Makeovers Can Be Murder (13 page)

Lainey leaned in to block me. ″Frank′s the most experienced videographer for police roll-outs, so I need him,″ she said. ″We′re going on a ride-along with the gang patrol—I′ve got it all set up. It′s hard news.″

Frank, who had his butt parked against the assignment desk, was pretending to check through his camera bag. He knew better than to get between two reporters who were fighting over him.

″Oh, you′re doing hard news?″ I feigned an impressed expression. ″In that case, I think you should take Frank for the whole day. After all, we′re talking about a
big
story, right?″

Plucking a purple marker from my purse, I handed it to her and nodded toward the whiteboard. ″Go ahead and put your name up,″ I said.

Lainey′s head of steam seemed to evaporate.

″Fine, then,″ she said with a toss of her head. ″Thanks
so
much, Kate.″

Marching over to the board, she crossed Frank′s name off my story. She used the marker to write in his name next to hers, then did a victory march to her cubicle. Thankfully her desk was on the opposite end of the newsroom from mine.

Nearby, I heard the irritable slap of a newspaper against a desk. That meant that Tucker, the weekend producer, had arrived for work.

I knew that Tucker was no fan of Lainey′s because of the way she threw fits every time she had to do any work that didn′t feature her mug on camera. This seemed like an auspicious moment to bid him a casual good morning.

″Hey, Tucker,″ I said, lowering my voice. ″Just FYI, we need to find a new videographer for my diet story installment today. Lainey said she needs Frank to work with her all afternoon.″

″Oh, she
did
, did she?″ Tucker scanned the whiteboard with an irritated look. ″Hmph.″

Reaching for an eraser, he added, ″Certain people need to learn that
management
makes the assignments, not reporters.″

He paused midswipe. ″Who the hell used purple marker on the whiteboard?
Permanent
marker?″ he bellowed. ″Lanston!″

The reporters who′d been idling around the newsroom dove for cover.

Slowly, above the cubicle line, Lainey′s streaked updo rose into view. Underneath her airbrushed war paint, her cheeks glowed a bright tangerine orange. It was like watching the arrival of the Great Pumpkin.

Frank, who hadn′t glanced up from his gear during the entire exchange, chuckled under his breath. ″Score one for Girl Gallagher.″

I could feel Lainey′s glare burning Swiss-cheese holes through me as I headed to my desk. But for the first time in a long, long while, the pressure felt good. I had a minor but heady sense of victory over my newsroom rival. Okay, so maybe the marker thing was petty, but it felt great to scuff up that golden halo of hers a little bit.

A bright pink box was sitting on top of my desk. It had a note taped to it:

Following Evelyn′s advice, I retreated to a stall in the restroom. Folded inside the box in layers of tissue was a ruby red bikini.

Hastily, I stripped off my slacks and top. Then I pulled on the suit. The halter top and high-cut bottoms were stretchy. They felt actually . . . okay.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped out and took a look at myself in the mirror. The halter top was spectacular, and the merlot-colored garment complemented my skin tone and hair perfectly. But there was no camouflaging my stomach.

″Thanks for trying, Evelyn,″ I said aloud. ″But I′m doomed.″

Something else was resting at the bottom of the box, wrapped carefully in tissue. I unwrapped it and held it at arm′s length. It was a sheer, almost invisible garment.

It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at. It was a full-length, nylon body stocking. The label said, STRIPPER HOSE BY SAMANTHA.

I took the swimsuit back off and pulled the thin, gossamer film over my body. It was like donning a second skin—all the cellulite dimples in my stomach and upper thigh bulges were instantly smoothed out.

Next, I put on the bikini. With the almost-invisible body stocking, my stomach looked flat, held in. And best of all, the camera would never be the wiser. It would look to the viewing audience like I wasn′t wearing anything at all.

I ran my hands over my abdomen and thighs. Hallelujah . . . I might still be a plus-sized woman, but thanks to the miracle of stripper-illusion technology, there was reason to celebrate. From the right angle I could pass for one of those cha cha cherubs from the Renaissance era. Heck, give me some pink chiffon and a grotto and I′d be ready to rumba with the Three Graces.

Now if only a master artist like old Peter Paul Rubens were still around to show me how to paint my fat-scam series by the numbers, I might not be so nervous.

Chapter 23

A Word to the Wise about Body Wraps

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

Two hours later I was laid out on a table at a salon called Skinny Wraps. My body was wrapped from neck to toe in white bandage strips soaked in mineral clay. I looked like an escapee from
Revenge of the Chubby Mummy
.

″So, where′s your escape camel, Kate? Cooling its toes outside the pyramid?″ Frank called out. He was crouched in the corner of the room with his camera, getting a low-angle shot of me getting plaster-cast in a body wrap.

″You′re a funny guy, Frankenstein. Kiss my Irish ass.″

″You want to see funny, wait till you get a load of this shot on camera.″ Frank moved in for a tight-in of my mummified thighs—my punishment for calling him by his most-hated nickname, Frankenstein.

A ″reduction technician″ named Yolanda took my measurements with a tape measure. For this part of the show, I′d donned my bikini. Even though my measurements were embarrassing, at least the surfaces were smooth and tight, thanks to Evelyn′s stripper stocking. God bless her.

″We have an excellent result,″ Yolanda announced in a German-sounding accent that turned
W
s into
V
s. ″You′ve lost eleven inches total from your body measurements.″

Since I′d started with about two
hundred
inches total (counting practically every curved surface on my body), that was a five percent shrinkage. And even though I suspected that Yolanda might have taken some slight liberties with the tape measure to shave off some inches, secretly I was impressed.

