Sour Grapes Page 7

  So, what else was new with Barbie Matthews?

  For a moment Savannah considered knocking on the door and questioning the kid. But instinctively she knew that Ms. Barbie would be far less cooperative than her uncooperative girlfriend had been, so it was pointless.

  She walked away, easing the queasy feeling in her stomach by promising herself to keep a close eye on Barbie Matthews for the rest of the pageant.

  The problem was: She just wasn’t sure exactly what to watch for.

  Was she protecting Barbie from someone who might want to hurt her? Or was she protecting someone in particular—or everyone at the pageant—from the temperamental Ms. Matthews?

  Chapter 7

  By the time Savannah returned to the gallery she found it virtually empty, except for a few Villa Rosa staff members who were scurrying through, their arms laden with everything from trays of dishes, to flower arrangements and stacks of linens.

  Even Ryan was gone. She assumed he was patrolling the downstairs hallway of the guesthouse, or checking the grounds.

  Villa Rosa’s visitors had migrated to the tasting room, and Savannah could tell by the clatter of dishes and silverware that dinner was well under way. The smell of food was driving her crazy. Right now she would even settle for one of Dirk’s bargain kids’ burgers and a greasy bag of cold fries.

  When she entered the tasting room, she found a semidark, discreet spot against the wall to the left of the main door, where she stood for over half an hour, keeping an eye on things but maintaining a low profile.

  Other than the fact that she was starving, she had to admit, this was a pretty easy way to make a buck. She’d have to thank Ryan again for recommending her. It had been ages since she’d had a gig this laid-back.

  If she could only get her paws on one of those plates of herb-roasted chicken....

  Barbie Matthews was feeling better than she had for weeks; finally, things were starting to go her way. The plan she had crafted so carefully was beginning to unfold.

  Winning beauty pageants was fine, but Barbie had so much more in mind for her future. After all, what was the point of being beautiful if you didn’t use it fully to your advantage?

  As she hurried through the now-vacant upstairs corridor of the guesthouse, she felt her pulse pounding with excitement. When she had made the phone call and demanded the meeting, she hadn’t really expected the other party to agree. But, to her shock and delight, the person had, and she was on her way to a meeting that would change her boring, mundane life forever.

  Once downstairs, she stuck her head around the corner and glanced around the gallery. The only activity she saw was the bustling of waiters and waitresses, who seemed preoccupied with their own activities.

  Head held high, her purse tucked under her arm, Barbie walked briskly through the gallery and out the front door, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible—for a young woman whose life was about to change dramatically.

  Outside, the cool, damp night air was filled with the fragrance of fruit on the vine . . . and the evening was full of delicious possibilities.

  Wouldn’t everyone be surprised?

  Sometimes Barbie felt that those around her hadn’t given her the proper respect she was due. A lot of people claimed to be special, but she really was. Though sometimes that gift was less of a blessing and more of a burden.

  It wasn’t easy, being the prettiest and brightest person in a room at any given time and not being recognized as such. But those days were over. After tonight, everyone would see her in a whole new light. She would receive the special attention she had always craved.

  She glanced around, trying to get her bearings, but—although gifted in all the really important ways—she had never developed a sense of direction, and everything looked different than it had earlier in the daylight.

  This far out in the country, the night was darker than in town, and only a few round-globed, antique streetlamps illuminated the grounds.

  To her right was the small building that housed the Villa Rosa gift shop, straight ahead lay the road that led to the main gates and the highway, and to her left was the parking lot.

  She headed in that direction, as she had been instructed on the phone. She had been told to go to the far side of the parking lot, where she would be met by her visitor near the swimming-pool area.

  Her heart began to pound even harder, and she shivered with anticipation. She had won! Of course, she had always known she would, but now that victory was within reach, it was far sweeter than she had even imagined.

  A cold, wet breeze swept over her, chilling her back, which was bare, her dress being particularly low-cut. She had just left the terra-cotta-tiled walkway and stepped onto the parking-lot asphalt, when the cell phone inside her purse buzzed against her ribs.

  “Not now!” she said as she fumbled inside her purse and brought out the phone. Aggravated though she was, she was afraid not to answer it. Her party might be calling to inform her of a change of plans.

  “Yeah? Who is it?” She paused beside an old, bright red Mustang and tapped her foot impatiently.

  “Your mother,” said a voice just as impatiently. “Where are you? Your father and I are sitting here at this banquet table, waiting for you to show up. I sent your sister to find you twenty minutes ago.”

  “Great . . . that’s just what I need . . . the Squirt on my tail.”

  “And your friend, Francie, is here. She said you were on your way down from her room half an hour ago.”

  “I’m not coming.”

  “What do you mean you aren’t coming? If your family shows up at these functions to show their support for you, the least you could do is make an appearance.”

  Barbie sighed and rolled her eyes. Once again . . . no respect.

  “I don’t feel good, Mom, and I sure don’t feel like eating the garbage that they’re serving. I’m just going to stay here in my room.”

  “What’s the matter? Are you throwing up again? I’ll bring you something to settle your stomach.”

  “No! I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to see anybody . Just leave me alone. If you guys are bored, go home. I never asked you to come anyway.”

