“She was in perfect shape, Rikki Jean. And there’s something else. A man from Killer Body was meeting her in L.A., coaching her, she said.”
“Coaching?”
“To be on television. He’d promised her she could be in one of their TV commercials. You know how Lisa loved to be in front of a camera.”
“I know.” That does it. Tears finally begin to squeeze out. I fight to hold them back. If I don’t, I’ll be lost forever, afloat in a sea of grief and guilt. “No one but Julie Larimore is ever in their ads,” I say. “The man lied to her, or she misunderstood.”
“She didn’t misunderstand. He told her Julie Larimore might be quitting.”
“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “If that were the case, we would have read something about it. Julie LarimoreisKiller Body.”
“You’ve got to help me, honey.” Aunt Carey grasps my wrist tighter. The blind pain in her eyes makes me want to turn away, but I don’t. “For Lisa. You’re a journalist. This is what you write about, what you win awards for.”
My award was for a series of articles on bulimia, but I don’t bother to correct her. I look into those eyes, jolting blue, brimming with tears. I can’t tell her that what she wants won’t bring her daughter back. I’ve never been able to stand up to her, and I’m not about to start now.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get that man. Get Killer Body.” Tears course down her cheeks, melting their powdered perfection. She makes no attempt to wipe them away. “Please, honey. I’ve never asked you for anything.”
And you raised me, took me in when my own mother didn’t want me.
I look past us, past the softly gathered friends and family, to the rectangle. To the grave. The grave that will hold Lisa, just four months before her wedding. Death by heart attack. Death by Killer Body, Inc. Or so her mother would like to believe.
The minister moves close to us, like a dark memory. I put my arm around Carey’s shoulder. How brittle it feels, how frail. Is this how it happens? Age? Death?
“I’ll try. I’ll do everything I can,” I say, hating myself for wanting the approval I see gleaming beneath her tears. Needing it, damn it.
Then we walk past the minister, past the people in the cold, beige folding chairs someone has arranged far too close to the grave and the heavy fall of soil that will follow this brief ceremony of farewell. I can feel the strength drain from me; I feel liquid, like water.
“Promise?” It’s that homework voice again. “Rikki Jean?” she asks. “Promise me?”
And I nod.
TWO
Lucas
Ellen Homer had a killer body. Everyone who worked in the inner circle did. It was one of the old man’s sexist ideas that persisted, as Bobby W persisted himself, in this otherwise politically correct world.
“Sorry to break in on you like this, but some reporter’s trying to reach Bobby W,” Ellen said.
Lucas guessed that Ellen would have looked this good regardless of where she worked. She didn’t have to flaunt what was obvious in spite of her respectable black-and-white jacket, striped like an awning, and her white skirt that stopped just above her knee.
Her fine blond hair, mostly bangs swept across her brow, was tucked behind her ears, making her look both innocent and professional. But not happy. Not at all happy.
“Female reporter?” he asked.
“Yes, and not a friendly one. Her name’s Rikki something.” She grimaced. “Rikki with ani,as she was quick to point out.”
“He’ll charm her,” Lucas said. “Always does. Might as well set up an interview.”
“Okay.” Ellen didn’t move toward the door, the expression on her face pure dread. This was worse than a reporter. “What is it?” Lucas asked.
“He’s at it again.” She gestured with her folder at the ceiling. “This time it’s Rochelle McArthur.”
“Here? Right now?”
“Upstairs. Door closed. It’s all we need.”
