I stared up at the giant banner, where my best friend’s face was blown up and air-brushed into sixteen feet of dewy perfection.
Said friend was jiggling with glee next to me. “Can you believe it?”
I squinted at the picture. “Where’s the mole on your cheek?”
Nari, my best friend since we were six, punched me in the arm. “It’s a beauty mark, Rosa. And the whole point is flawless Korean skin, thanks to traditional Korean beauty products and our cultural secrets!”
I gave Nari the side-eye. She was three inches taller than me at five-foot-seven, and four sizes smaller thanks to a diet and exercise regimen that made me want to stop at Burger King. She also had perfect skin the color and smoothness of real ivory, dark brown eyes with impossibly long lashes, and hair so shiny I could almost see my reflection in it.
“Cultural secrets?” I said. “You mean like the need for SPF nine-thousand sunscreen so we don’t make like vampires in the sun?”
Nari rolled her eyes at me. I had made an effort before coming to the International Cosmetics Expo hitting Raleigh this week. For her sake, I put on mascara and dug a lipstick out from under my vanity. I’d even made sure my jeans didn’t have any holes in them. But next to me, Nari was a vision. She was dressed in a modernist take on a hanbok, with the traditional wrapped jeogori made of a deep blue silk that made her skin glow, but instead of the huge bell-shaped skirt of heavy embroidered silk, hundreds of long layers of habotai silk in shades of pinks and lavender floated around her. Fresh flowers were pinned here and there in her skirts, and in her hair, in an artless braid that took four hours to create. And, of course, a crystal tiara on top.
She said, rather acidly for a fairy princess, “You know my grandmother was hanui.” A traditional name for a practitioner of hanbang, the Korean name for traditional medicine. Herbal remedies, cupping, acupuncture. Old ladies in bikinis scrubbing twenty pounds of skin off your back no matter how much you cry and bleed and promise to tip them more if they let you off the table. And of course, cosmetic aids.
“As was my great-grandmother, and my great-great grandmother. My family has been making beauty products for ten generations. Just because you consider BB cream too complicated a skincare step doesn’t mean we’re all unenlightened,” Nari said, with a meaningful squint at me.
“I think I’m supposed to feel the burn, but I have no idea what you just said,” I said to her, with a carefully blank expression as I sipped the complimentary ginseng and fungus tea I’d been offered by Nari’s aunt, Ji-huen. (“It will clear your complexion,” she said. Kindly.)
“Well, maybe you’ll learn something today, Rosa. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
“I’m a private investigator, Nari, I don’t have time to stop and do essences and masks and all that crap every day. I’m only here because you said you wanted support. If this is some kind of weird make-over plan, I will spill my tea on your clothes.”
She made a face. “It’d be good for you, but no. I…well, I’m worried about imo Ji.”
“Why?” I asked. My tea tasted sweet, sour, and herbal all at the same time. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not, but I kept drinking it in hopes I’d find out.
“This is her big chance. K-beauty is so big right now, and our family has genuine traditional recipes, the real stuff. If she can get some investors, she’ll be able to launch national, and I’ll be the face of Salanghada Cosmetics all over the U.S.!”
Salanghada has no English equivalent, meaning the act of love, to love. The slogans were all over the banners. Natural love—Salanghada. Love yourself with Salanghada. Love is beauty. Beauty is Salanghada. And so on.
“What’s to worry about? She’s got genuine traditional recipes, freaky hipster tea, and your smiling face. She’ll be fine.”
“Not if that bitch Chang has anything to do with it,” Nari muttered.
“Who?”
Nari jerked a thumb to another big booth across the room. Bright pink signs reading Genuine K-beauty imported from Seoul were plastered all over it.
“Dina Chang. She’s importing all kinds of cheap shit and repackaging it, while imo Ji is making everything with real, local ingredients.”
“You don’t have to sell me,” I said. “But what can Chang do to your aunt?”
“She’s already reported her three times to the Better Business Bureau for selling K-beauty product that doesn’t come from Korea, which, oh my God, really? We’re Korean! And she tried bribing two of imo’s chemists to get her formulas last month. Then she sent out some anonymous letters to the stores in Raleigh carrying her stuff saying that the seaweed masks were causing rashes.”
