Killer Pancake gbcm-5

by Diane Mott Davidson

  A blue and pink picket fence primly separated the sidewalk from the lush green lawn in front of the Victorian. White wicker furniture brimming with blue and pink cushions dotted a spacious front porch. An elaborately lettered sign on the picket fence announced that the business was Hotchkiss Skin & Hair.

  Behind a glass door intricately patterned with white metal, the blue front door to Hotchkiss opened. Behind the fence, the rain, and the glass, a silhouette appeared in the lighted doorway. The visage regarded me, then beckoned. It was the young, cheerful face of Dusty Routt.

  I moved toward the Victorian house. Perhaps I had intended unconsciously to come here all along, since I had received the directions over the phone. But Dusty worked at Mignon, not at Hotchkiss. Hotchkiss was Mignon’s competitor. Dusty held the glass door open as I stumbled inside.

  “Goldy! Jeez, come in … you’re, like, totally … Look at you! You’re a wreck! I mean … I saw in the appointment book that you were coming, but … you’re so late! What were you doing out in the rain? Where’s your van? Why didn’t you wear a raincoat?”

  I found myself in a foyer decorated with pale pink carpeting, matte pink walls, small gold and crystal chandeliers, white leather and gilt wood French provincial chairs, and a long glass counter arrayed with cosmetic products. The place was so at odds with my drenched, wraithlike appearance that I let out a crazy cackle. Dusty stared. I couldn’t tell her what I was thinking—that Hotchkiss Skin & Hair looked like an upscale whorehouse.

  A pretty woman stood behind the reception desk. Her wide, pale face boasted dark streaks of brownish-pink blush. Her voice was as soft as her swirled nimbus of cocoa-colored hair and pink mohair sweater. She asked, “Are you ready for your appointment?”

  I looked at Dusty. Out of her Mignon uniform and wearing a white shirt and green culottes, she looked younger—more her age. I said, “Nick Gentileschi…”

  Dusty tilted her head. “What about Nick? Did he come with you? Is he here?” She glanced back toward the rainswept sidewalk. “He wouldn’t come here,” she said, confused, “because he works at—”

  I cleared my throat. “Nick’s dead. There’s been an accident at the store.”

  Dusty’s carefully plucked eyebrows shot up. “Oh my God! Dead? Nick? It’s not true. Is it?” When I nodded, she said, “I’ve gotta go. Oh … this is unbelievable—”

  “You are Mrs. Schulz, then?” inquired the soft-voiced woman at the desk. The pink mohair materialized as a dress around a voluptuous body. “How did you say you were going to take care of your charges today?”

  “Uh …” I fumbled with the slippery opening to my pocketbook. What charges? “I need a cab,” I said uncertainly.

  “We’ll call one for you,” Ms. Mohair assured me breathily. “We just need your credit card.”

  I guess it had been a long time since I’d taken a cab. I thought they took only cash. I handed her my Visa.

  “What happened to Nick?” Dusty demanded.

  I was suddenly aware of being wet and very cold. “I have no idea. Dusty? Could I get a …?”

  “A what?” she asked. “What happened to Nick?”

  “I don’t know.” My teeth chattered. “One minute I was standing at the counter, the next he was crashing out of that blind above the store entrance—”

  “The blind?” She was incredulous. “He fell out of the blind? What in the world was he doing up there?”

  The woman with the soft voice reappeared with my credit card and a paper slip and I signed. For what, I wasn’t quite sure. What had happened to Marla’s coupon? “We can take you back now, Mrs. Schulz. Let’s get you a dry robe,” she said intimately, ignoring Dusty, “and put those damp things in our dryer. Shall we?”

  It sounded good. In fact, it sounded wonderful.

  “Gosh, Goldy,” said Dusty, “are you sure you want to do your facial now anyway?”

  “Oh, I …”

  Competing voices invaded my brain. I’m so sorry, Claire. I’m so sorry I couldn’t figure anything out.

