New Year's Eve Murder. Leslie Meier
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advice. The editors had finally arrived and were shepherding the group through the security checkpoint, where a guard was peering into each woman’s purse with a flashlight. Who would make the best accomplice, she wondered, hurrying to join them.
Boarding the elevator, she gave Elizabeth a nudge. “Look, I found this protein bar in my bag. Why don’t you have a bite or two, just to keep up your strength.”
Elizabeth glared at her. “You’re embarrassing me, Mom,” she hissed. “It’s bad enough you’re wearing those duck boots, but now you’re fussing at me.”
“These boots are practical,” muttered Lucy, heading for the revolving door.
“Will you shut up if I take the bar?” asked Elizabeth, when they’d exited onto the eighteenth floor into the magazine’s reception area.
“You have to eat half of it,” insisted Lucy, trying to hide her disappointment. She’d expected the Jolie office to look like something out of the movie Funny Face but instead of glamorous chic pink décor there was only utilitarian, understated beige. The receptionist, a mousy little thing who seemed to physically quail under Camilla’s gaze, gave them a lukewarm smile as they all filed past.
Camilla stopped suddenly and held up a hand, causing a bit of awkward bumping as the women in back came to a halt.
“Okay.” Elizabeth carefully unwrapped the bar and took a bite, chewed slowly and finally swallowed.
Lucy let out the breath she had been holding and turned her attention to Camilla, who was standing in front of a wall decorated with framed cover photos.
“Ladies, ladies!”
The group fell silent.
“Welcome to the world of Jolie magazine,” she said, waving her arm expansively. “This is where your transformation will take place.” She paused dramatically. “Are you ready?”
“You betcha,” declared Serena. “Make me into Kate Moss.”
“That may not be possi…” began Camilla, giving Serena a quick up and down. Then, realizing it was a joke, she trilled, “We’ll do our best.”
The women all laughed.
“But first on our agenda,” she continued, holding up a finger, “is the infamous before picture. And for that, I’m putting you in the capable hands of our art director, Nancy Glass.” She indicated a tiny woman in oversized tortoise-shell glasses, who was wearing a tight gray pencil skirt, a black blazer, and a shiny pink silk blouse along with high-heeled sandals.
“Follow me, ladies. The photo studio is this way,” she said, pointing towards a long, beige carpeted hallway lined with doors.
Once again, they were off and running and Lucy was beginning to understand how city people managed to stay so thin. At home, she drove to the Pennysaver office, parked outside the back door, walked twenty feet to her desk, sat down and, often as not, reached for one of the donuts Phyllis had taken to bringing to work every morning.
“Here we are,” announced Nancy, dramatically opening the studio door.
Lucy wasn’t quite sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this large, windowless room with a raised platform at one end. Several contraptions resembling the screens people used to have for showing slides and home movies dangled from the ceiling behind the platform, along with a silvery umbrella. A cluster of tripods was stacked in one corner, a table held a coffee carafe and a stack of cups but no donuts, and a few mismatched chairs were scattered about. There was no sign of the photographer.
“I see Pablo’s not here yet,” said Nancy, drumming her nails, polished in a shade of pink that matched her blouse, against her pointy hip bone. “I’ll have to go find him.”
Figuring they might have a bit of a wait, Lucy and Elizabeth joined Ginny and Amanda. Across the room, Maria and Carmela were having an animated conversation with the Blausteins and the Montgomerys, fueled perhaps by the Styrofoam cups of coffee they were sipping. Lurleen and Faith Edwards formed a little island, standing by themselves. It was Ginny who broke the ice. “So what do you think of the competition?” she asked.
Lucy turned to her with interest. “What about you? Are you trying to win the prize?”
“You bet,” volunteered Amanda. “Mom and Dad went into business for themselves last year.”
“We do upholstery and slipcovers,” added Ginny.
“It’s been very successful.”
“Beyond our wildest dreams,” said Ginny. “Unfortunately, we knew a lot more about slipcovers than the tax code. Our accountant tells us we have to pay the IRS a quarterly payment on January 15 that’s almost ten thousand more than we budgeted for.”
“We’re in a similar bind,” confessed Lucy, explaining the financial aid dilemma. “I guess I was kidding myself. I didn’t think anybody else was very interested, except for Faith and Lurleen.”
“They’re definitely motivated,” agreed Ginny. “Driven by religious fervor.”
“But the gals from Texas certainly don’t need the money.”
“No, but Cathy had a successful career before she married; she even won a few beauty pageants. She might not be able to resist the challenge.”
“I never thought of that,” said Lucy, gaining new respect for Ginny. “What about Carmela and Maria?”
“Maria was an abused wife who went to law school after getting her husband sent to jail. She’s now one of New York’s top divorce attorneys. They call her Merciless Maria.”
Lucy didn’t say anything but swallowed hard. This was going to be much more challenging than she thought. She was almost ready to give up and go home.
“Serena and Ocean?” asked Elizabeth, her voice practically a squeak.
“Don’t be fooled by Serena’s California cool. She lets that girl get away with anything—just look at how she goes around with her stomach hanging out in the middle of winter! Trust me, that woman will do anything for that girl, and we already know that Ocean wants a new car.” Ginny narrowed her eyes. “The only way we stand a chance is if we team up and help each other.”
“That would be great!” exclaimed Lucy, wondering what she could contribute to their partnership. “Tell you what, I’ll try to find out the rules for this contest. So far, they’ve been pretty vague.”
“Deal,” said Ginny, extending her hand.
Lucy took it and gave a firm shake, just as Nancy returned with Pablo in tow.
“We’re good to go,” trilled Nancy. “This is our photo editor and I’m sure he’s going to get some great photos of you ladies.”
Pablo, a muscular man dressed in a black silk T-shirt and pleated-front slacks, gave them a nod. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved his chin in a day or two but Lucy decided the look must be intentional since he’d certainly shaved his head that morning: it was perfectly smooth and shiny. He stood silently, arms crossed, and studied them. Then, coming to a decision he snapped his fingers and an assistant magically appeared with a camera. Pablo took it and began snapping photos of the women, just as they were, scattered around the room in groups.
“What are you doing? This isn’t what we talked about,” protested Nancy.
“That was no good. This is better. Natural, unstudied. Like Degas backstage at the ballet, no?”
“I see,” said Nancy, with a shrug. “That’s why he’s a genius. Stay as you are, ladies; it seems Pablo’s having one of his creative moments.”
The camera flashed in Lucy’s face, then Pablo was gone, making his way around the room followed by Nancy and the assistant. Nancy kept up a steady stream of chatter while Pablo snapped photos, pausing only to toss his camera to the helper when the film ran out