“Hey, Blond. Where the hell you been?” A trim African-American woman stops just inside the door, not sure if she should venture farther.
“I’m here now, so what do you need, Shirley?”
“You, baby. Rochelle’s on the phone for you and not about to hang up. Can you take it?”
He lifts his hand to block the thought. “No way.”
“She said it’s important.”
“Important to Rochelle could be chipped toenail polish. Tell her I’ll call her later.” Then, as an afterthought, in a more gentle voice, “And tell her to give Megan a big hug for me.”
“Will do.” The woman departs as abruptly as she arrived.
“Clients,” he says to me, but my head is spinning with what I’ve just heard.
“You work with Rochelle McArthur?”
“She’s not ashamed of it, so why should I be? I’ve been her trainer for more than a year.”
“Does she know you’re Julie’s trainer, as well?”
“That’s between them. I never talk to clients about other clients. Got to be that way since I do a lot of the Killer Body people.”
He says it with pride, and I can tell he’s committed to his job. That pride might be one way to get him to talk.
“It’s clear your clients trust you. I’ll bet you hear some stories.”
“You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Has Julie ever talked to you about her life before Killer Body?”
“You mean like where she worked?”
“Anything. Has she ever talked about it?”
He shakes his head. “I think she went to school in Santa Barbara, but that’s not where she was raised. She told me she grew up in a small town between there and Santa Maria.” He frowns and closes his eyes. “You know the place. The DavyCrockett guy started a winery or something there, bought a hotel.”
“Fess Parker?” I ask.
“That sounds right.”
“It’s Los Olivos, isn’t it?” Although I’ve never been there, I’ve seen it touted on press releases from the Santa Barbara Visitors Bureau. “Isn’t it kind of an artists’ colony?”
“You mean like Solvang?”
“I’m thinking more rustic,” I say. “Bams, old buildings converted to art galleries. That kind of thing.”
“I don’t know about that. She said it was laid back, not very many people, didn’t even have a high school. Her dad worked in a winery.” His eyes lapse into sadness. “But if she lied about her name, maybe she lied about the town, too.”
“She’d have no reason to do that,” I say. “She might have had a reason to lie about her name.”
“Then it was Los Olivos, right off of 101,” he says. “Why is it so important?”
“Because someone there might remember her. They might know who she really is.”
“I thought I knew.” His pumped-up body seems deflated by our conversation. “They can get anyone to be the Killer Body spokesmodel. I’ve met several who could do it. It’s Julie I care about, and I hope she dumps the gig.”
“What do you think makes a good spokesmodel?” I ask.
