Chapter 6
SIX
Rikki
Once Tania Marie stalks off, the room is mine. I check out Bobby Warren, who has left the good-looking couple and is involved in an intense conversation with Rochelle McArthur.
He’s tall, craggy and older than he appears—surprise, surprise—in the Killer Body literature.
His hair is a brittle gray pressed flat to his head.
His posture is as attention-getting as Princess Gabby’s, only on him, it looks natural.
Although his attention is focused on Rochelle, he stands like a Thoroughbred in the winner’s circle.
Yet this Thoroughbred is not aware that the prizes have already been given out and that the crowd left for home years ago.
Nor is he aware of the muscles that no longer ripple to attention and the spread beneath his shirt that, like a snowball gathering speed will very soon, if it isn’t already, mushroom into a potbelly.
He stands, caught in a memory of what he was, looking into Rochelle’s smile for a reflection of it.
Only in his dark eyes do I see a trace of what, many years ago, made him Mr. Universe and drew the country’s attention, much as Schwarzenegger did later, to what could be accomplished by weight training.
As they talk, I can see the hard points of Rochelle’s nipples poking through her crocheted dress. She cannot possibly dig this old man. She can’t. She must be a better actress than I guessed.
“Excuse me,” I say.
Bobby Warren gives me a bright-eyed smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I was cleared through your marketing people.”
“I’ll have to speak to Luke.” He takes my hand and draws me closer to him, as if trying to read my name tag. Only I’m not wearing one. “Luke knows I like to be alerted when there are lovely ladies on the premises. I trust you’ve met Shelly.”
“I spoke with her husband briefly.” I glance around for Jesse and spot him across the room, captivated by something Princess Gabby is saying. Rochelle sees him, too.
“What is it about royalty?” She shakes her head and turns to Bobby Warren for an answer. Her scent is as strong and overpowering as her voice. I feel it is covering something; I can detect another scent beneath it—cigarette smoke, I’d bet.
“It has its charm,” the old man says.
“How else could someone with nothing but a phony accent get invited to every talk show in the country?”
“You surely don’t mean Princess Gabby?” Bobby Warren throws her a look of chastisement, although his voice remains friendly. “Gabby’s a wonderful talk show guest, so refreshing and honest about her past difficulties.”
“I heard she’s trying to get her own show,” I say, hoping to stir up Rochelle once more.
“And if she’s lucky, she just might. I certainly hope so,” Warren replies.
“No question that she’s lucky.” Now Rochelle’s husband is laughing at something the princess has said. Rochelle turns her back on the scene.
“A major reason she’d want to be the Killer Body spokesmodel?” I ask.
Rochelle nails me with an emerald-green gaze that matches the stones around her neck. Contacts, for sure—not just a subtle tint but blatant color, as fake and in-your-face as her jewelry. “Who are you, anyway?”
I tell her my name, including my famous last name, the name that got me in the door: Valley Voice newspaper. Pleasant View, California.
“You’ve invited a reporter to take part in this?” she asks the old man.
He stands even taller, his smile—in spite of his age—all John Wayne and Gregory Peck, a man who can make you believe that he’s one of the good guys, and that, whatever happens, anything he does is okay.
“Absolutely. It’s a major undertaking for Killer Body, and we welcome the media’s interest and support.”
Rochelle takes his arm. “We need to talk, Bobbo.”
“Of course. But first I need to greet some of our other guests. I’m afraid I’ve been monopolizing you, dear Shelly.” In spite of his tenderness, there is something dismissive in his tone that neither of us misses.
He drifts off in the direction of Tania Marie, leaving the two of us facing each other. Rochelle glances over at her husband again, then back at me, and I feel as if she’s trying to decide which is the lesser of two evils.
“Why do you want to be the Killer Body spokesmodel?” I ask.
“Is this on the record?”
“Always.”
“Then, let’s just say that I respect the way Mr. Warren runs the company, and I want to serve as motivation to the many who have been helped, as I have, by the Killer Body program and the fine example set by Julie Larimore.”
I grind my teeth and don’t even bother reaching for my notebook.
“Do you know Julie?”
“I haven’t seen her in years.”
“But you have met?”
“Yes. Actually, I introduced her to Mr. Warren, so in a way, I was responsible for her getting the job.”
“You didn’t want it?”
“Heavens, no. I was involved in my film career.”
“That would have been six, seven years ago, right?”
“The show’s only been off for three.”
