I sipped Pete’s marvelous latte and glanced at the ribs. They were now sending up savory swirls of smoke. “That’s okay. Julian already told me about what cosmetics folks eat.”
A look of worry crossed Dusty’s pretty, chubby face. “But … did he come with you? Is he okay? They called all the reps last night to tell us about the police investigation….” She faltered. This morning, Dusty’s short, orange-blond hair was coiffed in a spill of stiff waves framing her cherub-cheeked face. Although I knew she was only eighteen, her heavy matte makeup, dark-lined eyes, too-rosy streaks of blush, and prominent blue eyeshadow made her look much older. Lack of sleep and worry lines didn’t help. Not to mention dealing with the news that one of your colleagues had been killed.
“What did they say to the reps?” I asked.
“I have to get back,” she said abruptly. “Come with me? I’d like to talk to you, since we didn’t really have a chance yesterday. And it seems as if we never get to when we’re in the neighborhood. You’re always cooking or going off somewhere, and I have Colin to take care of, since Mom never feels very well….”
I glanced at my watch again: nine-twenty. There was still no sign of the goateed health inspector, and I did want to get the second half of my banquet payment from Mignon before things got too busy…. Nodding to Dusty, I quickly removed the juicy ribs from the grill and drafted a food fair volunteer to guard my supplies for twenty minutes. Then I picked up my coffee and walked with Dusty to Prince & Grogan.
“How is your mother, Dusty? I haven’t seen her for a while.”
Dusty snorted. “Heartbroken.”
“Heartbroken?” I repeated. “Why?”
“Well,” said Dusty as she finished her first cookie. “First she fell in love with my dad, had me, and then he left. They never got married, and of course I never knew him. So good old Mom worked hard as a secretary to raise me, and then, not too long ago, she got a chance to have a house, finally, through Habitat for Humanity. And what did she do? Fell in love with the plumber. The plumber working on the Habitat house! She was thirty-eight, he was twenty-five, but never mind! That woman, my dear mother, is gorgeous, she’s passionate, she has no idea of the meaning of birth control. So the plumber got her pregnant with Colin, and it’s bye-bye Aspen Meadow Plumbing Service! I heard from somebody that he drove his little pipe-filled pickup truck to the Western Slope, where he could start all over, donating his services to charity.” Through a bite of biscotti, she mumbled, “At a discount.”
“I’m sorry.” Actually, I knew the details of this particular story from Marla. Strikingly stunning Sally Routt, Dusty’s mother, a single mother with an aging father and a teenage daughter, had become involved with the young, plain-looking town plumber. Had Sally hoped he would marry her when she became pregnant? Who knew? I never saw Sally Routt when she was expecting, because she’d gone into seclusion, and then reportedly suffered through a difficult, premature childbirth. The plumber, with his sad round face and round eyes behind glass-rimmed spectacles, had departed Aspen Meadow at night, leaving behind accounts receivable and one emotional debt unpaid.
“Don’t tell the people at your church, okay?” Dusty pleaded, suddenly conscience-stricken. “Heartbroken or not, Mom’s living in fear that she’ll lose the house on, like, moral grounds.”
It was all I could do not to laugh. For Dusty to think that her mother’s sad tale had not flowed through our parish with the speed of water through broken pipes was painfully naive. On the other hand, nobody in town seemed to know why Dusty had been expelled from Elk Park Prep, so maybe you could keep some secrets in Aspen Meadow. But at least the Routts were managing to keep a part of their bad news under wraps. “Well,” I said, “are you recovering from hearing about Claire’s death? How did you finally hear about what happened, anyway?”
“Recovering? How can you recover from that? Nick Gentileschi, head of security, called everybody Wednesday night to tell us the bad news.” She shuddered, then daintily bit into another cookie. “You might have seen Nick day before yesterday? He was outside in the garage with the guys from Mignon, when they were watching for those stupid demonstrators. He was, like, crying and all on the phone,” she went on. “Nick really thought a lot of Claire. Everybody did, actually. You could talk to her, and she was so enthusiastic about the products…. Anyway, he said it was a hit-and-run and they were going to step up the security police patrols of the parking garage, to look for careless drivers. I’m thinking, like, it’s a little late for that. You know?”