  She punched the “talk” button before her mom could get in that irritating last word that she always insisted on having. Mom was quite the controller in the family, leading Dad and Louise around by the nose. Barbie was the only one with enough guts to put her in her place.

  Barbie smiled broadly. Yes, when Mommy Dearest found out what was going on, she was probably going to be the most surprised of all. Everything wasn’t as in control as she had thought.

  Smoothing her hair and licking her lips, Barbie continued across the lot. She peered into the darkness on either side of her, but saw no one—only rows of parked cars. The night here seemed even cooler than before, and she had to clench her teeth to keep them from chattering.

  Out here, alone in the dark, her mental vision of her bright future dimmed just a little. For a moment, Barbie felt a trickle of fear run from her tailbone up her back to the base of her skull.

  Something wasn’t quite right.

  She had felt this way once before . . . when she was six years old. She had stretched out her hand to pet the neighbor’s German shepherd. Looking into his eyes, she had felt the same sensation that she felt now. The dog had bitten her. Hard. It had taken seven stitches in the hospital emergency room to close the wound. She still had the scar to remind her, the only blemish on an otherwise perfect body.

  Having reached the edge of the lot and the appointed spot near the pool and patio area, there was nothing else for her to do but wait. And Barbie wasn’t good at waiting, especially when she was feeling a bit weird and freaky. She gripped the cell phone tightly and felt a little less vulnerable.

  “You’d better show,” she said under her breath. “And you’d better get here pretty soon, too. I’m not going to wait all night . . . not even for you.”

  Just as she was deciding that she h
ad, indeed, been stood up, Barbie heard footsteps approaching from behind her. She turned around, a smile of greeting on her carefully glossed lips. But the smile quickly faded when she saw her visitor’s face.

  “You? What are you doing here?” Rage swept through Barbara Matthews, hot and searing, replacing cold caution. “No, no, no! You aren’t going to screw this up for me. You’re not! I swear, I’ll kill you first.”

  The dark figure laughed, and the harsh, hard sound of it would have terrified a more timid—or sensible—soul than Barbie Matthews.

  But Barbie’s terror came a moment later when she saw the glint of a gun pointed straight at her head.

  “You have two choices,” the person told her. “Number one: You don’t follow my instructions, and I kill you here and now. Number two: You be a good girl, do everything I tell you to do—when I tell you to do it—and I’ll kill you later. It’s up to you. What’s it gonna be?”

  Barbie could almost feel that German shepherd’s fangs sinking into her tender hand. The danger she had seen in the dog’s eyes was exactly what she could hear in this person’s voice. She was in trouble . . . big trouble.

  And she wanted to live, even if it was only for a few more minutes or hours. Barbie Matthews, Miss California Sunshine, swallowed her pride and nearly choked on it.

  “What you want me to do?”

  “Turn around . . . and put your hands behind your back.”

  For one of the few times in her life, Barbie did exactly as she was told.

  “Now see there; isn’t that easy?” said the person with the gun. “Even an airhead like you can do it.”

  While Savannah wasn’t jazzed about the idea of her little sister strutting her stuff in what she considered a glorified meat market, she had to admit that she was pretty proud of the kid.

  From her posted position against the wall, Savannah could see Atlanta across the room, sitting at a table with some other girls, laughing and chatting as though they had known each other for years. With familial satisfaction, Savannah noted that Atlanta was, by far, the most attractive one at the table, despite the fact that she was dressed less expensively than the average attendee.

  Savannah wished that Atlanta had asked her for something more appropriate to wear, but she quickly dismissed the idea as ridiculous . . . as if anything in her closet would fit that teeny-tiny body.

  She watched to see if Atlanta was actually eating anything off the plate set in front of her. While she had her fork in her hand and appeared to be moving food from one place to another, she didn’t actually seem to be sticking any of it in her mouth, chewing, and swallowing.

  A look around the room at the other girls did little to put Savannah’s mind at ease. Most of the young ladies appeared to be doing the same thing . . . pretending to eat. And most of them were just as slender as Atlanta, some even more so.

  Savannah could remember being that thin . . . but she had to stretch her memory back . . . way back . . . to junior high school. Though not as skinny as these girls, she had been teased mercilessly, called Beanpole, Toothpick, and Ostrich Legs.

  At that time, voluptuous curves were “in.” And she was basically curveless, until the hormones kicked in . . . about tenth grade. Suddenly, those distinctly feminine attributes appeared, burgeoning forth with a vengeance. And for about a week, Savannah had been hot stuff on campus.

  But then, suddenly, “stacked” was “out” and models in miniskirts with figures similar to those of prepubescent boys were “in.”

  In one week, Savannah had gone from Beanpole to Major Babe to Fatso.

  Life sucked.

  But she had learned a valuable lesson: You can’t rate yourself by society’s fickle standards.

  She had decided, then and there, to love her flesh . . . every gorgeous, soft, feminine inch and ounce of it. And, with all her heart, she wished she could give that precious gift of self-love to every young woman in the room. Unfortunately, it wasn’t something you could transfuse.

