Cereal Killer (14 page)

Sitting on the whirlpool’s blue-and-white tiled edge were two lovely women, one of whom Savannah recognized from a picture in Leah’s lobby. A Latin beauty, she had thick black curls spilling down her back, enormous eyes, and an exotic loveliness about her that made Savannah think of every romance novel she had ever read where the heroine was a gypsy, a Polynesian goddess, or an Indian temptress. Dressed in a teal tank-mi, she was full-figured but well toned, and Savannah could instantly see what Leah had been referring to when she said that a model must be in top shape, no matter what size.

Next to her on the side of the spa was another equally beautiful model. Fair skinned, the brunette’s short curls had golden highlights that complimented her complexion. She had a European look about her heart-shaped face, and her eyes slanted upward at the outer edges. She was speaking to Matt Slater, and Savannah could hear a distinct French accent.

Probably fifteen to twenty pounds less than the woman next to her, the French model wore a one-piece red suit with a halter strap around the back of her long neck.

Savannah couldn’t have felt more awkward if she were a guppy swimming with a batch of prize koi in a pet store aquarium. And she silently cursed Leah Freed for insisting on this subterfuge.

Not that she was above subterfuge. Quite the contrary. But she preferred to spin yarns, even tell outright whopping lies, that were of her own making.

Okay, I'm here,
she told herself.
Now what the heck am I supposed to do?

Fortunately, the awkward moment was broken when a tall guy with a shaved head, wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt, came bounding over to her, a clipboard in his hand, a pen behind his ear.

“Are you”—he looked down at his clipboard— “Susan Ross?”

“Yes, I am.”

He held out his hand and gave hers half a shake. “I’m Paul Loman, the art director.”

“Hi.”

She shifted her bag from one hand to the other, wondering what in tarnation you were supposed to say to an art director at a shoot. “Leah was supposed to call you about me,” she said.

“Yeah, she did.” He glanced up and down her figure with a critical eye that made her feel like a mannequin coming off an assembly line and not quite passing inspection. “Okay, you’ll do.” Then he focused on her face and frowned. “No foundation?”

“Oh, yes,” she stammered, holding out her kit. “I have all kinds of foundation garments with me. I—”

“Foundation. Makeup. I like my girls to take care of that before they arrive for work.” He snapped his fingers. “Time is money. In the future, if you’re going to work for me, arrive prepared.”

She gritted her teeth, then smiled. “Of course. Sorry.”

“Over there,” he said, motioning to a corner of the deck area where a blonde and a brunette, also dressed in swimsuits, were sitting at a picnic table, applying their own makeup. “And plenty of contour, too,” he said, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of his chin while staring at hers. ‘You’ve got some, you know, too much...”

His voice trailed away as he left her and returned to the tub, where the photographer was positioning the two models who were apparently the “star” material here at the shoot today. A hairstylist was fussing with the Latin girl’s hair while another woman dabbed the French model’s forehead with powder.

Lesson Number One,
she told herself.
Some models do their own hair and makeup; others have it done for them.

And, apparently, at today’s shoot, she was one of the do-it-your-own-self “others.”
Oh, well,
she thought,
you can't expect to start at the top. You probably need a dozen or more shoots under your belt before they give you champagne and caviar and your own personal masseuse.

She joined the two girls at the picnic table, who greeted her with a subdued “Hi” and a “How’s it going?” Hauling out her makeup case, Savannah felt the way she had at her first formal dinner, when confronted with an assortment of twenty-five pieces of silverware. Granny Reid had once given her the sage advice: “When you’re in a social situation, and you don’t know what to do, pick out the classiest person in the room and do what they do.”

While she wouldn’t necessarily label either of the girls at the table as “classy,” they seemed to know what they were doing, and that was—applying tons of makeup to their faces.

“Painted Jezebels,” Granny would have called them. Or “Whores of Babylon,” if Gran had been in a particularly foul mood.

Oh, well, when in Rome... or Babylon,
she thought as she began to slap on an obscene amount of foundation. “You Leah’s new girl?” the blond one asked her.

“Yes. Susan’s the name.”

“Who’d you have before?” asked the brunette. “Have? Before?”

“Your agent.”

“Oh, ah...” She tried desperately to remember any of the names Leah had put on her fake résumé. ‘Just some guy in Hollywood.”

There. That ought to be significantly vague. And there had to be a million agents in Hollywood.

They both gave her what she considered to be suspicious looks. But she decided to chalk it up to paranoia. More than anything, they just looked bored as they continued to trowel on the goop.

She imitated them, while trying to remember all the beauty tips she had gleaned over the years by reading women’s magazines and watching infomercials.

As the three of them sat there, contouring, highlighting, and accenting, Savannah couldn’t help noticing that her fellow picnic table models were dressed in what she could only describe as “dowdy” swimsuits. The blonde was wearing a bright, floral-patterned suit with a silly little pleated skirt that made her rear look enormous. The brunette’s one-piece had broad horizontal stripes in florescent pink, green, and yellow, a monstrosity that Savannah wouldn’t have worn to a dog fight.

While she was silently congratulating herself on her own more tasteful choices that she had in her bag, the art director, Paul Loman, hurried over to their table.

“Aren’t you ladies ready yet?” he said. Without waiting for anyone to answer, he turned to Savannah. “Let’s see your suits.”

Feeling that she at least had this one under control, she reached into her kit and pulled out a simple but tasteful navy blue tankini, an aqua V-neck tank, and an elegant black tank with tiny red trim.

He frowned and shook his head. “Is that all you brought?”

“All?” Savannah swallowed her irritation and resisted the urge to add, “Yeah, I didn’t have any ugly-ass getups like these gals are wearing.”

