Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
Rochelle
This was it, the moment of truth, according to the gospel of Killer Body.
Rochelle sat in her car and fluffed her hair. Not that the wind wouldn’t destroy it, anyway. She pressed the magnifying mirror close to her face. Shit. The sprinkles from her eyelash extender looked like dark lint on her face. She brushed at them with her finger.
Her wrinkles stood out as if they’d been painted in neon. Damned irresponsible of Blond Elvis to wait until after she’d started on the toys to mention they were hell on anyone who’d had Botox. But, as Blond had asked, in self-defense, “Would it have made a difference?”
Probably not, although she needed everything on her side, especially now. Although he couldn’t distinguish between a green or a red light at a crosswalk, Bobbo could spot the wispiest of crow’s feet or a minuscule pinch of flab in the dark.
Blond Elvis had better not have been lying about her ass, because it would turn Bobbo off faster than anything. Better to have the body than the face; the face was easier to fix.
Besides, Bobbo’s decision had been made.
This meeting would be pure Bobbo—making the losers in this little-contest-that-wasn’t feel good about themselves, possibly offering them token rewards.
Bobbo hated nothing on this earth except being hated, and he seldom was, even by his former lovers.
She could attest to that. How could you hate a man who made you feel good about yourself just being around him?
Just the Ass Blaster.
The thought drifted through her as she spritzed her cleavage with a final spray of Ellen Tracy’s new fragrance.
Bobbo loved scent, the more, the better.
If something happened, and this spokesmodel job didn’t come through the way she hoped, he’d sure as hell better give her the Ass Blaster.
Damned luck that it had to be an ass machine, though, instead of an Ab Blaster or a Thigh Blaster.
She had killer abs and thighs. Still, she could pull it off—give that Marilyn Monroe smile, stroke the machine, say only a few words, maybe just, “Ass Blaster. I love, love, love it.”
Rochelle got out of the car and shivered as the tingling breeze hit her exposed midriff.
The hell with her hair. Bobbo wouldn’t be looking at it, anyway.
She pulled on her baseball cap and adjusted her gold bikini chain right below her exposed navel, above the top of the drawstring salsa pants, a gift from Jesse in his ongoing quest to keep her looking young.
Little distractions, like the chain and matching anklet, just might divert attention from her ass.
She’d taken only a couple of steps when a familiar black sedan rounded the curve. Princess Gabby and Tania Marie waved from the back seat. Rochelle stopped and crossed the landscaped dividers, waiting for the car to return from the other direction.
Princess Gabby’s bald, cute driver was behind the wheel. He slid out and opened the back door, and Rochelle squeezed inside.
“What happened?”
Tania Marie’s thighs almost nudged her out the door. She might be thinner, but not thin enough, at least not yet. “A change of plans. We’re meeting them a few miles north of here.”
“Good thing I saw you, then. I would have been left clueless.”
“Mr. Warren’s office didn’t call you?”
“No, and it’s damned thoughtless if you ask me.”
“They didn’t call me, either,” Princess Gabby said from the other side of the mountain of flesh that separated them. “I wouldn’t have known about the change if Tania Marie hadn’t told me.”
Rochelle tried to get it straight, narrowing in on Tania Marie. “There was a change in plans, but you were the only one who was notified?”
Her cheeks flushed. The girl did have creamy skin, absolutely flawless. And her blush was more vibrant than anything in a compact. She flashed that sweet, little-girl smile and tried to look perky.
“I’ve probably been eliminated, and they don’t want me there for the final announcement, some half-assed attempt to save my pride, as if I have any left.”
“Don’t put yourself down, dear,” Princess Gabby said. “It’s just a mix-up on the administrative end. We’re all supposed to be there, aren’t we, Rochelle?”
“We must be. There were nothing but seagulls on that damned boat.”
“It’s too weird.” Tania Marie appeared to shift her weight in the seat. “I’d better phone Ellen back and find out what’s going on.”
“Good idea.”
Rochelle kept her voice low and husky. Inside, she was screaming.
Jesse had demanded to come along for the announcement, and Rochelle had refused because she wanted him at home with Megan, and, okay, because she didn’t want him sniffing around Princess Gabby.
She thought Bobbo would be easy to handle.
Wrong. He was betraying her—again. First, almost eight years ago, he’d dumped her and taken Julie for his confidante, made her a rich, respected woman, a woman who wouldn’t lose her career once she committed the sin of aging.
Julie with the perfect body, the perfect ass.
Now Bobbo was trying to pull something with Tania Marie, an innocent kid, in spite of her bad press and poor decisions.
“Where are we supposed to be going, anyway?” Christopher, the driver, asked from the front seat.
Tania Marie looked up from her overstuffed bag. “Place called Los Olivos. I’ve never been there. Have you?”
Lucas
He was the one who had to identify the body. Bobby W had insisted he could do it, but Lucas didn’t want to push him any closer to the edge than the news already had.
She had been weighted down, Keith Ota, the coroner, had explained. They’d scheduled an autopsy.
“Did Julie Larimore wear a necklace?” Ota asked.
“The Killer Body pendant,” Lucas said. “She almost always wore it. Mr. Warren had it designed to replicate her figure.”
“Could you describe it?” Ota asked.
“Silver chain. Red-enamel pendant in the shape of a woman in high heels, arms at her side.”
Ota nodded. “Sounds similar to the one we found.”
The body on the slab didn’t look like Julie Larimore, even remotely. Gray, chalky, distended; the only way Lucas could keep from reacting violently was to force himself to forget this thing he was looking at had once been a person.