I thought of Julian sobbing in my arms. Maybe Nick Gentileschi and I could have a little chat. After I got my check, of course.
“Dusty?” I said suddenly. “Do you want to have lunch?”
To my dismay, she became embarrassed. We were standing awkwardly in the mall hallway outside the Prince & Grogan entrance. “You want to have lunch with me? Why? You mean as part of the food fair?”
“Sure. I have a friend in the hospital across the street—” This wasn’t coming out right. And I need to pass the time before visiting hours? And I want to know what’s really going on at that cosmetics counter? What kind of problems does the department store have, exactly? No, those explanations wouldn’t wash. “I have a friend in the hospital across the street, and she loves fattening food but can’t have any.” I stopped to think. How much cash did I have? For all my worry about money, I carried little beyond a single credit card and an emergency hundred-dollar bill. Dusty was looking at me with raised, perfectly plucked eyebrows. Her eyeshadow this morning gleamed like the hummingbirds in Tom’s garden.
“You’re going to eat for your friend?” she asked. “That is radical, I’ve never heard of being sympathetic like that, I’m like, totally blown away—”
“No, that’s not exactly it.” We walked inside. “Here’s what I was thinking,” I said. “You could sell me something that I can take to my friend. Hand cream, lipstick, makeup, I don’t care. Then we can go around and sample the food fair. Twelve-fifteen? I’ll pick you up?”
“Actually,” she said in a low, hesitant voice, “no, I can’t do it. If that’s okay. I’m behind on my sales for the last two months, so I’ve been asking to work through the noon hour. That’s when most of the women shop. You know, they’re on their lunch hours. Or businessmen visit us then, for their wives’ birthdays, and they want to buy perfume or something…. Why don’t you come in and get your stuff when you finish at the fair?” She swallowed the last bit of cookie and attempted a cheerful grin. “But I need to go now.”
We had arrived at the long, brightly lit Mignon counter. It faced the store entrance, prime shopping space that Mignon used to good advantage with sparkling mirrors, gilt decorations, and several video screens. I promised Dusty I’d see her later, then stood transfixed in front of the video screens. In my hurry yesterday, I had not stopped to watch the short films. The first showed impossibly thin twenty-year-old women frolicking beside a fountain. Gaping at them were what looked like well-built Italian movie stars posing as construction workers. Another video showed people clapping wildly as skinny models sashayed down runways wearing dresses that dripped long strands of beads. They were not the kind of outfits I could wear to the grocery store. But it was the third film that made me groan aloud. A lovely young woman knelt by the flat tire on her car just as an impossibly gorgeous guy drove up in his white convertible. Within five seconds she was driving off in the convertible with the fellow. With Mignon makeup, the video implied, you can even save on Triple-A dues!
Harriet Wells appeared and gave me a huge smile. The head sales associate wore her green smock and diamond-cluster earrings, and as usual her spun-gold hair was done up in an impeccable twist. “The caterer again!” she exclaimed. “Nick Gentileschi was looking for you, something about your check. Want me to see if he’s in his office?”
I nodded. “That would be great, thanks.”
She drew out a foil-wrapped package from underneath the counter. “My spice muffins. Why don’t
you try one and tell me what you think is in it?” She treated me to another sparkling grin. “Free perfume sample if you guess correctly. I’ll be right back.” And with that, she turned on her high heels and moved to the phone by the cash register.
The foil crinkled in my hand. I didn’t really care about perfume samples, but I was a sucker for a bet on my tasting abilities. The muffins were tiny and golden, and flecked with something brown. I took a bite and then another: crunchy, with zucchini and cinnamon. Delicious. As I calculated what it would take to reproduce them—honey for the sweetener, large, ripe, extra-juicy zucchini, filberts chopped fine … I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was being watched.
