Kathryn Lilley - Makeovers Can Be Murder

The third book in the Fat City Mystery series, 2009

Everyone wants a body to die for.

Especially me. My name is Kate Gallagher, and I′m a perfect size sixteen, which is an un per fect size for someone in my line of work. I′m a reporter in TV news-a field where any female bigger than a size two is practically an endangered species. Zaftig gals like me are vulnerable members of the newsroom herd, so I have to spend much of my time beating off the News Barbies, who are constantly on the prowl for my job. In broadcasting, the law of the jungle is up or out, but for mostly cosmetic reasons (174 of them, last time I checked in with the scale), my career has stalled in my adopted hometown of Durham, North Carolina. For me the town might as well be called Fat City.

My body/career problems came to a head last summer when I was summoned to Beatty the Beast′s office. Beatty is the news director at Channel Twelve Action! News. His favorite sport is torturing reporters with asinine assignments designed to jack up the station′s perpetually sagging ratings.

Monday morning started off with a bang that week when Beatty eyed me across his desk and announced that he had a brilliant idea for an investigative series.

″Quick-weight-loss scams-they′re a billion-dollar business.″ Beatty paused for dramatic effect. ″What are they? Who suffers? Who′s ripping off Thunder Thighs?″

He lobbed a glance at my hip zone and added, ″I want you on the fat-scam story, Gallagher. You know the territory.″

I shifted in my skintight wiggle skirt, which I′d bought fifteen pounds ago. Too many drive-through dinners and no-show sessions at the gym had left me and my skirt with more waddle than wiggle.

″Well, I′ve heard of a place where they claim to melt off cellulite,″ I said. ″First they slather you all over with some kind of cream; then they wrap you up in plastic and stick you in a sauna. It′s just water loss, though-totally bogus.″

″Fantabulous. That′s a dynamite visual.″ Beatty raised his fingers in the air and twisted a pair of phantom knobs. ″I see you doing the story in a bikini. You′re being frosted with fat cream and shrink-wrapped.″

I blanched. ″A bikini ?″ I said. ″No way. I don′t even own a bikini.″

″You can expense it. We′ve got to see them slathering you in the cream, so that means bikini. The rest is up to you. I want a five-part series on diet scams for sweeps week.″

When I didn′t reply, his eyebrows shot up above the rim line of his aviator glasses, hairy protuberances that usually represented the leading edge of an ass-kicking squall.

″Investigative stories are your beat, Gallagher, ″ he said. ″But if you can′t handle this one, I′ll put Lainey on it. She′s itching to do a series. And I′m sure she′d have no problem wearing a bikini.″

″Lainey would prance naked on a catwalk if it meant promoting herself,″ I said.

Beatty yanked off his glasses and tossed them on the desk. ″In case you forgot, Gallagher, this station′s ratings pay your salary, so spare me any yada yada about how you won the duPont Award and you only do ′serious′ news. We could use more people around here with Lainey′s attitude. ″

Ouch. Lainey Lanston was my newsroom rival and personal nemesis. Formerly a print reporter at the Durham Ledger, she had always dismissed TV news as lamebrain puffery-until the morning she showed up for her first day of work at Channel Twelve. Ever since then she′d been breathing down my neck, trying to outscore me on getting lead stories. The fact that Beatty was calling Lainey by her first name meant she′d already oozed her way into his good graces. A bad omen for me.

I gritted my teeth and said, ″Lainey′s completely wrong for this story-I already have some good sources. I′ll do it.″

When his eyebrows remained aloft, I added grudgingly, ″Okay, including the damned visual with the bikini.″

″Atta girl.″ Beatty flashed some teeth in a smile that might have been meant to be conciliatory. ″And give me your usual hard-hitting stuff,″ he said. ″Not like that piece of crap we ran yesterday about the escaped zoo tiger. We promote it as a killer, but then we show it holed up in a bush having kittens.″

″Cubs. Tigers don′t have kittens.″

″Whatever.″ Another gesture dismissed me. ″They were milk-eaters, not man-eaters.″

″All you had to do was play up the happy-ending twist. That would′ve worked.″

″Hey, that woulda been fantabulous,″ he said with another show of canines. ″Maybe I should move you over to features.″

″Maybe it′s time for me to leave.″

I fled from Beatty′s office and cut a path through the crowded newsroom, avoiding the curious stares of my colleagues. I knew they were dying to pump me for information about my closed-door session with the news director, so I took refuge in an editing booth.

I opened my cell phone and called Evelyn, a former desperate housewife turned delighted divorcée. Evelyn was my friend and go-to gal for the latest scoop on fighting flab-we′d met a couple of years back when we were both on a wacky fruit diet at one of Durham′s residential diet clinics (aka fat farms). But unlike me, Evelyn had kept all of her weight off, and then some. She picked up on the second ring.

″ Oh my God, I can barely talk.″ Evelyn′s voice sounded agonized. ″I′m dying my pubie hairs Sunset Blond. This stuff stings like a holy mother.″

″I think you′re supposed to use a special hair dye for that,″ I said. ″Without bleach.″

″Ugh. No wonder. I′ll just shave everything off.″

″Good idea. Why did you want to go blond down south?″

″To make the carpet match the drapes, silly,″ she replied. ″Tonight′s the big night with Liam-everything′s got to be perfect.″

Perfection is Evelyn′s holy grail when it comes to her body. She has her plastic surgeon on speed dial.

Over the sound of water being turned on, she continued, ″Liam′s coming over tonight to help me road test my brand-new breasts. With these D-cup babies he′ll think he died and woke up inside a centerfold,″ she said. ″And hopefully he won′t feel the staples-I just had the surgery a month ago. Are you at work?″

″Yes, and I have a huge problem,″ I replied. ″My news director wants me to wear a bikini on the air for some stupid series about weight-loss scams. Can you imagine me baring this jelly belly on TV? Right now I can′t even zip up my thin jeans. Seriously-I′ve reached critical ass.″

Evelyn made a soothing noise. ″Hon, you′ve got a fabulous hourglass shape,″ she said. ″And that gorgeous face of yours makes everyone jealous, including me.″

My brain autorejected her compliment, partly because Evelyn has a much more forgiving attitude about her friends′ bodies than about her own. But it was more than that.

You have such a pretty face was a refrain I′d heard ever since I was an adolescent-right before I heard Now, if you could just lose some weight…

The net result was that I′d wound up thinking that having a pretty face served only to draw attention to the flaws everyplace else. Like my hips.

″I only have an hourglass shape when I′m wearing my waist cincher,″ I moaned. ″And I can′t wear a cincher with a two-piece.″