He looked up at Ota’s unsmiling face, his hopeful eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps if you take a little time.”
“I have. Can’t you go with dental records or DNA?”
“We’re working on that. Positive ID from you can help expedite the process.”
“Was she—” He forced his gaze down at the corpse again. “Did someone kill her?”
“That’s a tough one. We may never know.”
They walked out into the fresh air. What was he going to tell Bobby W? He needed to offer him some hope or the old man would cave in, the way he had after his son’s death. Maybe worse. Lucas had never seen him more vulnerable.
“When are you making this public?” he asked.
“We’re scheduling a news conference for tonight,” Ota said. “We’re going to say we’re trying to make a DNA match between the body and Julie Larimore, but that it could take weeks.”
“But it’s Julie, right?”
Ota gave him a blank look that said it all. “We’ll see.”
“And you don’t have any idea how she died?”
Ota stopped at the glass door. “Unless there’s a bullet or something that damages the bone, cause of death is pretty difficult, even after a short time in the water. Whoever did this probably chose that way for a reason.”
“So, we may never know?”
Ota shrugged and put out his hands in a noncommittal gesture. “We’ll do our best. That’s all I can say.”
Rikki
I get the call from Lucas that afternoon.
“I’m on my way to Los Olivos,” I say. “Roberta Matlock’s found Julie’s photo.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
His voice is strangled and tight, like that of a stranger’s.
“No need for that,” I say. “We can get together and compare notes as soon as I leave there.”
“I said, I’ll meet you,” he repeats, harsher this time. “I’ve got to do something. I can’t just stay here.”
“Okay, then. The road’s ending. I need to get off the phone.”
“Rikki?”
“What is it?”
“I wasn’t sure when I saw her, what was left of her. But now, the more I think about it, I believe the body they found really is Julie Larimore.”
What do I say? What do I feel? I hate the platitudes I’ve heard, even in my own family.
Now you can heal. Now you’ll have closure.
Closure? Someone is dead. But that’s not the end of anything, certainly not the pain. The identification is just the beginning of a wound that may never heal.
But I’m not thinking about Julie Larimore, am I? I’m thinking about Lisa, Aunt Carey. Doing so has almost forced my car off this road. I put on my brake. Slow down.
“I’ll meet you at Roberta Matlock’s gallery,” I manage to say.
Tania Marie
Shoulder to shoulder in the back seat of Princess Gabby’s sedan, Tania Marie pulled out her phone.
“It’s half-assed nice, isn’t it?” she said. “All of us together, kind of like sisters.”
“You ever had a sister?” Rochelle demanded from her right side. “It’s not all bunk beds, blind dates and Aqua Net, especially not if you’re raised in a house with one bathroom.”
A nauseating wave of shame forced Tania Marie to look out at the thick tree-lined vineyard they’d entered. She’d been an only child, and they’d had four bathrooms at home, even after Virginia left her dad.
Head ducked, ostensibly peering into her purse, Tania Marie asked, “Where’s your sister now?”
“Last I heard, she married some truck driver.” When Tania Marie couldn’t help giving Rochelle a look, she got a sharper, more narrow one in return. “If you hang out with your past, you’ll never rise above it, right?”
What a cold chick. How could she answer that one?
“Hey, folks. I think I’m lost.”
Princess Gabby’s driver gave Tania Marie the excuse she needed.
And he was right. This road was supposed to lead them to a winery, where Mr. Warren would greet them.
Instead, they were losing light and direction by the moment.
All that remained ahead was an abandoned-looking brick building with some antique equipment and a couple of rotting barrels in front of it—definitely not the kind of place Mr. Warren would pick for a meeting.
“I’m phoning right now,” Tania Marie announced with more enthusiasm than she felt.
Only a machine answered the phone. She didn’t bother to leave a message.
“What’s wrong?” Christopher demanded. “Is anyone there?”
“No problem. I have the cell number for Mr. Warren’s assistant right here.”
If usually unruffled Christopher was concerned, maybe there was a reason. Tania Marie knew she must talk to Mr. Warren, or even Lucas Morrison. She was starting to get what Marshall, damn him, used to call “the creepies.” She was starting to get them bad.
Then they approached the old, brick-faced building, hidden beneath a facade of trees—dirty, dusty and abandoned as far as she could see into the side and back.
“This is Ellen Homer,” the crisp voice answered.
“I think I wrote down the wrong directions,” Tania Marie said. “Where are we supposed to be right now?”
“We? What do you mean, we?” Ellen’s voice sounded angry.
Tania Marie laughed as much from nervousness as anything else. “The Killer Body crew. Rochelle. Princess Gabby. That’s what Mr. Warren said. Didn’t he?”
In the pause that followed, she felt stupid again, stripped naked, the way she’d felt when Marshall’s wife had made those horrible statements about her.
“You’re bringing them?” Ellen’s response was more shriek than statement. “It’s supposed to be just you.”
“Well, they’re here with me, wherever in the hell here is.” Tania Marie looked back at her friends and suddenly realized that this tree-covered place might not be the safest for any of them.
“Get out,” Ellen screamed into her ear. “He’s going to kill you, all of you.”
Then another scream, then smashing silence.
A white pickup appeared behind them, coming too fast, blaring its horn. They skidded to a stop in the dirt, clouds of dust rising around the car.
A large, angry-looking man in camouflage gear swung down from the pickup.
From the other side, a young woman—Ellen Homer—ran, screaming, into the brick building. The man had a rifle balanced on his hip. He glanced at Ellen, then returned his attention, and the gun, on them. He motioned to Tania Marie. “Out.”