Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Gabriella
She woke up a little after five, hating herself.
That was the worst part, how it made you feel about yourself.
She’d be okay, though. She’d been okay a long time, in control.
That’s what she needed to get. Back in control.
Accountability, discipline, and for now, she needed to prove she was on the right track.
The hotel had threatened to crumble at her feet.
She’d had to confront how alone she really was.
But the health club on the fourth floor was open.
On the treadmill, she faced the row of windows, shutting out the two or three other exercisers behind her on various pieces of equipment.
She walked at a rapid pace, watching the dark hills against the light of the sky, only a few cars on Los Robles at this hour, and fewer still on Walnut.
Safe-sounding streets in a city, a world, where it could all change just like that.
How fragile our lives really are, she thought, despite how secure and indestructible we try to make them in our minds.
Despite how we decorate them with desk clerks, elected officials, wedding vows.
Now here she was, absolutely alone, and having to face heaven knew what in only a few hours. Was it worth it, to risk her health? And based on what had happened back in her room, maybe more than her health? Maybe she should just accept Jesse McArthur’s offer.
Rikki
They are all here, the reporters and camera people, on Los Robles, as Bobby Warren cuts the ribbon on his new Killer Body location.
That it’s a short, square building doesn’t matter.
That the three women can barely look at one another doesn’t matter.
That one of the reporters makes a crack about how he usually covers auto accidents matters even less.
“At least we’re still alive,” Bobby Warren croaks.
He is the true reason we’re here—Bobby Warren, the ultimate living fitness pioneer. Bigger than Jack La Lanne; bigger than Joe Gold and his gyms; bigger than Harold Zinkin, who started the whole thing when he became the state’s first Mr. California and, later, invented the Universal Gym Machine.
Bobby is dressed in a Versace T-shirt. I know that only because of the white-on-white linking initials embossed on it, the same pattern I saw in our newspaper the day we reported Versace’s murder.
I have to admit old Bobby looks kind of cute, in spite of his cocky attitude, his paunch, his sparse, untinted hair.
“Welcome folks,” he says, staring into the camera and speaking into a microphone he doesn’t need for our tiny group.
The scrappy old man knows no enemy. Behind him, though, I see angry eyes only partially hidden by scaled-down glasses, glaring at me as if he has a major bitch.
Not thrilled at the article, I’m sure. I look away from him and focus my attention on his boss.
“We’re happy to be here today, to welcome another Killer Body into the world.
” Bobby Warren’s voice slurs a bit. He couldn’t have had a drink this early, could he?
I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I’m mesmerized as I watch him introduce what he calls his “dear friends,” who are there to celebrate the success of Killer Body.
A van pulls up as they are introduced. A cameraman gets out. The word must have spread that Tania Marie is here.
The women step forward as they are summoned.
Princess Gabriella Paquette. Damn. At first, I am distracted by the head treatment, the intricate bandanna holding back all but a few dark blond spirals.
But now, although the dress is a flattering violet shade, I realize it’s the same dress, the Julie Larimore dress, my cousin’s dress.
Oh, damn, she’s even wearing the belt, letting it slink down along her hips.
Before I can get over that, Bobby says to the camera, “I’d like to introduce my dear friend, Shelly McArthur.
” And up steps Rochelle, attitude a mile high and wide.
The old man forgets his speech, obviously entranced by the way Rochelle moves across the back of the room in a black dress that has not only a slit over the right knee, not only a pale-pink V accentuating that slit, but a matching pink strap over the right shoulder.
“And another dear friend, I don’t want to forget. Folks, let’s welcome little Tania Marie Camp.”
The audience hoots and hollers. Tania Marie is anything but “little,” yet the ankle-length navy skirt and long jacket slenderize her a little.
Either that, or she’s lost weight since the party.
She wears her usually flipped-up hair curved under, into a bob, that with her too-short bangs and John Lennon glasses makes her look an unlikely combination of vulnerable and hip.
The TV reporters and cameramen rush up the walk. Another van stops at the curb. Tania Marie looks ready to bolt.
Bobby tears his gaze away from Rochelle’s espadrille-wrapped ankles long enough to give Tania Marie a reassuring pat and to whisper something in her ear. She nods then flashes him, us, the arriving reporters, her little-girl smile.
