She has a difficult time getting the word out, but once she does, she pats her short, spiked flip and flashes me a jittery smile.
“So your weight—” I pause, not even sure I can be this cruel. “You’re not concerned that your body type will be a factor in the final decision?”
“Put away your fucking notebook, lady.”
I try to raise a questioning eyebrow, but I can’t say that I don’t understand her anger. “I wish I could do that, Tania Marie, but I can’t.”
“You don’t wish shit.” Tears streak her powdered face. “You just want good copy. That’s what you media bastards call it, right? You don’t care about me, and you don’t even care about Julie Larimore.”
“Do you?” I shoot back.
“Damned right I do.” A handsome server approaches us, shaved head, starched jacket, big-time attitude. His tray of drinks glistens. Tania Marie grabs for a crystal stem. “You take one, too, just so I don’t feel so guilty.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me.” I lift a flute that twinkles like a baby lava lamp with what looks like champagne. The tasteconfirms my guess. It’s not my usual bottled Fiji water, but it will get the job done.
I study the waiter’s name tag. “Thank you, Christopher,” I say, then look again at his face, more closely this time. Before I can ask if we’ve met, he moves away.
“Who is he?” I ask her.
“Beats the hell out of me.” Tania Marie makes short work of the flute. When she sees that I’m watching her, she adds, “Booze isn’t my thing. I just have to numb myself somehow. I’m scared shitless.”
My hand creeps into my shoulder bag for the notebook.
“Why?”
“You think I’d tell you?” Her voice rises, probably in proportion to the amount of alcohol she’s just inhaled. “I know about you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I have a Ph.D. in media, lady. And I learned it the hard way.”
My itching fingers can’t help themselves. I attack the notebook, scratching down every word.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but this story is important to me. I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“The hell you’re not.” She wraps her sad white jacket around her, as if trying to squeeze off inches from her formidable shape. Not an unattractive woman, I think, in spite of the newspaper cartoons that make a caricature of her short legs and chipmunk cheeks. I begin to see what might have attracted Marshall Cameron to her.
“Do you know Julie? Have you met her?” She waves a fist at the poster. “You’re trying to stir up all of this shit, and you don’t even know her, do you? You have no idea what she’s been through. You’re just trying to ruin her life.”
I move closer to the poster, tuning out Tania Marie as I study the pose, arms crossed, brown hair streaked blond—the same as Lisa’s had been. The tank dress, with its wide belt at the hip is identical to one Lisa wore frequently. The ensemble, the Killer Body uniform, even has the same side slit, the same ankle-high boots. And that red pendant that is supposedly modeled after Julie Larimore’s body; Lisa had one just like it. As I look at her there on the poster, I realize that Julie Larimore could havebeenmy cousin.
And my cousin had wanted tobeJulie Larimore. Why didn’t I ever realize it before? And when had it begun? Before she joined Killer Body? After she’d been promised the possibility of a television commercial?
Tania Marie has run down, like a clock.
“Not fair,” she finishes.
I try to reverse my spiraling emotions, pull away from the pain. I have a job to do. “How well do you know Julie?” I ask.
“We’ve met.” She crooks her finger at the champagne server, who leaves Princess Gabby’s side, almost reluctantly, I think.
Tania Marie’s features are far more refined than they appear on television, her lip color a pinky-brown blend that matches the subtle blush on her cheeks. It’s a little-girl look—kooky with the spiked-up flip and baby bangs, for sure—but this woman is not the psycho she’s reputed to be. For a moment, I feel almost sorry for her, but I remember my promise to Aunt Carey.
“Are you and Julie friends?”
“Everyone’s Julie’s friend.” A prim smile. She gives me a blank, vague look. The waiter approaches with his tray. Her arm shoots out. The tray moves toward me. I decline.
“What do you think happened to her?”