“If you can prove it was her, surely that would be a good defamation suit.”
“Yeah. It would be. If we could prove it,” Nari said, meaningfully.
“Ah.” I should have known.
“You don’t have to go full detective or whatever it is you do, but could you keep an eye out? Today’s the day where only vendors and investors are here. If Dina’s gonna screw my aunt, it’ll be today. Please, Rosa? I’ll buy you lunch.”
I definitely should have known. Nari was a master at getting me to do things I didn’t want to do, from the time she made me pull her around the neighborhood in a wagon so she could practice being in a parade, to the time she talked me into being the ugly sister to her Cinderella for a talent show. Spending the entire day in a room full of people dedicated to spending thousands of dollars on self-centered perfectionism was pretty close to the absolute last thing I wanted to do. I had intended to come in, admire the ad poster, congratulate her, and sneak out.
“I already have lunch plans,” I tried.
Nari’s big eyes got bigger, as her lower lip quivered, “Please, Rosa? Please? I’m really worried. I know you hate this stuff. Dinner too?”
“What about Ji-huen? Is she going to want a detective in Walmart jeans hanging around her booth?” It was my last chance.
Nari made a face. “I mentioned it to her. She told me not to. She didn’t want to impose. She felt it was rude.”
“It is, Nari.”
“Well, maybe a little, but you’re my best friend. We’re blood sisters. That makes imo Ji your aunt too!”
My conviction wobbled as imminent tears threatened to ruin Nari’s eyeliner. She really was worried. I sighed. “I’ll stick around for a bit, but if I don’t see any reason to be worried, I’ll split after lunch, okay? And you’ll owe me dinner too.”
“Okay! Thank you!” Nari bounced as her smile threatened to blind me with its whiteness.
A bell chimed three times, followed by a lovely voice saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, the doors will open in five minutes. Ladies and gentlemen, five minutes until the doors open.”
“I’ve got to get to the booth!” Nari turned and fled, a faint trail of petals and the scent of gardenias in her wake.
Nari’s aunt had gone all out. She had built a stage that stood three feet above the floor. It was set up like a deluxe spa, with a comfy-looking lounge chair, a heavy oak mixing table, and shelves holding various ingredients and medicinal plants. Potted hibiscuses surrounded the display, their tissue-paper petals matching the pinks and purples of Nari’s skirt.
Nari climbed to a small crow’s nest platform another eight feet above the stage. She could be seen from the entire room, glittering and impossibly beautiful, her filmy skirts wafting like ocean waves in the delicate tides of the air conditioning.
I found a good spot next to a security guard. I sat down in an empty folding chair he wasn’t allowed to use, and he gave me an evil squint. I lifted the tea cup to him in a mock salute and settled down to watch. From there, I could see both Salanghada’s and Dina Chang’s booth.
The next hour was filled with more Armani and Gucci suits than I’d seen in one room before. People with personal assistants taking notes and carrying swag. A woman with an updated Jennifer Aniston hair-cut, carrying a black bag with “Vogue Editor” embossed in
gold, talked constantly into her phone. I found myself staring at one woman, barely ninety pounds, as she stomped through the room in four-inch heels. The left half of her head was completely shaved, but five-foot long platinum dreads grew from the right side and skimmed the floor in her wake.
The Salanghada and Dina’s K-beauty booth were mobbed. Nari was right. Korean beauty was super-hot. Suddenly, she appeared next to me.
“My feet are killing me. Can I sit down?” She’d been standing, smiling and waving for an hour. I stood up and let her have the chair.
“Have you seen anything?” she asked.
“Nope. Dina left her booth once, making the speediest bathroom break ever about ten minutes ago.”
“Nerves. Good,” Nari said with a savagery that startled the guard next to us.
“So, what, it’s ten hours of schmoozing?” I asked.
“No. The first hour is for getting acquainted, handing out schedules and freebies. Product demos start now and go on throughout the day. Imo Ji is going to be mixing up all her stuff right there on stage, to demonstrate how authentic and pure everything is.”
“Huh. What’s she demoing today?”
“First one she’s doing is the ultra-hydration crème with sea-weed mask.”