“Welcome, folks,” Bobby says into the microphone. He’s almost too smooth and spontaneous.
“Tania Marie,” one reporter, an overweight male, asks. “Is it true you want to be the next Killer Body spokesmodel?”
“Who wouldn’t?” She extends the smile, but I can feel her tension as if it were my own.
“What does Marshall Cameron think about that?”
She flushes. Standing between Rochelle and Tania Marie, Bobby Warren frowns, and Rochelle drops her gaze, not quickly enough to hide the amusement in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, but my attorneys have advised me not to discuss that subject.”
“Are you on the Killer Body program yourself, Tania Marie?” A woman reporter this time, in her fifties, maybe, speaking in a patronizing tone.
“Okay, okay, I love the program.” She bites her bottom lip, then finds the smile again. “Could you guys just give me some space? I can’t answer any more personal questions right now.”
Something makes me feel sorry for her. She has that quality that makes you want to cheer for her, something about the way she tries to do the right thing, even though she’s visibly humiliated. Surprising myself, I step forward.
“I have a question for you, Mr. Warren.” And before he can react to the sound of his own name, “Have you heard from Julie Larimore?”
Behind him, Lucas shoots a fresh supply of hatred my direction. I shoot it back. Bobby touches the quilted flesh of his throat. “No.” He almost whispers it.
“Any idea where she is?”
“The police are treating it as a missing persons case. We’re hoping for the best.”
“The best, meaning what?”
“No more questions. Luke, get the girls inside.”
“What do you think happened to Julie Larimore?” the older female reporter presses.
“I wish we knew. Sorry, folks. No more for today.” He whisks the women inside the building. I come right after them, the other reporters behind me.
The entry is more elegant than the location I visited in the Valley. Glass and plants and that new-building smell give an impression of hope. The door to the rest of the facility is closed. Lucas stands in front of it overdressed as hell in the charcoal jacket the same color as his glasses.
“No more questions,” he says. “Bobby and his friends would like to celebrate privately now.”
The older reporter steps in front of the Julie Larimore poster and faces him. “What’s the story on Princess Gabby? We heard her hotel room was vandalized last night.”
That’s a new one.
“I don’t know. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“How soon is Bobby Warren going to make a decision?”
“Very soon.”
“Are there any other candidates?”
“The field’s wide open, as far as I know.” Lucas turns to his assistant, “Ellen, call Security, will you? I want these people out of here, now.”
We have our stories. There’s nothing else to be gained by sticking around, except for me. As the others begin to exit, I lock gazes with Lucas.
He walks over to me. “I want to talk to you.”
“We’ll talk, all right.” I spit the answer back at him. “First I have a story to report.”
He moves into my space, my face, forcing me to confront him, his voice still low. “The real story is about your cousin, isn’t it?”
His words almost knock me over. I look around this room of glass and mirrors, not sure I can rise from the reality of those two words. Your cousin.
“She’s part of the story,” I say through quivering lips. “And so are you.”
“You’re looking for revenge, pure and simple. Were you the one who got those other reporters here?”
“No, but you don’t have to be a brain surgeon to figure out that Tania Marie would show up at a Killer Body opening.”
“Especially since you wrote a story saying she was one of the contenders.”
Lucas looks at his assistant, poised by the front door, as if in charge of who goes in or out, a pretty little monitor in an all-white suit. “Is that locked, Ellen?”
She nods.
“Would you do me a favor? I want to talk to Rikki alone.”
“Of course.” Her voice is hushed like the voices on the telephones in law offices and courtrooms. “It’s been a long night and a long morning, and I really ought to drive back to Santa Barbara,” she says. “Unless you need me here.”
“I’ll be fine. You go.”
“I’ll check out of my hotel and head straight to the office. Are you coming back today?”
“I’ll let you know.”
He watches her leave, then turns to me. “Sit down, please.”
I am too angry to sit, but I force myself to settle in one of the white wrought-iron chairs. He does the same, looking less imposing as he arranges his long legs on one of the loveseats.
“Don’t men belong to Killer Body?” I ask.
“Some. Most of our members are women, but you know that.”
“The furnishings kind of give it away,” I say. Then, “Why did you ask her to leave?”
“Because I want to tell you something no one else knows, not even Bobby Warren.”