Too Pretty to Die (11 page)

Yeesh.

Suddenly self-conscious, I pulled down the visor flap and checked out my skin in the mirror.

“Stop it,” Janet said, and slapped the visor back up again. “Let’s get going. The Pretty Place should be opening in, like, two more minutes, and I don’t want to be late.”

Reluctantly, I emerged from the car and followed Janet across the parking lot.

She’d anchored the VW outside Barneys, but the department store didn’t open until 10:00
A.M.
, so we took the mall doors in, bypassing chichi shops like Ferragamo, Michael Kors, and Carolina Herrera to get to the corner nook where The Pretty Place was situated.

A couple of the restaurants were open for the breakfast crowd, and a handful of mall walkers were making the rounds in crushed velvet sweatsuits, pausing now and then to gaze into a window display.

A few had even stopped in front of Dr. Sonja’s “Botox in the Box” establishment and were running fingers down a posted menu of services, then glancing at a conveniently hung mirror just beside it and tugging at their faces.

Why did the cynical part of me suspect it was a fun house mirror, which made everyone’s reflection distorted?

Janet nudged me forward, toward the entrance to The Pretty Place, which had glass walls and doors so we could see one of Dr. Sonja’s underlings doing a fast tidying-up of shelves and counters lined with Dr. Sonja’s personal line of cosmetics, powders, and potions before she opened up.

Until she let us in, we were left to stand outside the clear box, staring at the blown-up photos of perfectly sculpted parts of the female anatomy: flat belly, tight thighs, lean arms, unlined eyes, and plump glossy lips.

I wondered if the women who booked appointments for treatments really believed that Dr. Sonja could make cottage cheese vanish or turn a saggy stomach into six-pack abs in one visit.

Janet paused beside me as I studied the enormous photograph of a model’s uplifted derriere. “She’s selling an illusion, huh?”

“More like a delusion,” I said dryly, figuring the percentage of actual females over age twenty who had bodies without cellulite was somewhere in the single digits. “No one looks that perfect unless they’re airbrushed.”

Janet sighed. “Selling youth and beauty is probably the world’s greatest con of all time.”

“Way bigger than pet rocks,” I agreed.

And far too many people fell for it.

Since Brian had pretty much moved into my condo—though he still kept his apartment in Addison—he’d ordered cable for my television, something I hadn’t done in the ten years I’d lived alone since college. Though vowing to never watch reality show drivel, I’d caught a few episodes of
Dr. 90210
and
Extreme Makeover
, enough to know that there was an endless supply of women who wanted tummy tucks post-childbirth, larger breasts than God had given them, or faces pulled so tight that not a wrinkle (or natural expression) was left behind. The worst of it was when a mother pushed a teenage daughter into buying into the bigger-breasts-equals-higher-worth theory.

Obviously, a B-cup didn’t cut it in today’s society. The age-old battle cry of “We are woman, hear us roar” had become “DDs or bust!”

The very idea made me cringe.

I had to hand it to Cissy.

She may have bemoaned my desire to become an artist. Ditto my refusal to bond with the popular girls at Hockaday or campaign for class president. Okay, okay, yes, she was, shall we say, pretty vocal when I’d dropped out of my debut. But she had never, ever—not once—insinuated I needed bigger boobs.

“You okay?” Janet said, and I blinked, turning toward her.

“I was just experiencing a moment of gratitude for my mother,” I admitted.

Janet rubbed my shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll pass.”

As I hoped the next fifteen minutes would.

With a jangle of keys in the locks and a rattle of glass, the front doors to The Pretty Place came open, and Janet grabbed my arm and dragged me in.

T
he receptionist looked very much like a walking advertisement for Dr. Sonja’s treatments. Some might say that was a compliment.

I wouldn’t.

If she had any wrinkles whatsoever, her tightly drawn ponytail obliterated every one of them. Her skin appeared so fiercely stretched and smooth, I was amazed when she opened her mouth and it actually moved of its own accord, without any strings from above confirming that she was a puppet and not a real girl.

“You’re both here for nine o’clock treatments, yes?” Her unlined eyes glanced quickly across her computer monitor as she settled down behind her ultramodern desk (an unblemished white laminate, I noticed). “You’re Ms. Janet Graham and Ms. Andrea Kendricks?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s right,” Janet said, stepping in front of me as if afraid I’d do something to spoil things for her. Like maybe ask the receptionist if she was assembled at the Botox factory. “I’m Ms. Graham, and I’m anxious to see Dr. Madhavi. Is she ready for me yet?”

