Too Pretty to Die by Susan McBride

Author:Susan McBride [McBride, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-10-12T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

“Remember when I told you I was working on a feature story for the paper?”

The one about superficiality and appearances and Dr. Sonja Madhavi that had inspired her to blow up her lips like an Angelina wannabe?

“Yep, I remember,” I said.

Janet opened her mouth, glanced at the open door, and reconsidered. She popped up from the sofa and crossed the room to shut us in. I heard a click and realized she’d locked the door.

Geez, Louise.

What was going on with her? She’d been acting odd all day.

She dropped back down beside me, leaned her knees toward mine, and said in a most hush-hush tone, “All right, here’s the Cliffs Notes version, so stick with me.”

I nodded.

“I was working on the piece about Pretty Parties and the Park Cities’ obsession with looking perfect, and I decided to do a sidebar on the Caviar Club, after I started hearing buzz about it on the social scene. The kind of buzz that’s whispered behind hands, if you get my drift.” She picked up her pen again and fiddled with it, her eyes on the Mont Blanc as she said: “If you weren’t so out of the loop, Andy, you’d probably have gotten wind of it, too.” She gave me a quick glance.

“Whatever.” I shrugged.

If she’d intended to hurt my feelings, she hadn’t. I was out of the loop with regard to where the moneyed set partied these days, and I didn’t mind a bit.

“So what is the Caviar Club?” I asked, seeing as how Deputy Chief Dean thought Miranda might have wanted to die after being ejected from it.

“It’s all about the pretty people, you see. The beautiful ones…” Janet paused. “…at least on paper. Photo paper,” she clarified. “They pick and choose their members based on looks, or looks that they find appealing. They don’t want any average folks at their secret parties messing up the ambience. And I guess that means me, because they wouldn’t let me in, not to any of the real parties. They just invited me, as the PCP society editor, to something specially arranged.” She gave her spiky red hair a toss, her fat lips pouting.

“Who’s doing the picking and choosing?” I asked.

It sounded awfully narrow-minded and snobbish. What intelligent, well-rounded person only wanted to meet others solely based on looks? It was like buying a gift wrapped in a Tiffany’s box and not having a clue what was inside. It could well be a multicarat diamond ring; but then again, perhaps it was a big fat CZ worth nada.

“I’m not exactly sure who’s playing judge and jury, deciding who the Caviar Club lets in,” Janet admitted. “That’s one part of the story I still need to find out. I can’t get the skinny from anyone I’ve interviewed. The members I’ve been able to track down say as little as possible. It’s like they’re bound to secrecy or something.”

“So who did you talk to?” I asked, convinced at this point that the Caviar Club mentality was what had started her obsession with meaty lips.

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