  I’d made this appointment with Hotchkiss Skin & Hair because I was trying to discover why and how Hotchkiss was copying or stealing from Mignon, and if the fierce competition between the cosmetics companies could extend to killing people. Behind the reception desk, I saw first one, then another woman scurry down a far hall. Both wore lab coats. But I felt unsteady. Stay here, where all was unknown? Or ask Dusty for a ride back to my van? Tom would certainly want to know what was going on. With sudden resolve, though, I decided to stay. I would manage, I would have this facial, I would call a cab. And I would tell Tom all about what had happened at the department store. But a question nagged. “Dusty,” I said, “what in the world are you doing here?”

  She pressed her lips together and relieved me of my purse and the paper bag. Then she leaned in close and whispered, “Reggie Hotchkiss wants to hire me. I mean, he’s promised. We just had a meeting. You know, I just have to get away from Mignon. That place is crazy. Come on, I’ll take your stuff back.”

  “Mrs. Schulz,” said the soft-voiced woman, who had materialized once again at my side, “just look at what a mess you are.” She took my arm with surprising firmness. A shiver with a life of its own went through my wet clothes. What a mess, indeed.

  Dusty said she’d bring my stuff to my room when I was in the robe. The pink-mohair lady led me down the hall, where she put me in a small chamber that had the antiseptic feel of a doctor’s examination room. Instead of an examining table, however, the middle of the room boasted an enormous reclining chair. It was probably the throne where you got your facial. Large, imposing machines sat next to the chair. Ms. Mohair handed me a green hospital-type gown that tied in the front. She said in that soft, whispery voice, “Somebody will be with you momentarily.” Then she was gone.

  Ravel’s Bolero was being piped incongruously into the professional-looking space. I stripped off my damp clothing and hung it on a hook, stepped gingerly across the black and white linoleum, and pulled a couple of paper towels from the dispenser over the sink. After what I’d seen fall from Nick Gentileschi’s pocket, I was paranoid about my own shivery nakedness. Who was watching? Oddly, the room held no mirrors. I glanced up at the ceiling—no cameras that I could discern—then chided myself for being ridiculous. I cinched the warm hospital gown around my middle, patted my damp hair with the paper towels, and took a deep breath.

  Within moments a short, ponytailed woman of about twenty-five swished into the room. She was carrying a large plastic bag.

  “These are yours,” she announced. “Your friend had to leave. Your purse and department store bag are inside. They’re wet.”

  She dropped the bag lightly by the wall and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her white lab coat. She frowned as she assessed me. She wore little makeup over an acne-scarred face that was quite plain. I don’t know why I found both of these physical aspects surprising. But her whole appearance, from the tightly pulled ponytail to her white stockings and white tied shoes said technician rather than beauty queen.

  “Your hair is wet too,” she observed. She strode efficiently to a cupboard, retrieved a warm, folded towel, and handed it to me. I thanked her and rubbed the towel over my scalp. “But you did not make an appointment for hair,” she said with a slight, scolding shake of the head.

  “This towel’s fine. My hair is just …” Well, my hair. No amount of money lavished on it was going to change that unstylish mass of curls into anything. “Let’s just start with the face today, okay?”

  And start she did. While Bolero played in the background, the white-coated woman, whose name was Lane—short, crisp, efficient, fitting her persona—told me we were beginning the process with a thorough cleansing. Her fingers energetically massaged thick, creamy stuff onto my face which she then wiped off with a warm, wet towel. This was followed by a fruity-smelling toner, which she applied in simultaneous swipes across the left and right sides of my face.

  “Okay!” she said when the
toner was turning my face into what felt like a dry Popsicle. “I’m going to start a list of all the products you should be using for your face. For starters, Wizard cleanser and pore-closing toner.”

  “Well, er, how much do they cost?”

  She waved this away. “We can just put it on your card.”

  “I’m sorry, I need to know.”

  She consulted a sheet. “Thirty-six dollars for a ten-ounce bottle of cleanser.” Impatient. “Forty dollars for a twelve-ounce bottle of toner.”

  I didn’t mean to gasp, but I did anyway. I saw Arch going shoeless for the rest of his life. “But that’s even more than Mignon! And I thought they were the most expensive.”

  Lane pursed her lips, then announced: “We are the most expensive. Do you want to improve your skin or not? We are the best. You’ll see real results if you work with these products.”