The Stepford Receptionist checked her flat screen again. “I see Ms. Kendricks is having the rosemary-tangerine pore-tightening botanical facial, and you’re having the revitalizing Vitamin E enhanced bee—”

“That’s right, yes, uh-huh,” Janet cut her off, nodding profusely, and I couldn’t help but think she was acting really weird, even for her.

Too many double lattes, perhaps?

Or maybe she was feeling unsettled and anxious for the same reason I was. Maybe she was all worked up about what happened to Miranda.

I started to put my hand on her arm, was about to ask if she wanted to sit down, when I heard the click-clack of high heels on marble floors, and Dr. Miniskirt herself appeared through a rear door.

The muscular guy with the mustache from the Pretty Party—Lance Zarimba—followed not two feet behind her. His posture mimicked Dr. Sonja’s, from the tilt of his blond head to the way he crossed his arms.

“Ah, the delightful Ms. Graham from the Park Cities news. I see you brought a friend along to try our services. You were both at the Pretty Party last night, weren’t you? Talk about a nightmare,” she said, and leaned a hip against the jutting edge of the receptionist’s desk. “It’s a wonder I’m calm enough today to work.”

Her white lab coat barely covered up a shiny gray skirt that revealed plenty of thigh above the knee. Her slim fingers winked with bling that was nearly as shiny as the glistening shadow above kohl-lined eyes that settled narrowly upon Janet and me.

“So that craziness with Miranda DuBois didn’t frighten either of you off?” she asked. “How very brave you are.”

She didn’t wait for either of us to respond, but went right on to say, “Well, let’s hope that an unhappy woman’s tirade won’t scare away any of my clientele. It’s just a shame when people can’t deal with personal misfortune privately. I hope that poor girl gets the help she so obviously needs.”

Personal misfortune
?

Miranda’s meltdown had been triggered by bad results from injections Dr. Madhavi had given her. Was it Miranda’s fault she’d been left with a twitchy eye and droopy mouth? More important, did the celebrity skin doc realize that Miranda would never get any kind of help at this juncture, not unless it was supernatural?

I started to rise from my chair, thinking someone needed to say something in Miranda’s defense, perhaps a subtle remark such as,
Hey, don’t speak ill of the dead, you plastic pusher!

But Janet jumped up, practically knocking me down again.

“Can we get started, Dr. Sonja? I’m all ready,” she said, practically bounding like a puppy toward the dermatologist.

The cool expression on the doctor’s tawny features shifted like a melting icecap in Antarctica as she cracked a smile, rubbing her hands together as if overeager clients were one of her favorite things.

And they probably were, considering the prices The Pretty Place charged for their services.

Cha-ching!

“Come with me, sweetie,” Dr. Sonja said, inclining her regal head toward the door where Lance Zarimba lounged. “We’ll get our resident society columnist looking like a glamour puss in no time!”

The blond muscleman stepped aside, allowing his boss/paramour to pass by with a strangely exuberant Janet Graham in tow.

Not that I was cynical or anything, but Janet seemed a tad too excited about this particular interview, especially when the subject was Miranda DuBois and her tragic passing. I would’ve thought a more sober attitude better suited the occasion.

Hmmm.

What kind of treatment did Receptionist Barbie say Janet was having? A revitalizing Vitamin E enhanced something or other?

“Ms. Kendricks?”

I looked up to find the Blond Mustache staring down at me.

So I stared back.

He was a good enough looking guy, with bright blue eyes and a tight Clorox-white T-shirt that closely hugged all his rippling muscles. But what I found most mesmerizing was the fact that his skin was as gorgeous as a Lancôme ad. No ingrown facial hair or red bumps from shaving. My God, but he had teeny pores!

Life simply wasn’t fair.

“Ms. Kendricks, are you ready for your rosemary-tangerine pore-tightening botanical facial?” he asked, not leaving out a single word, when I could hardly remember much beyond the rosemary-tangerine part, ’cuz it made me hungry.

“Yeah, sure. Ready.” I nodded and rose from my chair, hoping I wouldn’t come out of this with blotchy skin, as I had the one time I’d allowed my mother to drag me to Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door.