I glanced around to the shoe department. A tall man with wild, white-blond hair had been looking at sale espadrilles. Now he was staring at me with his mouth open. Maybe it was against the rules to eat muffins inside the store. I swallowed the last bite, straightened up, and pretended to be studying the face cream display that cried: You deserve to be retextured! There was a tipped mirror a little farther down the counter. I moseyed over and acted preoccupied with my reflection.
Harriet’s smile was icy when she returned to me. “The head of security is occupied and can’t look for your check at the moment. He wanted to know if you could come back later?”
Occupied doing what, I wondered. Clearly Harriet was also upset that the head of security was unavailable.
I said that was fine, thanked Harriet, and told her her muffin was made with zucchini, filberts, and cinnamon. She laughed her high tinkling laugh and rewarded me with two perfume samples: One was called Foreplay and the other was Lies. I never wanted the samples, I just wanted the muffin. Oh, well.
Back at the food fair, I tossed the samples into the same trash can where I’d thrown Pete’s pamphlet and hustled back to my booth. The volunteer was happy to be relieved. I put the first batch of ribs back on the grill, readied the second batch, and lit the Sterno for the chafers. As promised, another of the fair volunteers brought hot water for the bain-marie, the water bath for the chafing dish. This was so that as soon as the first batch of ribs was done, I could move the meat into a heated serving area. And none too soon, as the health inspector showed up just slightly later than scheduled. He impassively surveyed the spread and plunked his trusty thermometer first into the pile of cooked ribs, then the salad being kept cold in the speed cart. He wiped, the thermometer meticulously each time, giving a little nod. He asked to see the bleach water and I showed it to him. Then he nodded approvingly, refused a cookie, and moved on to the next booth.
Within moments the first batch of visitors shaking their little food fair bracelets appeared on our line of booths. The mall walkers, who had clustered, giggling, around Pete’s coffee machine, descended on my booth as if they hadn’t eaten in a month. The ribs bubbled invitingly in the barbecue sauce, and I transferred two at a time from the chafer to small paper plates next to the cups of strawberry-sugar snap pea salad, slices of cranberry bread, and piles of frosted fudge cookies. Cries of “Oh, no, I’m supposed to buy a bathing suit today” did not remotely allay appetites. Thank goodness. Hunger makes the best sauce, my two-hundred-fifty-pound fourth-grade teacher had once said, and it seemed she was right.
For the next two hours I was so busy filling plates, cooking ribs, and chatting with shoppers about how Goldilocks’ Catering could turn their next party into an event that I barely noticed anything outside my own food space. At eleven fifty-five, however, the two co-owners of Upcountry Barbecue showed up to claim my booth, and I was forced to take stock.
“Aw, no, Roger,” exclaimed one, “she’s got barbecue too! This is gonna ruin us!”
“I don’t see any Rocky Mountain oysters,” replied Roger with a smirk. “You gal-cooks just don’t have the guts to serve real western food. Ain’t that right?”
I grinned at Roger and his partner. “I know the women who frequent this mall will love the sliced reproductive organ of buffalo. Especially if you roast ’em, put ’em on croissants, and tell the gals exactly what you’re serving. Ain’t that right, boys?”
Roger and partner exchanged a rueful glance. They’d forgotten the damn croissants.
My food was gone. A hundred fifty portions in two morning hours wasn’t bad, I figured, and I’d given out over a hundred menus and price lists. The grills and speed cart would be cleaned by the food fair staff and stay locked in place, so I had only one box of supplies to take down to the van. Once the box was stashed, I leaned against the closed van doors. Sudden inactivity made me realize just how hot and exhausted I was. I’d get my check, chat with Dusty, reconnoiter with Julian, visit Marla, then go home and crash. At least that was what I planned as I hauled myself up and walked down toward the entrance to Prince & Grogan. Before I could get there, however, I stopped and shuddered.
