by Nancy Warren
Stacy Krump was a newer recruit. An intense, quiet woman who looked like the type of girl in high school who cried if she didn’t get an A. From the number of recognition pins on her chest, she was still getting straight A’s.
Nicole registered almost as much phony delight at seeing Toni as she’d been accorded.
“Why, honey, you look better every time I see you. And you are obviously using the new highlighter shades to minimize your nose. Really, in this light, it hardly looks prominent at all.”
Every woman has her vulnerable spot. Her thighs are too big, her breasts too small, her teeth too crooked. Toni’s thing was her nose. She had a big nose. Not Cyrano de Bergerac get-a-nose-job-and-get-on-with-your-life big, but her nose was the dominant feature on Toni’s face.
She’d inherited it from her father and on a six-foot-two rodeo rider it looked fine. On Toni it looked like there’d been a bit of a glitch on the genetic assembly line. Her grandmother, the Pentecostal preacher’s wife, who’d never been known for diplomacy or keeping her thoughts to herself used to say that it was God’s punishment to Toni for being so nosy.
Of course, Toni grew into her nose as she grew older and she’d learned how to play up her good features, her eyes and mouth, so she’d didn’t worry about it much any more, but back in the early days when they’d been friends, she’d foolishly confided in Nicole about her Achilles nose.
There were a lot of rejoinders Toni could make, most of which included the term undead, but she tried to model good behavior, especially in front of sales associates, so she let the jibe pass, merely saying, “the colors this season are fantastic.”
She turned to Melody Feckler. “Can you believe that line up? I hope you checked in early.”
“The great thing is we’ve been here a couple days already. Nicole wanted us to have some team bonding time. How about you?”
“I checked in yesterday morning. I always come early to get myself organized and avoid this,” she gestured to the barely moving crowd. “It will be midnight before everybody gets their room. Are you and Stacy rooming together this year?”
Most attendees bunked in with one to three roommates to share costs. Nicole never shared a room at conference. Toni didn’t either now she could afford to have her privacy, but most of the sales reps shared.
Melody shook her head looking awfully pleased with herself. “My husband works for this hotel chain back home in Oklahoma City. He’s on the front desk.” She leaned closer and whispered, “I’m not supposed to spread it around, but he was able to get me a room here for next to nothing. It means I don’t have to have a roommate.” She leaned even closer. “He might even come visit me. With both of us working so hard we almost never get any time away at a hotel.”
“That’s great,” she said warmly. “Of course I’ll keep it to myself.”
“Looks like we’re in fierce competition again for the top sales division prize,” Nicole reminded her, as though she could possibly have forgotten.
“That’s right. It’s so exciting that the final orders don’t close until the end of the month. Right in the middle of conference. Should be a nail-biter.”
Or, in Nicole’s case, a backstabber.
Chapter Four
Look your best--who said love is blind? —Mae West
Naturally, the talk at lunch was all about the murder. The poor luncheon speaker was going to have to give the equivalent of the Gettysburg Address to get any attention.
Toni and her top sales people had met in advance so they could sit together and as the doors opened and the women filed in for lunch, they reached a table that still had plenty of seats at the same moment that Melody Feckler cried, “Here’s three together.”
Nicole and Toni gave each other another fake smile and made the most of sharing the table. If you didn’t grab groups of seats when you saw them, another team would scoop them from under you. Rather like musical chairs without the music.
Toni ended up sitting beside Stacy Krump who flanked Nicole’s right while Melody sat to her left. Beside Toni was Ruth Collier, a retired school teacher who ran her skin care classes as though there’d be a test at the end, but had a true gift for sales, and Suzanne Mireille, a half-Cuban half-French-Canadian woman whose café con leche- colored skin was a glowing billboard for Lady Bianca’s Luminescence line. She’d come to Dallas with her pilot husband and was busy raising three boys and a girl while selling makeup on a part time basis. Her native tongue was French but she was equally comfortable in English or Spanish, a definite asset.
Four other women completed the table. Donna Ray Atkins, whose family owned a pig farm in Kansas and three others from her region.
As the scant details of the morning’s death were being chewed over as thoroughly as the salads Toni had seen in the kitchen, Melody Feckler leaned forward and said, “I heard that there was blood everywhere.”
“There would be,” Donna Ray agreed, nodding. She had the breadbasket in her hand and was in the act of choosing between the seeded wholewheat rolls and the small white crusty ones. “It’s the same when we gut the pigs on the farm. We stick ‘em right over a drain and the blood still gets all over us, the walls, the floor…blood everywhere.” She held the basket aloft. “Would anyone like a bread roll?”