  Clicking back into professional-bodyguard mode, she surveyed the room again, looking specifically for Barbie Matthews. But she didn’t see her. Apparently the girl hadn’t come down yet. Her friend, Francie, had taken a seat at Atlanta’s table, and there was an empty chair beside her. Savannah assumed she was saving it for Barbie.

  The girl still looked worried and preoccupied, not joining in the lively conversation at the table.

  The welcoming speeches had begun with Mrs. Lippincott onstage, introducing the various luminaries in their midst. Savannah watched her with interest, noting her expertise and ease at the microphone. If beauty-pageant experience imparted this sort of social grace to its participants, perhaps it could be a positive thing for the contestants after all. Such skills would be useful in many of life’s venues.

  If only Savannah could get over the unpleasant feeling that these girls were being evaluated on the sum of their external parts, rather than the intrinsic value of their souls.

  When Mrs. Lippincott began to introduce the girls, and they filed across this stage, one by one, speaking a quick hello into the microphone, Savannah’s uneasiness increased. Across the audience, she saw expressions on some of the men’s faces that reflected genuine appreciation for the girls’ youthful beauty, and even some worshipful adoration.

  That was all fine and good.

  What she didn’t like were the eyes that racked up and down each girl, while their owners engaged in their own little private, out-of-body experiences . . . fantasies that probably would have offended, if not horrified, the girls on the stage. And most of those wearing that sort of look were old enough to be the girls’ fathers . . . in some cases, their grandfathers.

  One of the worst offenders was the guy that Ryan had warned her about earlier, one of the judges, Frank Addison. Sitting at a front table, he had an excellent view, which he was taking full advantage of.

  When Atlanta’s name was called, and she glided across the stage to speak her “hello” into the microphone, Savannah couldn’t help noticing the lecherous attention he was paying to her baby sister.

  “Roll up that tongue of yours and stick it back in your mouth, you old perv,” she whispered. “And screw your eyes back into their sockets while you’re at it.”

  When Atlanta left the stage, instead of returning to her table, she exited the room by way of a side door. Savannah had seen a number of the girls coming in and out through that door. It appeared to be the shortest route to the ladies’ room.

  Alarm bells went off in her head as she watched Frank Addison rise from his seat and stroll nonchalantly through the same door behind Atlanta. It took Savannah only a few seconds to get across the room and out the door.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” she muttered as she followed him, rapidly closing the distance. “Don’t you even think about what you’re thinking about . . . not with any of my girls, you peckerhead, and especially not with that one!”

  Barbie Matthews knew with more certainty than she had ever known anything before, that she was about to be murdered; the only question remaining was, “How?”

  She had done everything she had been told to do. She had allowed her hands to be taped so tightly that her fingers had almost immediately gone numb. She had submitted to having a wide piece of the silver tape stretched across her mouth, which itched terribly and tore her lips, besides making it difficult for her to breathe. She could taste her own stomach juices, bitter in her mouth, and she was afraid she would vomit and choke.

  For just a moment Barbie thought of how many times she had used self-induced vomiting to keep her weight down. How ironic if she actually died that way, after hearing all the warnings about how dangerous the practice was and dismissing them as alarmist hogwash.

  Her captor had forced her to walk to the back of one of the cars that was parked at the edge of a lot, and now the person was opening the trunk. The gun was still pointed at her face.

  “Get inside. Now . . . move it!”

  So, she wasn’t going to be
killed here at this location. Barbie mentally clutched at the hope that a car ride might provide her with an opportunity to escape. Obediently, she climbed into the trunk. It was harder to do than she would have thought, with her hands taped behind her and her legs weak and shaky from fear.

  But she managed to crawl in, scraping her shin painfully, and lie down as she was instructed.

  Crunched into a fetal ball, on her side, she could smell the moist, mustiness of the trunk, the rubber of the spare tire, and the gasoline residue on the outside of a metal can beside her head.

  But those odors were only faint impressions. Barbie had far more pressing issues than unpleasant smells to worry about. Something in the manner of the person standing over her, leaning into the trunk, told her that something was about to happen. Something very bad.

  Maybe she was going to be killed right there and then, after all.

  Briefly, she wondered what it would feel like . . . a bullet passing through her flesh. She had heard that sometimes people were shot and they didn’t even realize it. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt too badly.

  As though from far away at the end of the long, dark hallway, she could hear her tormentor saying, “You’re nothing but a cockroach. You know that, don’t you? A girl like you, who doesn’t care who she hurts, who she uses—you’re nothing but a damned cockroach.”

  Barbie had a thousand things she wanted to say in her own defense, a thousand things she wanted to tell her captor, having to do with their illegitimate birth, incestuous relationships, and their most unpleasant, eternal destination. Most of all, she wanted to say that she was special . . . far too special to be treated this way.

  But now, for the first time in her life, when she wanted most to speak, Barbie Matthews was speechless—because of the tape across her mouth.

  Her tormenter was rummaging around in the trunk near Barbie’s feet. “You know how they kill cockroaches?” the voice asked.

  Mash them? Barbie thought. Oh, god, was that how she was going to be killed? Squashed flat like a bug on a sidewalk?