Maybe I have too active an imagination. Maybe I watch too many movie reruns with Arch. But seeing people—or even those boys in the film version of Lord of the Flies—wearing war paint just sends fear ripping through my bloodstream. People can hide their basest selves behind a veneer of fierce black and white stripes. Transformed, they can claim not to be responsible for what they do. I didn’t know whether I was willing to be the victim of irresponsible aggression as I now stood facing at least sixty war-painted demonstrators jostling each other and their signs in back of police sawhorses by the Prince & Grogan entrance.
“When you buy, rabbits die!” they shouted at the few customers brave enough to scuttle timidly past the saw-horses and into the store.
Worse, there wasn’t a policeman in sight. But then a woman strode confidently to the store entrance. Oh, Lord. The woman entering through the highly polished doors thirty paces in front of me was Frances Markasian.
She had told me on the phone she was coming to see me at the mall food fair. She hadn’t shown up. And yet here she was, going into Prince & Grogan.
My check could wait. I swallowed hard and decided to follow Frances. When I came to the sawhorses, the demonstrators surged forward and screeched.
“Are you dying for mascara?”
“Do you care that innocent animals are tortured for your makeup?”
One waved a sign directly in front of my face: DIE FOR BEAUTY it proclaimed, with a photograph of a pile of dead rabbits. I felt my face turning red, but I concentrated on getting through the doors on the track of the Mountain Journal’s premier investigative reporter.
Someone’s elbow jostled me and my ears rang from the shouted insults, but moments later, I was safely inside. I scanned the opulent store interior. Frances Markasian had made a detour into accessories and was fingering the various leathers of expensive handbags. Once again she was, as my parents would say, all dolled up. This time she sported a scarlet dress with a flared skirt, scarlet heels, and scarlet scarf twisted in some remarkably woven way through her mass of black hair. I quickly paralleled her step as she minced past a table display of wallets and headed for the far side of the Mignon counter. I slithered into the shoe department that faced that side of the cosmetics counter. Frances had spied on me so many times that I felt no compunction about seeing what she was up to this time. It had even become something of a game between us. Whatever today’s game was, the fact that it required two disguises in three days made it extremely interesting.
“I’m here because I need help with my face,” I heard Frances inform Harriet Wells. Dusty was waiting on a man I vaguely recognized—the tall blond fellow I’d seen in the shoe department that morning. Maybe he was an undercover cop.
Harriet looked at Frances and frowned. “What would you say is the skin problem you’d like to correct the most?” she asked politely.
Out in the aisle between the cosmetics counter and the shoe department, a five-tiered display of plastic boxes filled with a navy-blue and gold display of Mignon lipsticks, soaps, toners, and creams offered a hiding place. I ducked behind it.
Within moments, Harriet’s voice rose slightly. She was trying to sell Fran
ces some concealer, and Frances was making such uncharacteristically enthusiastic responses that I ducked around the plastic box holding the Fudge Mousse lipstick and Nectarine Desire blush for a better view. From there, I could watch Harriet without her seeing me, since all her attention was focused on Frances, who was whining, “But I just want to look younger.” Uh-huh.
“This is Rejuvenation, the newest product to come out of Mignon’s European labs.” Harriet delicately gripped the pale, ribbed cylindrical bottle. “It has biochromes in it, and just look at what it’s done for my skin.” She lifted her free palm like a fan toward her superbly painted face. “I’m sixty-two,” she declared with a sunny smile. “Rejuvenation will take two decades off your face.”
“Sixty-two?” Frances echoed with loud incredulity as she shifted uncomfortably in the red spike heels. “I would have sworn you weren’t a day over fifty-five!”
A tiny frown appeared between Harriet’s eyebrows, then swiftly disappeared. I myself wouldn’t have put Harriet’s age over fifty.
“The biochromes penetrate to the deepest layer of the skin. They actually stop the aging process,” Harriet announced proudly.
“Is that right? How much for a big bottle of that?” Frances asked brightly.
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