Makeovers Can Be Murder (5 page)

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

I glared at the answering machine as if it could transmit my baleful energy through the undersea cables all the way to London, and deliver a thwack on my boyfriend′s forehead. Where was his usual ″I love you″ or even ″Miss you, luv″? There wasn′t the slightest hint of affection in the message he′d left for me. What was up?

″What cock-up with your schedule?″ I demanded of the machine. ″What are you talking about?″

Obviously, Jonathan′s mother wasn′t dying. Obviously, he wasn′t lying in a ditch someplace in a London slum.
Obviously
, he simply couldn′t be bothered to call before now to let me know what the hell was going on with him.

A throbbing pulse began at my temples, then spread like a wildfire crackling across my scalp; I snatched up my cordless phone to call Jonathan back.

″Down, girl,″ I cautioned my temper before replacing the phone carefully in its base. What was the point of getting angry?

My mind leapfrogged to the worst-case conclusion about Jonathan′s message: The answer must be that he was cooling off on me. I′d heard the tone of voice he′d used in his message once before in the past, from an old boyfriend who′d then proceeded to inform me that he was dumping me for the new TelePrompTer girl. But at least
that
guy had had the guts to deliver his message in person.

″What gives? First you avoid talking to me; then you leave me a cold-ass message like that?″ I wailed at the answering machine, which sat in stony silence. ″How cheesy. How
cowardly
. If that′s all you have to say, then as far as I′m concerned you can—you can just . . .″

He could rot in hell.

In a fit of pique, I deleted Jonathan′s number from my contact list. Okay, maybe that was an overreaction (and I had his number memorized anyway), but his frosty tone had hit me like a gut kick. He′d spoken like we barely knew each other. What the hell was going on?

Advancing farther into the kitchen, I threw open the refrigerator door. Foodwise, the view was barren except for some snap beans and heirloom tomatoes I′d picked up the day before at the farmers′ market. And I was in no mood at that moment for anything healthy. I wanted something with a major sugar kick, and I wanted it
now
.

According to the wall clock, it was only ten p.m., which meant I still had time to make a run to Thirty-one Flavors for an emergency pint of Pralines ′n′ Cream. Then my eye fell on a bottle of sauvignon blanc that was chilling on the shelf. I′d been planning to share it with Jonathan the next day to celebrate his homecoming from the UK.

There′s nothing more sorry-ass than sitting at home alone, drinking over a guy who doesn′t call
, I told myself.

Defiantly I grabbed the bottle, then rummaged around in a drawer for a corkscrew. After a brief struggle to get the bottle open, I poured a generous amount of wine into a green-stemmed goblet.

″To relationships,″ I said, raising the glass in Elfie′s direction. ″Be grateful you′re spayed so you don′t have to play stupid mating games with tomcats. They′ll let you down every time.″

Elfie blinked her topaz blue eyes at me. Her expression was attentive but not overly empathetic. At times like this, it would be nice if Elfie were a dog, I decided. Dogs always seemed to understand when you′re upset.

I decided to turn in. I made my way into the bathroom, grabbed my koala-bear sleep shirt from the hook on the back of the door, and changed into it. Then I brushed my teeth with vicious up-and-down strokes. After propping myself up in bed with a magazine, I sipped the glass of wine. It tasted sour after brushing my teeth.

I clicked on a cable news channel. I couldn′t hear a sound over the thundering internal roar of my continuing mental rant at Jonathan. When I started to punctuate my thoughts with hand gestures, I cut myself off.

How pathetic
, I thought.
Before long I′ll be like Miss Lonelyhearts in
Rear Window
, getting piss-ass drunk and holding imaginary conversations with gentlemen callers.

With a firm sense of resolve, I set the wine-glass down on the bedside table. There would be no getting drunk tonight for me. Not because I was afraid of becoming an alcoholic.

It′s simply that when it came to getting an evil buzz on, no wine could ever give me a flavor gasm like a pint of Pralines ′n′ Cream.

Chapter 7

Why You Need to Shun the Sun

Worshipping the sun is
so
last millennium. The awful truth is, the sun pulverizes and ages your skin every time you step outside. You must
always
put on sunscreen before you venture outside, and the sunscreen must be the type that blocks both ultraviolet A (UVA) and B (UVB) rays. According to skin scientists, UVB causes sunburn and skin cancer, while UVA causes aging and some skin cancers.

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

When the cell phone on my nightstand buzzed me awake at three a.m. Thursday morning, I grabbed for it eagerly, expecting it to be Jonathan. I wasn′t awake enough yet to remember that I was mad at him. But instead of a London exchange, the LED displayed the number of the Channel Twelve news desk.

I stifled a groan. A call from work in the wee hours meant only one thing: a summons to roll out to cover a crisis someplace. Usually it would turn out to be nothing more exciting than a smoky fire. And every smoky fire looked identical. Seriously; you could use the exact same video to show every predawn smoker in the world and no one would be the wiser.

I answered the cell with my work greeting: ″Gallagher.″

″Hi, Kate—sorry, I know you′re not on call tonight, but I′ve got something crazy going on.″

It was the overnight news producer, Roe. Something ″crazy″ was
always
going on whenever Roe called. She monitored the police scanner like a jumpy little chicken hawk, pouncing on every squawk that came over the radio. Roe was an expert at working herself and everyone around her into balls of stress. She′d make an excellent news director someday.

″No problem, Roe. What′ve you got?″ I was already turning over to click on the bedside lamp. The sudden burst of activity disturbed Elfie, who′d been curled up in a warm, sleeping lump at my feet. She lifted her head and gave me an offended glare.