Overall, the taping at Skinny Wraps had gone much better than I′d expected. That was a good thing, because my day was about to change direction in a major way. Everything about my life was about to go downhill.

Rapidly.

Chapter 24

The Best Foundation Starts with a Brush

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

″Come with me to zee casbah tonight, Kate. I have a sultan′s son I want you to meet. He has a magic flying carpet.″

″Evelyn, the
last
thing I want to do right now is meet someone new. I haven′t even officially broken up with Jonathan yet. I haven′t talked to him since I caught him in bed with Gi. Besides, I just made a fresh batch of sour cream onion dip.″

I was sprawled out on the couch in my living room, covered in sour cream potato chip crumbs, holding my cell phone to my ear. Elfie was perched in her favorite spot—atop my chest, purring, with her paws tucked underneath her.

Evelyn and I had just finished doing a sobby postmortem of all the recent developments of the week, including Jana′s murder. Now she had pulled out a bad Greta Garbo accent in an effort to lure me out of the comfy cocoon of my apartment on a Saturday night.

Over the phone, I heard Evelyn sigh. ″Okay, so maybe the sultan′s son I have in mind has a vintage Camaro, not a carpet,″ she said. ″But that doesn′t mean you should sit around the house on a Saturday night moping. Or
eating
.″

That little dig made me regret having confessed my plunge into the chip dip.

As I covered the phone to muffle the sound of my crunching down on another chip, Evelyn continued, ″Seriously, Kate—the ZuZubees are playing at the Metrodale tonight. I know the lead guitarist in the band really well. He′s dying to meet you.″

″I′ll bet.″

″Well, maybe I haven′t exactly
mentioned
you to him yet. But still, he′ll be thrilled to meet you once we′re there. So please come to the club tonight with Kyle and me.″

″Kyle? Who′s he? What happened to Liam?″

″Oh, Liam had major baggage,″ she said, dismissing the discarded Liam with a sniff. ″He couldn′t stop complaining about his ex-wife. He called her his
ex-hole
; can you believe that? How boorish. So I ended the evening early. I didn′t even let him see my new boobs.″

″Serves him right.″

Although I appreciated my friend′s offer of companionship, I dreaded the idea of becoming a third wheel in a new love formation between Evelyn and some guy. And no way did I want to be introduced to a lead guitarist who undoubtedly preferred his groupies googly-eyed and tramp stamped.

″Thanks, Evelyn,″ I said. ″But I think I just want to isolate tonight.″

″Watch out for that urge to be alone,″ she warned. ″You could slide into a depression.″

″I′m fine. Don′t worry.″

″No, you′re not. Anyone can have a few down days, Kate, but you′ve been stuck in this rut for a while. I′m no doctor, but I think you′re clinically depressed. I think you should go see someone.″

″I′m not—″

″No, really. I′ve known you a long time, and I′m worried about you. You′re eating your red-light foods again, you′re not going to the gym with me, and you never want to go out anymore. Those are the signs.″

When I started to protest that I didn′t have any signs, she cut me off. ″Yes, you do. You′re almost turning into a hermit,″ she said. ″You used to love going out clubbing with me.″

″We′ll go clubbing in the spring, okay? I really just feel like hibernating tonight.″

″Hibernating?″ Evelyn′s tone was skeptical. ″That′s only for bears. When you′re with a guy, it′s called ′cocooning.′ But when you′re by yourself, you have a tendency to put on back fat.″

″I′ll go to yoga with you next week, okay?″

After we said good-bye and clicked off, I detached Elfie from my chest and gently set her down on the floor. Then I heaved myself to my feet and made my way to the kitchen. A wave of fatigue washed over me, and I felt as if I could barely stay upright. Maybe it was sugar withdrawal. Or maybe Evelyn was right—maybe I
was
depressed. All I′d had to eat today were refined carbohydrates—the really evil ones that had nothing in them except major injections of high-fructose corn syrup; someone had once told me that that was what they gave to people in cults to get them to break down mentally. It was time to check out the kitchen for something green and healthy.

I was reaching into my refrigerator when Elfie froze. She scrambled for the bedroom. Before I could figure out what had startled her, I heard a light tapping at the door.

I opened the door and felt a cool rush of air. An angular, familiar silhouette was framed in the camphor-colored light of the shallow front landing.

It was Jonathan.

Chapter 25

Do a Once-a-Month Hair Rescue

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

Jonathan stood in the doorway cradling an enormous bouquet of burgundy roses in his arms.

″Hi, Kate,″ he said. ″Sorry to come by unannounced. I tried to call. Is it okay if I come in?″

Jonathan′s voice sounded weighted down. It was hard to register exactly
how
he sounded, because the sight of him had kicked up a sudden sandstorm of emotions inside me. A million tiny shards of feeling blew out of the desert, wiping out clear thought.

″Of course you can come in.″ I swiped the back of my hand across my cheek to brush away any lingering specks of potato chips.

He still had those amazing back-lit blue eyes that I′d fallen for. The rest of his face looked worn and scruffy, as if he hadn′t slept or shaved. Normally Jonathan was perfectly groomed and dressed.

I backed into the living room and dropped onto the vintage bergère chair that I′d bought at a yard sale a few months earlier. Gripping its upholstered arms, I sat there like a woman who was waiting for someone to throw the switch.

Jonathan laid the roses on the coffee table, then took a seat on the couch. The sweet fragrance of the flowers wafted through the room. As we faced each other across the coffee table in silence, I decided not to go for a vase.