  I mumbled something along the lines of “Okay.”

  Lane slapped down the pencil on her tray. “Let’s go to the next step, then.”

  She turned on one of the imposing machines next to the chair. I became more nervous when she assured me that the machine was for brushing. Or, as I thought when Lane stroked my face with electric brushes attached to hoses that ran to the machine, it was sort of like getting a shoe polish for the face, minus the shoes and the polish.

  When she was done, Lane gave me a disapproving, suspicious look and ordered me to close my eyes. Having learned my lesson from my Mignon makeover with Dusty, I closed my eyes without argument. Lane placed a wet cloth over my closed lids, levered the chair back, and turned on a rumbly machine that she told me was for steam.

  “I’m taking your clothes to the dryer, and I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she said. Her white nurse’s shoes squeaked toward the door. “Relax.”

  Left to steam, my thoughts, and Bolero, I tried to unwind. I tried to think about what it was Maurice Ravel was setting to music. Unfortunately, all I could hear was the crash and thud of a vehicle hitting Claire, the shatter and crack as Nick Gentileschi fell out of the department store’s blind.

  When Lane returned, she whipped the cloth off my eyes, turned off the steam, and retrieved what looked like a small magnifying glass from her pocket. I recoiled. My face had never been examined at close range.

  “I’m going to turn off the light,” she declared bluntly, “and assess the amount of damage you’ve done over the years to your skin.”

  By the time I’d managed to stammer, “Do I have to?” the overhead light was off, a purplish light had winked on, and Lane’s magnified eye was accompanied by tsk-tsk noises a la Sherlock Holmes. She flipped the lights back on, donned plastic gloves, and picked up a needle.

  “Wait, wait.” I sat up quickly. “I thought women came in to have facials because it was fun and relaxing. Sort of like having a massage.”

  “You’re going to look so much better,” she assured me. “We need to get rid of those blemishes.” She brandished the needle.

  “Please, no,” I said feebly. “I have a real problem with … needles.”

  Lane’s countenance was that of a nurse with an unpleasant but utterly necessary medication.

  She said, “The receptionist reported you claimed you were terribly upset about your skin. Now you say you’re unsure about buying products, and you don’t want to have a facial. Are you certain you came in here really wanting to improve your appearance? Or is there some other reason you’re here?”

  Paranoia reared its unattractive head again, and I succumbed. “It’s why I’m here,” I said meekly, and slumped back in the chair.

  Lane poked and I shrieked. Again I got the displeased-nurse routine. Blemishes, she said as she poked again. I felt blood drip down my forehead. Lane dabbed at it. She put down the needle and, with two plastic-gloved fingers, squeezed the skin on my nose with all her might. I screamed again. At least with a dentist you got anesthetic.

  Lane sighed reprovingly and brought the gloved hands to her abdomen. “Are you going to let me finish my work or not?”

  “Not,” I said decisively, rubbing my poor, bent nose. The area above my nostrils felt as if it were on fire. My will—my entire desire in life—was now focused on getting out of Hotchkiss Skin & Hair.

  “Do you just want your masque now?”

  “Will it hurt?”

  She rolled her eyes and sighed, then said, “No! Of course it won’t hurt.”

  Lane had no credibility with me anymore. But I didn’t think a masque could be too bad unless you let it dry and it became more like a theater mask. Or maybe the masque would get to be like those masks they use in horror flicks to suffocate people…. Lane tapped her foot. Yes, I told her, I was desperate for the masque. She swabbed on some more thick, creamy stuff, draped towels over my face, and left. Oh, thank you, God, I said as I pulled the towels away and rubbed the cream off. Thank you, thank you, thank you for giving me a chance to get out of here. I didn’t want a masque, I didn’t want a facial, I certainly didn’t want any makeup.

  I tiptoed over to my damp shoes and eased my feet inside. The rubber soles squished noisily as I headed for the door. I can’t escape in this robe, I realized with dismay. But how in the world would I find the dryer where they’d put my clothes? I retrieved the big plastic bag, grabbed the sack with Frances’s purchases, and put it in my purse, which I snapped shut. Clutching my purse, I peeked out in the hall. It was empty. I again thanked the Almighty and began to sneak past closed doors toward the back of the mansion. At each door I listened, but heard only silence, the buzz of the machines, or the low murmur of the facialists as they tortured other clients.