“Is that the one with the snail goo in it?”
She nodded. “She’s going to pick a random audience member so it won’t look rigged.”
“That’ll be fun.”
Nari stood up. “I’ve got five more minutes to hit the bathroom and get some water, then I’m back up there.”
“Aren’t you going to eat something?” I asked. I knew she hadn’t eaten breakfast while being turned into a fairy princess.
She stared at me in horror. “And risk belching or farting or having to take a dump? Are you crazy?”
Reason number six hundred and seventy-three why I never envied my friend’s model lifestyle. Even if my job required the occasional thirty-six hours in a car, I didn’t have to worry about taco farts ruining my career.
Beautiful people swarmed. Conversations mingled; avid, interested, dismissive, gossipy. I didn’t bother keeping track. Nari waved to me once she was back on the crow’s nest.
Ji-huen was perfectly turned out in a long white wrap-dress over a floor-length black skirt, which gave the stylish impression of a lab coat. Nari’s cousins, Hwuen and Sumi, had joined the display and they wore outfits identical to their mother’s. Hwuen held up a giant ginseng root, with the earth still clinging to it, while Sumi carefully positioned the chair in the center of the stage.
The sound of a gong startled me. Everyone in the hall stared up at Nari who was holding a gong the size of a turkey platter. As the ringing faded away, she said into a microphone, “Live demonstration of Salanghada, five minutes!”
The crowds shifted toward the Salanghada booth. Dina Chang, her face determined, elbowed her way to the front. Her bright pink suit, the same color as her banners, made her easy to find. I stood up and started moving closer so I could see her more clearly.
Aunt Ji was setting the ingredients she intended to use out on the heavy table. A couple of small bottles, some seaweed soaking in a bowl, a thick white paste, small vials, and a mortar and pestle.
Aunt Ji turned and smiled at the crowd as soon as she had everything arranged.
“Salanghada is pleased to present the authentic recipes used by my family for over ten generations to maintain the beautiful dewy skin demanded for the flowers of the court! All ingredients are genuine, organic, and carefully prepared in the traditional Korean methods refined by my family over two centuries! I would now like to demonstrate the amazing hydration provided by our Moonlit Mask with sea-weed wrap! Any volunteers?”
A number of people held up their hands, but a large lady climbed up onto the stage like she heard a starter pistol and beamed triumphantly. She wasn’t as expensively dressed as most of the people in the room, wearing a too-tight pantsuit, and there was nothing particularly outlandish about her hair or accessories. I figured she was a writer or blogger.
“Thank you, madam! What is your name?”
“My name is…is…Louise!” The hesitations were odd, but I chalked it down to the nervousness of being on stage.
“Louise! A lovely name. Come, sit in this chair, while my assistants, Sumi and Hwuen, apply our Refreshing Ginger and Hibiscus toner with traditional bamboo brushes!”
Louise glanced nervously at the table full of things, before sitting down heavily in the chair. Sumi carefully put a linen towel down around Louise’s neck, and Hwuen flicked the toner on her face with the brushes, splashing it onto Louise’s skin lavishly. A lady in front of me murmured, “Those brushes would be a big seller. Very natural. And that application! It’ll inhale product.”
Ji-huen smiled widely at the audience. “You see, in Korea, we do not rub toner into our skin, damaging it by forcing dissolved dirt and oil and harsh astringent back into the pores! No, we splash it, using it as a gentle rinse, to awaken our skin to receive the moisture and rejuvenating vitamins of the Moonlight mask.”
Ji-huen began spooning things into a beautiful blue glass bowl. Two large scoops of the white gunk. A small plop of some clear jelly she described as “snail extract.” Louise looked over to where Dina Chang was standing and then popped up from her chair, barreling toward the table.
Aunt Ji turned in surprise, “Miss Louise? Please sit down.”
Louise said, “I just want to see what you’re putting in there.” She leaned forward, and bumped the table hard with her hip, as the cousins tried to escort her back to the chair. Little bottles and bits went flying off the table and into the crowd in front of the stage. People ducked back, as Hwuen and Sumi dove after everything.
“Find the tea tree oil,” Ji-huen called, loud enough to be heard above the uproar.
