It wasn’t just the goose bumps raised on her bare arms and uncovered shoulders, or her fight to keep her teeth from chattering; Mandy Starr’s chills ran to the bone. Something was not kosher in downtown Denmark, or whatever that expression was. “Perfect! Oh, per-fec-tion, you are de-lec-table!” Joe Lester, the photographer Tim had introduced her to, was practically salivating as he ogled her through his camera lens. The emotion—if you could call it that—was seconded by Joe’s “assistant,” Skeever, who leered on approvingly. “Ain’t she sweet,” drooled the balding lump of lard, staring at her from the corner of the room. “Ain’t she a treat.” Mandy stifled the urge to march up and drop him. What was this mound of shit doing, anyway? Weren’t assistants supposed to adjust the lighting, futz with those umbrella-things? Or at the very least, brandish a hairbrush, offer her a bottle of mineral water, or hello, lip gloss, anyone? Weren’t they supposed to be assisting?
