Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) by Wendy Tyson

now at Maggie’s angry scowl, Allison was pretty sure the studied coziness of the client room wasn’t going to make a bit of difference.
    Four armchairs faced each other around a mahogany table. In the corner, mostly hidden behind a small Asian-inspired screen, stood a scale. Next to the scale, a few feet from the table, was an old fashioned roll-top desk, the inside of which contained standing file folders, each labeled with the names of clothing manufacturers and filled with catalogues. Allison watched Maggie scan the room, still scowling.
    Allison motioned toward one of the arm chairs. “Please. Sit.” Then she walked over to the desk and pulled several catalogues from one of the file folders and a tape measure from a drawer. Before returning to the table, she pulled aside the screen that hid the scale.
    When Allison turned back around, she saw that Maggie had pushed her chair back as far as it would go, until the back of it was lodged against a wall. She lounged with her head against the chair, her arms slung over the sides, feet propped on the table.
    Allison ignored the scuff mark on the wall where the chair had hit too hard and the black line on the table top where the rubber from Maggie’s boots maligned the wood.
    “Here you go, Maggie.” She placed a stack of clothing catalogues in front of her. Guess, DKNY, J. Crew, Abercrombie and Fitch. She took the seat opposite Maggie and spread the catalogues out on the table.
    “This is what you do?” Maggie said, straining her neck to see, her feet still on the table. She snickered. “Catalogue shopping? That’s your big secret to success?”
    Allison chose to ignore her tone. “These catalogues help me get a sense of the style that appeals to you. Usually we start with a discussion of personal goals. I do a physical intake: weight, height, measurements. And then we prepare a personal plan. Together.”
    Maggie sat up and swung her feet down onto the floor. “No offense, Allison, but this is so stupid.” She pointed to her skirt. “My style. What you see is what you get.” Then she picked up the Guess catalogue, flipped through it much the same way Catherine had flipped through the First Impressions brochure, and tossed it back on the table.
    Maggie sneered. “Oh, Allison, please give me perfect nails and a boob job and liposuction! Make me look like Catherine. Please, oh please. Or better yet, make me look like you, Ms. Perfect.” She pushed the catalogues to the edge of the table and smiled. “But you were born perfect, weren’t you? You were probably a cheerleader with loads of skinny, cheerleader friends. Well, that’s not me. I don’t need to look perfect to be happy, and I wish you and my stupid parents would just leave me the hell alone.” With one finger, she pushed the catalogues over the edge of the table, onto the floor. She stared at Allison, her eyes challenging. “You make me sick.”
    Allison picked up the catalogues and took a moment to re-stack them, as much to buy time as to regain her own composure. How far from the truth Maggie was. Cheerleader? Perfect body? How about gorging alone in her bedroom in order to avoid the fact that she had no friends? The few she’d had had been terrified of her father, the criminal. Never mind that he was acquitted. Didn’t matter. He and his family had been pariahs in a town of small thoughts and small dreams. And that made for a lonely existence.
    No, she had been more like Violet than Maggie. Alone. Grateful for anyone’s attention. Not like this spoiled child who sat before her now. But if she was going to make this relationship work, if she was going to give the McBrides some bang for their buck, she needed to think fast and not let her feelings interfere with work.
    She looked at Maggie. The girl stared callously ahead, eyes hidden by gobs of eyeliner and mascara. Allison considered Sunny’s description of her daughter. Could this all be chalked up to poor self-esteem? Oh, it made sense that