Bobby is dressed in a Versace T-shirt. I know that only because of the white-on-white linking initials embossed on it, the same pattern I saw in our newspaper the day we reported Versace’s murder.
I have to admit old Bobby looks kind of cute, in spite of his cocky attitude, his paunch, his sparse, untinted hair.
“Welcome folks,” he says, staring into the camera and speaking into a microphone he doesn’t need for our tiny group. The scrappy old man knows no enemy. Behind him, though, I see angry eyes only partially hidden by scaled-down glasses, glaring at me as if he has a major bitch. Not thrilled at the article, I’m sure. I look away from him and focus my attention on his boss.
“We’re happy to be here today, to welcome another Killer Body into the world.” Bobby Warren’s voice slurs a bit. He couldn’t have had a drink this early, could he? I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I’m mesmerized as I watch him introduce what hecalls his “dear friends,” who are there to celebrate the success of Killer Body.
A van pulls up as they are introduced. A cameraman gets out. The word must have spread that Tania Marie is here.
The women step forward as they are summoned. Princess Gabriella Paquette. Damn. At first, I am distracted by the head treatment, the intricate bandanna holding back all but a few dark blond spirals. But now, although the dress is a flattering violet shade, I realize it’s the same dress, the Julie Larimore dress, my cousin’s dress. Oh, damn, she’s even wearing the belt, letting it slink down along her hips.
Before I can get over that, Bobby says to the camera, “I’d like to introduce my dear friend, Shelly McArthur.” And up steps Rochelle, attitude a mile high and wide. The old man forgets his speech, obviously entranced by the way Rochelle moves across the back of the room in a black dress that has not only a slit over the right knee, not only a pale-pink V accentuating that slit, but a matching pink strap over the right shoulder.
“And another dear friend, I don’t want to forget. Folks, let’s welcome little Tania Marie Camp.”
The audience hoots and hollers. Tania Marie is anything but “little,” yet the ankle-length navy skirt and long jacket slenderize her a little. Either that, or she’s lost weight since the party. She wears her usually flipped-up hair curved under, into a bob, that with her too-short bangs and John Lennon glasses makes her look an unlikely combination of vulnerable and hip.
The TV reporters and cameramen rush up the walk. Another van stops at the curb. Tania Marie looks ready to bolt.
Bobby tears his gaze away from Rochelle’s espadrille-wrapped ankles long enough to give Tania Marie a reassuring pat and to whisper something in her ear. She nods then flashes him, us, the arriving reporters, her little-girl smile.
“Welcome, folks,” Bobby says into the microphone. He’s almost too smooth and spontaneous.
“Tania Marie,” one reporter, an overweight male, asks. “Is it true you want to be the next Killer Body spokesmodel?”
“Who wouldn’t?” She extends the smile, but I can feel her tension as if it were my own.
“What does Marshall Cameron think about that?”
She flushes. Standing between Rochelle and Tania Marie, Bobby Warren frowns, and Rochelle drops her gaze, not quickly enough to hide the amusement in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, but my attorneys have advised me not to discuss that subject.”
“Areyouon the Killer Body program yourself, Tania Marie?” A woman reporter this time, in her fifties, maybe, speaking in a patronizing tone.
“Okay, okay, I love the program.” She bites her bottom lip, then finds the smile again. “Could you guys just give me some space? I can’t answer any more personal questions right now.”
Something makes me feel sorry for her. She has that quality that makes you want to cheer for her, something about the way she tries to do the right thing, even though she’s visibly humiliated. Surprising myself, I step forward.
“I have a question for you, Mr. Warren.” And before he can react to the sound of his own name, “Have you heard from Julie Larimore?”
Behind him, Lucas shoots a fresh supply of hatred my direction. I shoot it back. Bobby touches the quilted flesh of his throat. “No.” He almost whispers it.
“Any idea where she is?”
“The police are treating it as a missing persons case. We’re hoping for the best.”
“The best, meaning what?”
“No more questions. Luke, get the girls inside.”
“What do you think happened to Julie Larimore?” the older female reporter presses.
“I wish we knew. Sorry, folks. No more for today.” He whisks the women inside the building. I come right after them, the other reporters behind me.
The entry is more elegant than the location I visited in the Valley. Glass and plants and that new-building smell give an impression of hope. The door to the rest of the facility is closed. Lucas stands in front of it overdressed as hell in the charcoal jacket the same color as his glasses.
“No more questions,” he says. “Bobby and his friends would like to celebrate privately now.”
