Cereal Killer

vague. And there had to be a million agents in Hollywood.
    They both gave her what she considered to be suspicious looks. But she decided to chalk it up to paranoia. More than anything, they just looked bored as they continued to trowel on the goop.
    She imitated them, while trying to remember all the beauty tips she had gleaned over the years by reading women’s magazines and watching infomercials.
    As the three of them sat there, contouring, highlighting, and accenting, Savannah couldn’t help noticing that her fellow picnic table models were dressed in what she could only describe as “dowdy” swimsuits. The blonde was wearing a bright, floral-patterned suit with a silly little pleated skirt that made her rear look enormous. The brunette’s one-piece had broad horizontal stripes in florescent pink, green, and yellow, a monstrosity that Savannah wouldn’t have worn to a dog fight.
    While she was silently congratulating herself on her own more tasteful choices that she had in her bag, the art director, Paul Loman, hurried over to their table.
    “Aren’t you ladies ready yet?” he said. Without waiting for anyone to answer, he turned to Savannah. “Let’s see your suits.”
    Feeling that she at least had this one under control, she reached into her kit and pulled out a simple but tasteful navy blue tankini, an aqua V-neck tank, and an elegant black tank with tiny red trim.
    He frowned and shook his head. “Is that all you brought?”
    “All?” Savannah swallowed her irritation and resisted the urge to add, “Yeah, I didn’t have any ugly-ass getups like these gals are wearing.”
    “Wear the aqua one,” he told her. Then, to them all, he said, “Five minutes, ladies. Then Matt wants you on your marks and ready to go.”
    Savannah sat there, holding the aqua suit. She had only brought it along because Leah had insisted that she bring three choices. About five years old, it had lost most of its elasticity and did precious little to flatter her figure.
    “Wonder why he chose that one?” she mumbled to herself. “The black tank looks best on me.”
    “Don’t you get it?” the blonde asked her, an unpleasant scowl on her face. “We’re the ‘before.’ ” She pointed to the two beauties on the tub. “They’re the ‘after.’ ”
    “After?” Savannah shook her head.
    “After eating Slenda Flakes. We’re the blimps. We make them look good.”
    “Oh.”
    That was the moment when Savannah decided that this was one story she wouldn’t tell her grandchildren someday as they sat on her lap and she reminisced about the fascinating life she’d had in the golden, olden days of yore. Nope. The little Savannah-juniorettas of the future didn’t need to know that Granny Savannah had been the “before” chick at a fashion photo shoot.
    “We’re lucky to be working today at all,” the brunette mumbled as she dusted a final powdering over her forehead, nose, and chin.
    Something in her tone made Savannah’s “gossip” detector beep. She pretended not to listen as she caked on a third coating of mascara.
    “Yeah. One person’s misfortune is another person’s big break,” Blondie replied with a nod toward the girls at the spa. “You’d think she’d have the decency to at least look a little upset.”
    “Really. I mean, two people had to die for her to move up to...”
    The brunette seemed to sense Savannah’s attention, and she let the subject drop. But Savannah had already decided which of the two girls at the whirlpool they were talking about. It had to be the one with the French accent. Unlike the Latin model, who seemed appropriately subdued, the second “star” of today’s shoot conveyed a self-confidence that bordered on arrogance. With a few too many flippant tosses of her head and far too many shrill bursts of laughter that echoed across the patio, assaulting everyone’s ears, Mademoiselle France would have been a bit hard to take even under less tragic circumstances.
    “You’d better get changed,” the blonde snapped, interrupting Savannah’s reverie. “Matt’s a real bitch if you keep him waiting.”
    Savannah glanced around. “Where should I get dressed?” she asked.
    “Over there.”
    She was pointing to an area of the patio against the house. A small, thin curtain had been pulled across one side, leaving two sides—and anyone unlucky enough to be expected to strip inside it—exposed.
    Apparently modesty wasn’t a virtue that was held in high regard at this