She doesn’t say more. We both know what that can mean to a woman in Hollywood.
A server with a tray of appetizers approaches. This is definitely Killer Body food—not even a morsel of anything fried or salted in the lot. Lox comes closest, a smidgeon of it dotted with capers and resting on a small bleached wafer.
I reach for it, Rochelle shakes her head, and the server moves on. “Mr. Warren must have picked the menu,” I say.
“Oh, yes. Mr. Warren’s a one-man show. Absolutely amazing. Don’t you love, love, love him?”
“And you can say you knew him when, right?”
“Well, his when goes back way further than mine. He was already a success by the time we met.” She signals the waiter. “At least he allows booze at his parties.”
“But not cigarettes?”
“Never.” She frowns. “You’re not a smoker, are you?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Your complexion—” She lets her words trail off and absently brushes her fingertips across her own face.
The waiter appears with a full tray. This time I recognize him. He lit into me earlier in the week when I’d waylaid the princess outside the hotel boutique.
“You get around,” I say, reaching for a glass.
“You, too.”
“From chauffeur to waiter?”
He gives me a fey smile. “It’s been done. Last I heard, it was called moonlighting.”
“Me, too.”
Before I can say more, he turns and moves to the next group of people, leaving me with unspoken questions about why he would just happen to be moonlighting at this party.
Tania Marie
Word of the day: Tartarian: Of or relating to Tartarus; infernal
No matter how busy she was, she always checked her computer, right after her e-mail, for the Word of the Day.
It was the only thing she still shared with Marshall.
He’d gotten her in the habit; building his vocabulary was a compulsion with him.
What was today’s word? They hadn’t been good ones lately, and this one had something to do with hell.
She was living it right now. Not a damned piece of meat in the whole place. If she looked at another tofu roll, she’d have to tear the chocolate chips out of her purse and down the whole bag right here in front of God and everyone.
Tartarian. That was the word. A place in Hades where the worst souls did time.
Now it just reminded her of the raw steak Virginia served at the restaurant—filet ground up with raw red onions and spread on toast. Damn, she could gobble it by the fistful right now.
Instead she followed Mr. Warren onto the balcony and joined him at the table.
He carried a glass, but there wasn’t a smidgeon of food in sight.
Before them, the lights of Santa Barbara twinkled.
“I’m glad you came tonight, so pleased.”
From the way he slurred the words, she knew he’d hit the sauce hard enough that he wouldn’t be thinking about food.
She sucked in her stomach, pulled back her shoulders, praying she didn’t look fat. “Thank you for inviting me. I love Killer Body. I sure hope this works out.”
“And Killer Body loves you.” Icy fingers dug into her left thigh. Mr. Warren didn’t as much as look at her. She knew her spongy flesh felt like mush in his hand and tried to contract the muscle. Tears threatened to spill down her face. Humiliation. That’s what her life was now.
“I could do a good job,” she said. “I’m working really hard.”
“That takes courage, especially considering what you’ve been through.” The fingers softened but stayed locked in the death grip.
“I know I can rebuild my image.”
“And your weight. You’re looking trimmer.”
“Killer Body’s really helping,” she lied. He didn’t need to know she’d been visiting another center, paying next to nothing, yet she hadn’t eaten a bag of Milanos for at least a month.
Mr. Warren squeezed her again. “If you work the program, the program will work for you. That line was my idea, you know.”
She wanted to cry. She wanted to eat. Most of all, she just wanted out of here, where she was the laugh of the night.
“It’s very catchy,” she said.
Just then, the French doors opened and the server stepped out.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, Bobby, but there’s been a delivery—from Julie Larimore.”
Mr. Warren shot up from his seat. “From Jules? Is she here?”
“No. She had something delivered to you.”
“I knew it. I knew she couldn’t stay quiet for long.” He darted through the door as if she weren’t even there. Tania Marie followed.
A deliveryman stood just inside the door to the main room, holding one of those padded mailers. Whatever she was sending, it couldn’t be much. For some reason, that gave Tania Marie comfort.
The rest of the group continued to laugh and talk, all except for the reporter, who caught sight of what was going on and turned from her conversation with Rochelle.
Mr. Warren grabbed the package from the messenger and directed someone to show him out.
“It’s her handwriting,” he said to Tania Marie. “You see, I told you.” She wasn’t certain he’d told her anything.
“I’m glad,” she said. “Glad she’s all right, honest, Mr. Warren.”