Chapter 6 #2
He yanked open the packet, dark eyes glittering with anticipation. At first Tania Marie thought it was a packet of papers, but no. It was fabric of some kind. Black fabric.
“What the hell?”
Mr. Warren gathered the material into his hands, letting the envelope fall away. It was a dress, long and black and split up the side. No, not just split. Ripped. Torn. Somebody had slashed Julie’s Killer Body dress to ribbons.
“No.” Mr. Warren held the dress away from him, and then he had no words left, only his anguished moan filling the now-silent cavern of a room. Then, someone—the reporter—cried out, as well.
Rikki
Seeing that dress, so similar to Lisa’s that it could have been the same one, almost topples me. As everyone in the room rushes toward Bobby Warren like a human wave, I cry out, unable to move.
The next thing I know, someone grabs my arm.
“Are you okay?”
I nod up at the tall man in a sport coat and glasses, the one I saw earlier with the well-built blonde in the conservative black suit. “I’m fine.”
“I’ll be right back. You stay with her, Ellen,” he says to the blonde. And he is gone, weaving through the bodies, to Bobby Warren. His face is familiar, almost too handsome, the dark-rimmed glasses like a prop, his voice the type that is used to giving orders.
I know, even in this blurry moment, that it was he who made it possible for me to be here.
Lucas Morrison, Bobby Warren’s marketing director.
I’d expected older. I’d expected sleazier.
I’d expected longer hair and short sleeves and gold chains and paunch—in short, a younger version of Bobby Warren.
I hadn’t expected Brooks Brothers with muscles. I sure hadn’t expected sex appeal.
I turn to the woman he called Ellen. She’s trying to evaluate my situation.
“I really am okay.”
“You’re sure?” she asks in an unconvinced voice.
I nod and fake a smile, my skin still clammy. “Yes. It was just a shock.”
“I know,” she says. “Now, I’ve got to go check on Mr. Warren.”
She gives me a quick once-over, followed by a look that says I pass inspection. Then she, too, works her way through the people separating her from the old man.
Now, hours later, Ellen brings me another glass of water. I’m sharing a table with Lucas on the balcony. She asks him if he’d like one more Corona.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“I’d like to go home, if that’s all right. I can’t get Bobby to eat anything. He doesn’t look well.”
“Go, and take your time coming in tomorrow.”
“I just want Bobby to be okay.” She shudders. “You need to get him to rest, Lucas. You know how tenuous his health is.”
He gives her a sharp look. “He’s fine. He’s just tired.”
“I just meant he’s already upset. He doesn’t need this. And what did you make of Rochelle McArthur’s little display of emotion? I just hope the poor man knows that she’s milking this whole deal before we have a chance to as much as hear from Julie.”
“We can talk about it later.” Lucas looks from her to me, reminding her again with his eyes what I do for a living.
“Sure. Sorry. See you later.” And she scampers off to wherever good little children who work for Killer Body go after they’ve served their purpose for the day.
Lucas and I sit breathing the late-night air from the balcony, where I blatantly hammered out the story on my laptop and e-mailed it to Hamilton at the Voice.
Lucas tried to intercede, but Bobby Warren, back in charge, said, “No. Leave the little girl be. Someone’s going to write it. Might as well be her.”
The air between Lucas and me has been charged with animosity that would probably have exploded by now into a full-blown argument, if we weren’t still both so numb from what we witnessed tonight.
Bobby Warren joins us on the balcony now, his posture perfect, his taupe fleece jacket zipped up around his sharply boned, still-handsome face.
“Ellen went on home,” he says, and pulls out a chair from the table where we sit. “She wants you to call her later on, let her know how I am.” His hoarse chuckle is buried in a wavering voice. “I told her I’ll be fine.”
“You will be fine,” Lucas says.
“How can you be so sure, after what happened tonight? You didn’t have to touch that dress, didn’t have to feel it.”
As he moves closer, I can see that the color is drained from his cheeks. It’s clear Lucas is concerned, no, more than that—genuinely worried about him.
“You need something to eat, Bobby W.”
“A cocktail will be fine.”
“You haven’t touched your last one.”
He looks down at the weathered teakwood table, chuckles. “Now, that’s a first.” He turns to me. “I had to call the police. That doesn’t mean I think a crime’s been committed.”
“You did the right thing,” Lucas says.
“That dress.” The old man runs his hands through his hair. “It still smelled like her. That wonderful perfume, like baby powder. Oh, God.”
“Bobby, don’t.”
He takes away his hands. Tears smear his face.
Lisa also wore a baby-powder scent. I can barely speak, but I try. “It could be some kind of prank,” I say, although I can’t imagine why someone would want to play a trick of this magnitude on anyone.
When Warren returns to the bar, to “freshen” his drink, as he puts it, Lucas asks if he can get me anything.
“I need to be going,” I say.
“You live in Santa Barbara?”
“I’m staying here while I cover the story.”
“Which story?”
Narrowed eyes behind the glasses. Noncommittal voice. “The only story.”
“Julie’s disappearance?”
“For sure.”
“Or the new candidates for Killer Body spokesmodel.”
“Both.”
“About Julie.” He pauses as if not sure how to continue. “This is really hard on Bobby W. At his age, he doesn’t need any more heartaches.”
“There’ve been others?”
“His life hasn’t been easy. Julie’s like a daughter to him.”
“I’m just writing articles,” I say. “I can’t change the facts. And daughter or no daughter, he sure couldn’t wait to run out and replace her.”
“He doesn’t see it that way.” Lucas shifts in his chair, and in the dim light from the room that was once full of party and people, I can see him changing his approach. “One thing perhaps you can clarify for me. Why is a central California newspaper so interested in this story?”
I feel myself tense, but I don’t make a move. “Many newspapers are interested in this story. A national spokesperson has disappeared.”
“But those newspapers aren’t sending reporters to Santa Barbara.”
“Not yet.” I push back my chair. It scrapes on the balcony.
He stands, too. “Everyone was upset about what happened in there, but you were trembling all over. I was afraid you were going to collapse.”
“Well, obviously, I’m fine,” I say. “And I do need to go now.”
He reaches out for my arm again and brings his face close enough to mine that I can read the suspicion in his dark eyes. “Is this thing personal for you? Do you have some ax to grind with Bobby W?”
I pull away from him. “No,” I say. “No to both of your questions.”
As I cross in front of him, heading for the door, he says, “I want your contact information, the name of your supervisor at the newspaper. Everything.”
I stop in the doorway, take out a card, write Dennis Hamilton’s name and e-mail address on the back of it. “I’m staying at the El Cerrito,” I say. Then, in a final rush of words. “Look, I’m just a reporter trying to do my job.”
“If that’s the case, you’ll receive complete cooperation from us.”
His voice makes it clear that I haven’t quelled his suspicions.
“That’s the case,” I say.
I leave, still seeing the black dress in my mind—that hideous, hateful rip. Julie Larimore’s dress. Lisa’s.
The Interview
How does it feel to have caused this kind of commotion ?
How do I feel now that the black dress has commanded their attention? The fat girl, the haggard hag, the phony royal without a family? See how they run, how they worry, how they consider, for the first time, their own precious garments and the bodies that display them.
Even the reporter has taken note. She will sleep less smugly tonight. She will rise to tell her story in the morning. And she, along with the rest of them, will begin to reconsider.
Hear this plea, Santa Barbara ocean. Swallow the dawn and fold these secrets into your waves. It won’t be long now, and everything will be right again. Strong again. Strong and safe.
How do I feel? I feel vindicated.