Makeovers Can Be Murder

Chapter 22

″Are you out of your mind?″ Chaz′s eyes loomed large and spooky looking in my face as he asked the question-he must have knocked the cell phone out of my hand.

Without waiting for a reply, he hissed, ″I′ve got pot and servers in my room. And you want to bring cops over here?″

I rubbed my wrist, which hurt like hell. He must′ve hit me with one heck of a blow. It seemed like an overreaction.

″Jesus Christ, Chaz,″ I said. ″I was calling homicide detectives, not the narcs. They′re conducting a murder investigation. They′re not looking for pot or a couple of bongs in your room. Is that what you mean by ′servers′?″

″No,″ he said, his tone exasperated. ″Servers are computers.″

″Oh, right,″ I said, feeling like a Luddite. ″Why are you worried about the police seeing your computers?″

″I′m not, but I certainly don′t need cops poking their noses in my business right now. The second you let them in, all hell can break loose.″

Thrusting Jana′s purse at me, he said, ″Just take this stupid hag bag and go away.″

He was shaking; sweat was trickling down from his temples toward his chin. He looked like someone who could easily launch into another attack at any second.

I picked up my phone from the floor. Carefully sliding it into my pants pocket, I kept my gaze focused on Chaz.

″No problem, Chaz,″ I said.

Hugging Jana′s purse close to me, I wheeled around.

Then I left as fast as I could.

After leaving the Putnam house, I spent the rest of the morning at the Channel Twelve studios. Things there got off to a rip-roaring start with a Lainey encounter.

The instant I set foot inside the newsroom, Lainey planted herself in front of me, armed with her trademark faux-friendly smile. She wore her blond hair curved off her face in a power lift; somehow it managed to stay aloft without visible bobby pinnage.

″Hi, Kate. Let′s talk,″ she said, touching my arm.

″What is it, Lainey?″

″I′m supposed to work with Frank today,″ she said. ″But for some reason, he′s assigned to you on the whiteboard.″ Lainey′s tone made it sound as if I′d swiped her PowerBar.

Glancing up at the assignment board, I saw Frank′s name written next to mine. In two hours we were supposed to shoot the first installment of my series about weight-loss scams-the dreaded bikini story. And here I was, still bikiniless.

″Right you are. And actually I′m running behind, so I′m busy right now,″ I said, trying to step around her.

Lainey leaned in to block me. ″Frank′s the most experienced videographer for police roll-outs, so I need him,″ she said. ″We′re going on a ride-along with the gang patrol-I′ve got it all set up. It′s hard news.″

Frank, who had his butt parked against the assignment desk, was pretending to check through his camera bag. He knew better than to get between two reporters who were fighting over him.

″Oh, you′re doing hard news?″ I feigned an impressed expression. ″In that case, I think you should take Frank for the whole day. After all, we′re talking about a big story, right?″

Plucking a purple marker from my purse, I handed it to her and nodded toward the whiteboard. ″Go ahead and put your name up,″ I said.

Lainey′s head of steam seemed to evaporate.

″Fine, then,″ she said with a toss of her head. ″Thanks so much, Kate.″

Marching over to the board, she crossed Frank′s name off my story. She used the marker to write in his name next to hers, then did a victory march to her cubicle. Thankfully her desk was on the opposite end of the newsroom from mine.

Nearby, I heard the irritable slap of a newspaper against a desk. That meant that Tucker, the weekend producer, had arrived for work.

I knew that Tucker was no fan of Lainey′s because of the way she threw fits every time she had to do any work that didn′t feature her mug on camera. This seemed like an auspicious moment to bid him a casual good morning.

″Hey, Tucker,″ I said, lowering my voice. ″Just FYI, we need to find a new videographer for my diet story installment today. Lainey said she needs Frank to work with her all afternoon.″

″Oh, she did, did she?″ Tucker scanned the whiteboard with an irritated look. ″Hmph.″

Reaching for an eraser, he added, ″Certain people need to learn that management makes the assignments, not reporters.″

He paused midswipe. ″Who the hell used purple marker on the whiteboard? Permanent marker?″ he bellowed. ″Lanston!″

The reporters who′d been idling around the newsroom dove for cover.

Slowly, above the cubicle line, Lainey′s streaked updo rose into view. Underneath her airbrushed war paint, her cheeks glowed a bright tangerine orange. It was like watching the arrival of the Great Pumpkin.

Frank, who hadn′t glanced up from his gear during the entire exchange, chuckled under his breath. ″Score one for Girl Gallagher.″

I could feel Lainey′s glare burning Swiss-cheese holes through me as I headed to my desk. But for the first time in a long, long while, the pressure felt good. I had a minor but heady sense of victory over my newsroom rival. Okay, so maybe the marker thing was petty, but it felt great to scuff up that golden halo of hers a little bit.

A bright pink box was sitting on top of my desk. It had a note taped to it:

Kate,

Try this on. It did wonders for Kirstie′s Big Reveal on the Oprah show. Break a leg!

Love,

Evelyn

P.S. Open this in the ladies′ room.

Following Evelyn′s advice, I retreated to a stall in the restroom. Folded inside the box in layers of tissue was a ruby red bikini.

Hastily, I stripped off my slacks and top. Then I pulled on the suit. The halter top and high-cut bottoms were stretchy. They felt actually… okay.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped out and took a look at myself in the mirror. The halter top was spectacular, and the merlot-colored garment complemented my skin tone and hair perfectly. But there was no camouflaging my stomach.

″Thanks for trying, Evelyn,″ I said aloud. ″But I′m doomed.″

Something else was resting at the bottom of the box, wrapped carefully in tissue. I unwrapped it and held it at arm′s length. It was a sheer, almost invisible garment.

It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at. It was a full-length, nylon body stocking. The label said, STRIPPER HOSE BY SAMANTHA.

I took the swimsuit back off and pulled the thin, gossamer film over my body. It was like donning a second skin-all the cellulite dimples in my stomach and upper thigh bulges were instantly smoothed out.

Next, I put on the bikini. With the almost-invisible body stocking, my stomach looked flat, held in. And best of all, the camera would never be the wiser. It would look to the viewing audience like I wasn′t wearing anything at all.

I ran my hands over my abdomen and thighs. Hallelujah… I might still be a plus-sized woman, but thanks to the miracle of stripper-illusion technology, there was reason to celebrate. From the right angle I could pass for one of those cha cha cherubs from the Renaissance era. Heck, give me some pink chiffon and a grotto and I′d be ready to rumba with the Three Graces.

Now if only a master artist like old Peter Paul Rubens were still around to show me how to paint my fat-scam series by the numbers, I might not be so nervous.