“Wear the aqua one,” he told her. Then, to them all, he said, “Five minutes, ladies. Then Matt wants you on your marks and ready to go.”

Savannah sat there, holding the aqua suit. She had only brought it along because Leah had insisted that she bring three choices. About five years old, it had lost most of its elasticity and did precious little to flatter her figure.

“Wonder why he chose that one?” she mumbled to herself. “The black tank looks best on me.”

“Don’t you get it?” the blonde asked her, an unpleasant scowl on her face. “We’re the ‘before.’ ” She pointed to the two beauties on the tub. “They’re the ‘after.’ ”

“After?” Savannah shook her head.

“After eating Slenda Flakes. We’re the blimps. We make them look good.”

“Oh.”

That was the moment when Savannah decided that this was one story she wouldn’t tell her grandchildren someday as they sat on her lap and she reminisced about the fascinating life she’d had in the golden, olden days of yore. Nope. The little Savannah-juniorettas of the future didn’t need to know that Granny Savannah had been the “before” chick at a fashion photo shoot.

“We’re lucky to be working today at all,” the brunette mumbled as she dusted a final powdering over her forehead, nose, and chin.

Something in her tone made Savannah’s “gossip” detector beep. She pretended not to listen as she caked on a third coating of mascara.

“Yeah. One person’s misfortune is another person’s big break,” Blondie replied with a nod toward the girls at the spa. “You’d think she’d have the decency to at least look a little upset.”

“Really. I mean, two people had to die for her to move up to...”

The brunette seemed to sense Savannah’s attention, and she let the subject drop. But Savannah had already decided which of the two girls at the whirlpool they were talking about. It had to be the one with the French accent. Unlike the Latin model, who seemed appropriately subdued, the second “star” of today’s shoot conveyed a self-confidence that bordered on arrogance. With a few too many flippant tosses of her head and far too many shrill bursts of laughter that echoed across the patio, assaulting everyone’s ears, Mademoiselle France would have been a bit hard to take even under less tragic circumstances.

“You’d better get changed,” the blonde snapped, interrupting Savannah’s reverie. “Matt’s a real bitch if you keep him waiting.”

Savannah glanced around. “Where should I get dressed?” she asked.

“Over there.”

She was pointing to an area of the patio against the house. A small, thin curtain had been pulled across one side, leaving two sides—and anyone unlucky enough to be expected to strip inside it—exposed.

Apparently modesty wasn’t a virtue that was held in high regard at this sort of thing.

Silently she added a bit of padding to Leah’s bill— something she would privately call “The Indecency Factor,” not to be confused with “The Pain in the Butt Factor,” which she sometimes charged particularly difficult clients.

Grabbing her aqua suit, she headed for the semienclosure. She arrived there about the same time as the Latin beauty, who was carrying a gorgeous black suit with a series of alluring and interesting straps across the back.

“Hi,” Savannah said as they stepped behind the curtain. “I’m Susan.”

“Tesla Montoya,” the woman said, extending her hand in a warm, firm handshake. But her smile seemed forced, and Savannah noticed that her eyes were a bit puffy, as though she had been crying.

Briefly, Savannah wondered if maybe she should step out of the so-called dressing area to give the other model some privacy, but Tesla was already peeling off her first suit.

“Isn’t it awful, about Cait and Kameeka?” Savannah said. Ordinarily, she would have warmed up to the subject before plunging in, but she didn’t know if she would have this rare, one-on-one opportunity to talk to her again.

Tesla shot her a pained and suspicious look before shoving her teal suit into her bag. “It’s horrible,” she said softly.
“Both
of them! I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“And now they’re saying someone might have... you know... done it intentionally,” Savannah said, watching the woman’s face carefully as she began to slip out of her slacks and blouse.

“That’s what I heard, too.” Tesla already had the black suit on and was adjusting the various straps. “I can’t…“ Her voice broke. She paused and closed her eyes for a moment. “I can’t stand it. Somebody has to do something. I have to—”

Savannah’s ears were perked, and she held her breath as she waited for the rest of the sentence. But Tesla Montoya seemed to realize that she was talking to a complete stranger, and she ended the conversation with a dismissive wave of her hand.

A second later she was gone, leaving Savannah standing there in her underwear, frustrated, and wondering what she might have said if she’d continued. What did Tesla think someone should do about the situation? What did she feel
she
could do?

Yes,
Savannah decided,
I’ll definitely have to keep an eye on that one.

And not just because Tesla seemed upset, or because she appeared to have been crying, or because she had left that sentence dangling in thin air.

But because Savannah had seen something in her eyes just before she had left to return to the shoot.

It was guilt

In her day, Savannah had seen far more than her share of plain, old - fashioned guilt—more than enough to recognize it when she saw it.

And she intended to find out what Tesla Montoya had done, or not done, to feel guilty about.

Chapter

10

“S
usan, your main light is over here. Could you keep that in mind for the rest of this shoot?”

“Are you on your mark, Susan? I hate having to tell you more than once to stay on your mark.”

“Could you do something with that left hand, Susan, sweetheart? Relax, for Pete’s sake. That left hand looks like a claw.”

“Don’t tuck your chin, Susan. Believe me, you won’t like the look. Did you put contour on that double chin of yours? You did? Use more next time.”

From the orders being barked at her from the art director, the photographer, and even the other models, Savannah didn’t need an official report card to tell her that she was flunking Modeling 101.

And she had pretty much decided that the next time Matt Slater reached out, grabbed some part of her body, and repositioned it like she was some sort of rag doll, she was going to kick him in the crotch of those ugly baggy Bermuda shorts.