  My whole problem, I thought as I moved from door to door down the hall, is that I am not a masochist. If I’d been a masochist, I would have endured all that pain for beauty. Then again, if I’d been a masochist, I would have stayed in my first marriage.

  At the last closed door on the hall, I stopped. It was a wider door, the kind that usually goes to some kind of utility room. Inside a machine methodically whirred and thudded. A dryer.

  I opened the door and whipped inside a tiny room that held what looked like a closet and a pantry covered with louvered doors. The door squeaked closed behind me. Shelves in the closet held neatly arrayed towels, uniforms, and large bottles of what I assumed to be cosmetic stuff. I creaked open the louvered doors and was rewarded with a washer and dryer. Above them and on each side were shelves filled with a much more haphazard assortment of stored items. These I ignored as I squeaked open the dryer door and reached in for my clothes. They were warm but still slightly damp.

  Someone was coming. I nipped into the pantry and pinched my fingers closing the door. I don’t know why I was so afraid of being discovered aborting the facial, but I think it had something to do with the needle. The person who had come in was humming. I eased in behind a couple of white lab coats. Something like animal fur brushed my neck. Through the louvers I could see the hummer reaching for the bottles on the shelves. The fur began to tickle my neck. Sweat broke out on my cheeks. The hummer tapped the closet door shut with her foot and strolled out.

  I creaked the door back open and reached behind me to snatch the fur away from my neck before I sneezed. No luck. A tiny but powerful convulsion escaped my lips and left my eyes watering. That would teach me to walk for blocks in the rain. Cursing and sniffling, I stepped out of the pantry clutching the fur thing. Wait. It was a wig, sort of a frosted blond affair. I tossed it down on the dryer, retrieved my clothes, and quickly dressed. As I was about to leave the room, my eyes slewed over to the wig again. Hairpieces frightened me, by and large. They were too much like dead animals. But I had seen this wig before.

  I picked it up and examined it. Who had been wearing this monstrosity? Where had I seen her? A memory began to resolve itself. Before the Mignon banquet. I’d seen someone in the garage. A woman, dressed in bright yellow. Yes, I could see her striding purposefully toward the door, then sticking her head out the service entrance and demanding to kn
ow what was going on when Tom and I were trying to tend to Julian.

  Then I remembered something else: Claire frowning when she recognized someone at the banquet. My saying, What? And her frustration. Her saying: Oh God. And then Dusty, the next day, saying: We saw you. We recognized you. Man, you are going to get into so much trouble.

  Yes, I had seen this wig. Slender, good-looking Reggie Hotchkiss had been wearing it when he sneaked into the Mignon Fall into Color Banquet. It was at that banquet that he’d probably picked up the ideas he needed for his autumn catalogue. I just didn’t know what else he’d done there. Run down the very successful sales associate of a rival firm?

  I tossed the wig back on the shelf. I slipped out the utility room door and saw illuminated red letters at the end of the hall: EXIT. Ten steps to freedom. No alarm went off as I pressed the door bar, landed on a concrete step, and inhaled cool, rain-dampened air. Here behind the Hotchkiss establishment, a ragtag lawn and overflowing rosebushes ran the length of the pink and blue picket fence. A rusty-hinged gate interrupted the fence between the brambles at the far end of the yard. Praying that I wasn’t being observed, I walked across the wet grass, lifted the latch, and felt a rush of light-headed relief as I escaped into an alley.

  Steam misted off the streets of the Aqua Bella neighborhood. Sunlight struggled to cut through the thickly humid air. To the west, clouds lifted along the foothills, leaving trails of creamy fog snaking between dark green hills. To get oriented in the Denver area, the key is to remember that the mountains are always to the west. The mall was situated between the Rockies and me, so I started off at a moderate westward jog down the sidewalk. I hop-scotched over shiny patches of puddle. Behind me, I could almost imagine Lane’s terse, businesslike voice screaming, Stop that unmasqued woman!