“I have sensitive skin.” I coughed up the excuse as Sir Lance led me past the reception desk and through the rear hallway with its white walls and serene New Age music piped through the air. “So I’m not sure I should be putting any mystery crud on my face.”

“That’s okay,” he tossed over his shoulder in a soothing, low-pitched voice. “Our mystery crud is safe for all skin types.”

“But what about your, um, environmental ethics?” I asked, bound to find some way out of this. “Do you do testing on animals?”

He paused in front of the third door to the left. “Only if they’ve studied,” he said as he grabbed hold of the doorknob to let us in.

“Studied what? Oh, yeah, I get it.”

Ha ha.

The guy was a regular comedian.

I walked into a room with celadon walls and a water sculpture burbling gently in the corner. It smelled of antiseptic and herbs and maybe a little like Lance Zarimba’s testosterone. A mirror on the far wall caught me wrinkling my nose.

I sure hoped to heck that Janet was managing to get something quotable out of Dr. Sonja, or I would remind her forever of the day I suffered pimple extraction at the hands of an aesthetician with cranked-up pecs.

“Relax,” Muscle Man said on cue. “You’ll feel exhilarated when I’m through with you. I guarantee it.”

He flashed his pearly whites and gestured toward a reclining chair in the room, sort of a fancier version of the one my dentist used. I wondered if I’d get a paper bib to wear or a free toothbrush before he shooed me out the door when he’d finished unplugging me.

“Extend your legs and put your head right here”—he patted a paper-covered pillow at one end—“and I’ll cover you up with this nice warm cashmere throw. Then we’ll work on turning you into the swan you really are.”

Okay, was he implying I was an ugly duckling? Or was I just being too sensitive these days, after Janet’s insinuation that my pores needed unclogging and her remark about the wrinkle between my brows?

“Close your eyes, Ms. Kendricks, and listen to the water in the fountain,” Zarimba instructed as I settled onto the reclining bench and he drew the heated throw atop me, covering me from chin to toe.

I pretended to shut my eyes, watching through slits as he washed his hands at the sink before he settled on a stool beside me and drew a swing-armed lamp over my face.

Then he squirted something that reeked of rosemary onto his fingertips and rubbed it over my skin. “I’m cleansing off the toxins,” he told me as he wiped the substance off with a tissue. “They settle into our skin from pollution outdoors and even from within with unhealthy eating.”

Egads, was I going to get a lecture on clean living from this fellow, too
?

Was he going to tell me to cleanse my freezer of the Häagen-Dazs in order to avoid toxic build-up of blackheads? Well, that was something I just wouldn’t do, not even if it meant having perfect skin for eternity.

“This will feel cool,” he said next. “It’s the tangerine botanical pore-tightening mask. I’ll leave it on for five minutes.”

He plopped slices of chilly cucumber on my eyes, which meant I could no longer peek through my lashes. The soft bristles of a brush flicked across my cheeks and forehead as he covered my face with scented goo. I could even taste it on my lips.

Hmmm.

Not bad. Kinda like orange Jell-O.

Dr. Sonja’s boyfriend chuckled, having apparently caught my tongue doing a little exploring. “If you’re going to ask if the mask is edible, it isn’t meant to be, not really. But I guess if you were starving, you could eat it. It’s all organic.”

Hello
? Did he think I planned to snack on the face mask?

I snorted and managed to suck a bit of tangerine goo up my nose.

Ugh.

“You have great bone structure, Andy, if I might call you that,” he said, retrieving my right hand from beneath the throw. He began massaging my fingers, and I stiffened.

Was a hand massage part of the pore tightening package
?

“Wow, you’re tense.”

And why wouldn’t I be
?

I was witness to a shooting at a Pretty Party the night before, and, according to Highland Park’s deputy chief of police, I was the last person to see Miranda DuBois sucking in oxygen. And now my hand was being, um, manhandled by someone other than Malone?

Though, it did feel awfully good.

So long as he didn’t reach beneath the cashmere to manhandle anything else.

“You’re not used to being pampered, are you?”

“Who has time?” I murmured.

Besides, I wasn’t big on primping. Life was far too short to worry about facials and manicures and pedicures. I’d rather spend my time on things that mattered more, like my painting or Web design or Malone.