I watched Louise. Her face was triumphant for a moment, and then it showed dismay.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said and moved quickly back to her chair to sit down, her hands pressed tightly in her lap.
Ji-huen counted the bottles her daughters retrieved, then she said something sharp in Korean. Hwuen and Sumi looked alarmed and started searching again on the floor.
“Looking for this?” The voice came from Dina Chang, holding up a small bottle, just out of Ji-huen’s reach.
Ji-huen gave her a tight smile. “Yes, thank you.” She went to the edge of the stage and bent over to snatch the bottle. She carried it back to the table and dropped a healthy dose into her bowl. She straightened her white wrap and turned back to the audience with a reassuring smile.
“As I was saying. The air whipped into the mask allows it to moisturize without clogging, and the tea tree oil I have just added combines with the other materials to pull out the oil and impurities, which then allows for more moisture to be absorbed by the skin.” She set the bowl down, and picked up another bottle. “Our rejuvenating Essence of Peony and Starfish both perfumes and revitalizes.” She sprinkled a couple of drops into the bowl and whipped it again with a bamboo whisk, the muscles in her arm pumping violently. Sumi placed another linen towel around Louise’s neck, rather firmly, I thought.
“Hwuen, get the seaweed, please,” Ji-huen said, as she smeared the mixture onto Louise’s face with a bamboo spatula.
Hwuen immediately covered the mixture with strips of seaweed handed to her by Sumi.
“We usually leave the mask for twenty minutes, but—”
Louise started wiggling and making noises underneath the mask.
“It seems like twenty seconds is too much!” Dina Chang called out, to a few appreciative titters from the crowd behind her. The laughter made Dina’s smile wider, and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the stage with the avid glee of a shark watching a sinking ship. Ji-huen’s smile became fixed, and she glared at Dina Chang.
“The tea tree oil can provide a pleasant tingling, an assurance that your skin is being exfoliated and awakened—” Ji-huen said, a bit louder.
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And then Louise screamed, or tried to. It was muffled into a horrible choking sound, as she started clawing the mask off her face.
“What did you do to her?” Dina Chang screeched at the top of her lungs.
Louise was flinging seaweed and creamy goop all over the place, her incoherent cries hoarse and desperate. Hwuen and Sumi stood there in shock. Ji-huen grabbed the seaweed water bowl, and flung the contents at Louise’s face.
“Sumi! Towel!” Ji-huen snapped. Sumi jumped, and grabbed the stack of meticulously folded linen towels, and brought them to her mother, who began mopping the mask off.
“Stop! Don’t scratch. I told you before, don’t scratch,” Ji-huen said, before standing back.
Louise’s face was revealed, unrecognizable with swelling so violent that her eyes couldn’t be seen and her lips were grossly oversized, their original shape distorted into pillows. Her skin was mottled with red hives and pale, shiny swelling, and her screams had faded into painful, terrified whimpering. She held up her hands, grasping for help. Her fingers were rapidly ballooning, red patches where she’d touched the mask. She wasn’t screaming anymore, because she was gasping for air.
“Does anyone have an EpiPen?” Ji-huen screamed. “She is having an allergic reaction.”
I was already dialing 9-1-1, even as purses rustled as people dug for their EpiPens.
Ji-huen held Louise and continued to mop the mask off her face. “Just lie still, lie still, Miss Louise. You’ll be fine! Don’t panic. Hwuen, call nine-one-one!”
“I already did!” I yelled, even as someone passed an EpiPen to Hwuen. She carried it to her mother and the crowd winced in sympathy as Ji-huen jabbed it hard into Louise’s meaty thigh.
Louise’s wheezing drowned out the murmurs of discomfort and the clicking of cell phone cameras, as the crowd stood there, uncomfortably shifting, not wanting to watch, but not wanting to leave. This sort of ugly disfiguration had no place in this world of pore-less perfection.
“I am so tweeting this,” I heard from someone behind me.
Paramedics showed up a few agonizingly slow minutes later, pushing a stretcher, with six security guards clearing a pathway. They put Louise on the stretcher and wheeled her through the crowd.
Carolina Crimes Page 17