No one did, so she put the basket down and proceeded to split and butter the white roll. “A grown woman or man would have about as much blood to spill, I expect. Was an artery cut do you know? ‘Cause that’ll really cause the blood to spurt. I’m not kidding. It’s like you turned on the garden hose and then put your thumb over the end.” She demonstrated and made a noise that Toni assumed was an approximation of the sound of water spraying from a hose. Or blood from an open artery.
“When we slaughter our pigs we hit the carotid artery and the jugular.” She mimed slashing her own throat. “You’d be amazed how fast the animal drains. Most of it’s out in five minutes.” She nodded, looking around at them all. “That’s how I’d kill someone. Slash their throat. If you do it from behind, you could be quick and if you cut through the trachea, they’d die without making a sound.”
Toni watched the woman’s muscular arms as she gestured. “You think the killer could be a woman?”
Donna Ray looked at her and gave her a slow smile. “If I wanted you dead, Toni, you wouldn’t stand a chance.” It wasn’t a boast. “Somebody reasonably fit and determined? Sure.”
“What if the throat wasn’t slashed? What if they were stabbed in the front?”
“Ribs are your biggest issue. Get through them, hit the heart, and the deed’s done.”
The salads were removed and the wait staff began placing plates in front of everyone. “Oh, good,” Toni said to Ruth, looking down at the pale rounds of meat on her plate, “roast pork.”
As a dieting technique, Toni decided that discussing a brutal murder with a woman who butchered animals on a regular basis was extremely effective. She wasn’t the only one who pushed the meat around her plate.
Orin Shellenbach rose while they were eating and began congratulating everyone on making the commitment to themselves and their businesses and coming to the convention. Because the room was so large, they’d rigged up a projection screen behind him so he loomed over them all in close up. Toni watched the flash of white teeth in his tanned face. The man spent so much time on a tanning bed, he was starting to look radioactive. He was their usual MC since he combined the flashy good looks of a game show host with the natural charm of a snake oil salesman.
“After you finish that delicious lunch, we’ve got world-renowned expert in sales techniques, Lara Lester, to speak to us on Five Ways to Turn No into Yes.”
“I wish I knew five ways to turn this pork into tofu,” Ruth whispered in Toni’s ear.
“I’m just glad my daughter the vegan PETA crusader isn’t here.”
“There’s a rumor the dead woman was a new Lady Bianca rep,” Ruth continued in the same low voice.
“I’m sure she wasn’t,” Toni
said and related her own part in the affair.
“Oh, my God. You mean he unzipped the … thingy and you saw her?”
“Yeah.” She pushed her plate away.
“And you’re sure she couldn’t be Lady Bianca?”
“Look around you. Who in this room is wearing cropped pants and sandals? I even went and looked at the check-in line at registration. Everyone was dressed properly.”
“How weird that she’d have one of our makeovers right before she died.”
“I know. I really wish she’d gone to the hotel salon. The police are convinced we have something to do with the death.”
When dessert arrived -- the normal signal that the keynote speaker was about to begin -- Orin took the microphone once more and asked for everyone’s attention. As Toni looked to the front of the room and the stage area she noticed the two detectives from earlier, Marciano and Henderson, standing to the side of the podium. What on earth?
“As I’m sure you all know, there was a very unfortunate incident this morning where a woman died,” Orin said. Toni almost smiled. Trust Orin, the master spin doctor, to refer to a brutal murder as an unfortunate incident.
“The police will be circulating among you with some photographs of the recently departed. I know that we will all give the police our full cooperation. If you recognize this woman or have any information at all, please give it to the police officers. The sooner we get this unpleasantness over with, the sooner we can go back to an inspiring and exciting conference, and Five Ways to Turn No into Yes.”
“Amen to that,” Toni said.
Of course, it was impossible to relax with cops both uniformed and plain clothes going from table to table and circulating pictures of the dead woman.
Toni took a bite of her dessert, which was some kind of cheesecake with an unfortunately bright red sauce dripping over it like…well, she just couldn’t summon the enthusiasm. She put her fork back down.
The women at her table managed to keep small talk going but it was obvious they were all on edge waiting for their turn with the photos.
It was a young guy in uniform who got to them, handing Donna Ray the photograph first. “I’d like each of you to look carefully at this picture and let me know if you’ve ever seen the lady before,” he instructed. The picture that was passed around the table was a standard 8 x 10 glossy. Cropped high enough to miss the blood stains on the woman’s shirt, while still showing as much of the blue T-shirt as possible, so if you looked quickly it could look as though the woman was sleeping. On a metal table. And she was very pale.
Some of the women looked at the picture for a long time -- the way people driving by a traffic accident stop and stare -- and a couple of the women glanced as briefly as possible and then passed the photo along with a negative shake of the head.
Nicole Freedman took a cursory glance and passed the photo on as though touching it were beneath her notice. “Too negative. Stacy, don’t spend any more time than you have to looking.”
