Polished Off by Lila Dare Page A

on-again, off-again since high school and were currently pretty on—if Vonda’s glow was anything to go by. RJ was their eight-year-old son.
    “Visiting Ricky’s folks in Fort Myers,” Vonda said. “Ricky wanted to make sure they got some time with RJ before school starts up in a couple of weeks. So it’s just us chicks. Soda?”
    I accepted the diet A&W she held out and settled into a canvas chair. Reaching for the sunblock sitting on the deck, I slathered some on my forearms, bared by the airy sweater. If I sat cross-legged, pulling my legs up under my blue cotton skirt, I wouldn’t have to goop them.
    “So . . .” Vonda said, looking at me expectantly.
    “So what?” I asked.
    “The body. I heard you found Audrey Faye’s mutilated body.”
    I shot her an exasperated look. “You’ve lived here long enough not to believe everything you hear through the small-town grapevine. She wasn’t mutilated.”
    “But you found her?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m sorry.” She put a hand on my arm. “It must have been ugly.”
    “Not much fun.” I filled her in.
    “So Special Agent Dillon’s back, huh?” She gave me a sly look.
    I tell her about finding a body and she zeroes in on the handsome detective? That’s a best friend for you. “He’s back. So what? He’s only interested in me as a witness. Besides, I’m seeing Marty.”
    “It’s not like you two are exclusive,” Vonda said, flapping her hand. “You aren’t even sleeping together.”
    I felt my face flush and looked around to see if the people on the other boats had heard her. “Sssh. If I wanted the entire town to know about my love life, I’d take out an ad in the Gazette ,” I said.
    “What love life?” Vonda asked, unrepentant. “A few dates with a guy who lives four hours away hardly constitute a love life.”
    A cheer went up from the crowd so I didn’t have to come up with a response. The contestants had appeared at the yacht club entrance and were waving to the crowd. The emcee stood at the gazebo, mic in hand, but half his words got blown away by the gentle breeze. “. . . a hand . . . swim . . . Magnolia . . . contestants.” Vonda and I joined in the applause.
    The girls, led by Brooke Baker in a red bikini top and boy shorts, started down the boardwalk. Clearly, the pageant had left the choice of swimwear up to the contestants. I thought, and not for the first time, that you could learn more about a woman by watching her for thirty seconds in a bathing suit than you could in a half-hour conversation. I live in a beach community and see a lot of people in swimsuits. Women just move differently in bathing suits than they do in shorts or jeans. Some saunter, some hold their tummies in, some walk on tiptoe so their breasts don’t bounce, some flaunt their best features with a gold chain at the waist or a backless one-piece or halter top. Almost all of them over the age of ten are self-conscious, tugging down bikini bottoms, readjusting straps, glancing around as they smooth sunblock onto their arms. The contestants were no exception.
    Brooke strutted in her red suit, waving to the crowd, comfortable with her muscular, athletic body. Elise, right behind her, crept along in a skirted suit that a Victorian miss would find modest. Even her smile was strained, a flash of teeth quickly hidden. Contestants wearing suits in all the bright colors of a Skittles pack glided, tromped, and swayed down the boardwalk. Applause greeted each girl as she did a series of turns in the gazebo and then marched back to the yacht club. Rachel bounced along second to last, wearing a purple one-piece with cutouts at the sides and a ruffle on the asymmetrical neckline. She was barefoot—most of the contestants wore sandals of varying heights—and gave off the happy vibe of a teen planning to spend the day at the beach with friends. All she needed was a boogie board or a Frisbee. I cheered loudly as Rachel passed the boat. Vonda put two fingers in her mouth and