown bosoms to shreds. Her beige, silk ensemble purchased only last month from a grand magasin on the Champs Elysées, was of use to no-one.
The beauty of the planting was lost on her.