″There′s been a carjacking—the second one this week. This time it was on the good side of town, near the Hilton,″ Roe said in her usual rat-a-tat delivery style. ″The victim is still at the scene. Cops are already there; ambulance is on the way.″

″Where should I meet the crew?″ I asked her.

″You don′t have to; I′ve already sent another reporter to cover it. Here′s why I′m calling you. . . .″ Roe downshifted long enough to take a breath. ″The victim just called here on the studio line. She was asking for you by name. It was a girl; she sounded really young. Her name′s Shaina Miller? She claims to know you but didn′t have your number.″

″Shaina Miller?″ For a moment, the name drew a blank in my sleep-fogged brain. Then it clicked. ″You mean Jana Miller′s daughter? I′ve never met Shaina, but I know who she is. Where′s her mother? Where′s Jana?″

″I didn′t hear anything about a Jana. This girl, Shaina, was hysterical, and then we got cut off. I think the cops took the phone,″ Roe said. ″This whole thing′s a little off script for me. Are you going down there?″

″On my way.″ With my free hand, I stripped off my sleep shirt, then glanced around the bedroom for something to throw on. My eyes fell on a pair of ancient navy sweats that were draped over my stationary bicycle as a kind of permanent exercise bunting. They were seriously shlum padinka, as Oprah would say, but I didn′t have time to worry about it.

″Who′s covering the carjacking story?″ I asked Roe.

″Your favorite show horse.″

″Oh, no. You mean Lainey?″

″Yeah, she′s on call. And here′s some more good news—it′s raining like hell outside.″

This time, I didn′t bother to stifle my groan.

Chapter 8

Deep-Penetrating-Light Skin Therapy—You be the Judge

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

The predawn scene that morning looked like many I′d covered in the past: police units stopped at crazy angles at the four points of an intersection, strobe lights throbbing through the mizzle; a luxury sedan—a Mercedes SL—that had its nose wrapped around a light pole; and under a dripping rain hood, peering through the cracked-open window of my Z4, a traffic cop who looked like he′d rather be walking the day beat.

″Lady, why didn′t you pay attention to my signal?″ Spittle blended with the rain runoff from the patrolman′s hood. ″It meant ′turn this damned car around and head the
other
way!′″

Lowering the window some more, I said, ″I′m a friend of Shaina Miller. She asked for me. I′m Kate Gallagher, and I′m also a reporter for Channel Twelve. But I′m here as a personal friend for her, not professionally.″

The cop blinked. Then grunted. ″Stand by right here.″

As my message got passed up a daisy chain of uniforms, I looked around for Jana or any young girl who might be her daughter, Shaina. But other than the emergency workers, there was no one in sight.

The message finally reached a cluster of emergency workers who stood huddled at the far side of the intersection. They were standing in a semicircle around a blue tarp that three patrolmen had spread out and were holding aloft with their hands several feet above the pavement, as if trying to protect the ground from the rain. A man in a dark rain poncho was half kneeling and shining a torchlight down at something on the asphalt. I couldn′t see what he was looking at.

Another man in rain gear leaned away from the others and gave me a
come on over
wave. It was Detective Luke Petronella, a colleague of Jonathan′s.

In
Homicide
.

Ignoring the traffic cop, I abandoned the car. Below my reporter′s trench coat, my feet hit a puddle and instantly got drenched. The bottoms of my sweatpants sagged around my ankles as I jogged toward Luke.

The detective hurried forward to intercept me before I could reach the nucleus of the activity.

″
Luke?
Why are you here? What′s going on?″ I could feel the pressure of the next horrible question in my eyes.

That′s when I caught my first glimpse of a still white form on the pavement, underneath the tent of blue plastic that the patrol cops were holding up. It was a woman′s tiny form. I couldn′t see her head, which was covered in a sheet. Her arms and legs were crumpled and spread akimbo across the pavement, bent at weird angles like a doll that had been flung from a speeding car. A pair of tanned legs protruded from below the covering. She was wearing familiar-looking white slides—one of them hanging askew off a twisted ankle—and matching Bermuda shorts. They looked like my friend Jana′s shoes and shorts.

Confusion set in. I took a lurching step back. At the same time my mind scrambled for a way to reject what I was seeing.

″
No
, Luke.″ My hand flew up to cover my mouth. ″That can′t be Jana Miller.
Please
tell me that′s not my friend.″

Through the slit in his rain gear, Luke reached for my hand. ″I′m sorry, Kate,″ he said. ″A car jacker jumped her car when she was driving with her daughter. She managed to push her daughter out about a quarter mile from here, then apparently she fought with the guy until he plowed into that light pole over there. Then he must′ve gotten mad and pumped two bullets into the side of her head. She had no chance.″

Each awful word drove a furrow from one side of my brain to the other, until it crashed against the confines of my skull. For a moment I couldn′t suck in any air—the pressure inside my chest cavity had escaped with a sudden release of breath. Bending over at the waist, I hung my head low and tried to recoup some precious oxygen. It felt as if a chunk of cement was blocking my throat, preventing airflow.

Luke placed his arm under my elbow. Like an iron T beam, for a moment his support was all that held me steady.

With my head still hanging near my knees, I craned my neck up to look at Jana again. The sight of her body lying on the pavement—soaked through despite the protective tarp that the patrolmen were holding above her—practically drove me into a frenzy.

″Why don′t they put her into an ambulance now, Luke?″ I pleaded with him, uncomfortably aware that my tone sounded nearly hysterical. ″She′s getting all soaked and cold down there on the ground. She shouldn′t be put through this.″