But Stacy’s gaze was already glued to the photograph and she’d gone almost as pale as the woman in the picture. She glanced at Nicole first, nervously, then licked her lips and said in a half whisper, “I gave this woman a makeover yesterday.”
“What?”
She pushed the photograph back toward Nicole. “Remember? We did the makeover in your room. I guess I recognize her because I spent so much time on her face.”
“That can’t be the same girl.”
“It is.”
“You’re sure, ma’am?” the young officer asked her. He’d perked right up now he had some action.
She stared at the photograph another moment, flicked another glance at Nicole, and then nodded. “Yes. I’m sure.”
He signaled to Detective Marciano who must have been on the lookout for a positive ID. He strode immediately to their table. He took in all the women at a glance. His gaze rested briefly on Toni and then kept going.
“This woman here says she gave Jane Doe a makeover,” the uniformed officer said, indicating Stacy who looked confused at his words.
“Her name wasn’t Jane.”
Marciano shot a frustrated glance at the uniformed officer, then a much kinder one at Stacy. “Do you know what her name was?”
“Violet.”
“Violet?”
“Yes. I remember because I thought it was so pretty. Like a flower.”
Marciano had his notebook out. “What time did you give Violet the makeover?”
Melody glanced at Nicole. “Around four?”
Her boss nodded. “Sounds right. I can check in my book, Detective to give you the exact time.”
“You were both there?”
“That’s correct.”
Toni hadn’t had a chance to talk to Orin yet about those outdated sampler packs and now it seemed as though she wouldn’t have to. Nicole and Stacy were responsible. She could hardly believe it.
“Okay. Do you mind if we go back to wherever you gave that makeover? I’d like to take you back through the whole process and sometimes it’s easier to remember details if you return to the scene.”
“Is that okay, Nicole? It’s your room and all.”
Nicole jerked to her feet. “Yes, of course. But for heaven’s sake let’s get going and get this over with.”
“Fine by me,” said Marciano.
“Is it okay if I tag along?” Toni asked Stacy knowing she was only slightly less intimidated by Toni than she was by Nicole.
“Well, I guess. I mean, it’s Nicole’s decision but I--”
“I think it helps to have familiar faces around when you go through a stressful event, don’t you?”
“Um, yeah. I guess so.”
What Toni really wanted to find out was which of them was palming off last year’s sampler packs on makeover candidates.
Nicole didn’t realize Toni had tagged along until she entered the hotel room right behind Stacy.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I think Stacy wanted the extra support.”
Nicole might have argued but by this time Marciano was in the room and he’d shut the door behind them. Throwing Toni out was only going to make Nicole look bad so she contented herself with a glare and sat down in the chair behind the room’s desk. Stacy, always one to follow the leader, took the other armchair.
That left Toni with the bed. She perched on the end, as far as she could get from where Nicole laid her head and hatched her evil plans.
Marciano pulled out his notebook and remained standing.
“You said her name was Violet?”
“Violet Hunter, Detective.”
“Violet Hunter. You’re sure?”
“Violet’s card is right here.” Nicole removed one of the customer information cards from her desktop. “We always have our makeover customers fill out a card so we can contact them later. This should give you everything you need.” Her tone held an implied parenthetical (and stop interrupting the Lady Bianca conference.) For once in her life, Toni was in full agreement with Nicole.
She handed him the card. “Here’s your victim, Detective.”
Chapter Five
A woman without makeup is like a rose without petals. —Lady Bianca
The information card was about as useful as Luke had expected it to be. On a scale of one to ten this information was a solid zero.
He glanced up from the card, a pre-printed affair emblazoned with the Lady Bianca logo, a stylized L and B entwined together with a crown sitting atop. The card stock was the same color as the table cloths and balloons in the ballroom and most of the packaging for the Lady Bianca cosmetics. A putrid shade of pale purple.
Nicole Freedman looked down her nose at him as though she’d solved his case for him, now she had places to be and he was wasting her time. Stacy Krump was pleating her skirt with nervous fingers and gazing at him as though hoping for praise.
The only one not looking his way was Toni Diamond. Her gaze was on Nicole and
she seemed troubled by something.
He spoke to Stacy.“The address she gave is in Washington State. How useful could that be if your business is in Texas?”
Nicole answered. “In fact, we’re from Oklahoma, but Stacy would contact the rep who lives closest to the customer and she would get a referral fee, a small percentage of all that customer’s future purchases. The program’s very successful.”
What wasn’t ‘very successful’ in the Lady Bianca world?
“Violet Hunter,” he read aloud. “221B Baker Street, Seattle, Washington.” He glanced up. “I’m guessing none of you ladies is a Sherlock Holmes fan?”
Stacy and Nicole Freedman shook their heads. Toni jerked her head as her attention switched from Nicole to him. She mouthed a soundless ‘O’.
“221B Baker Street is the fictitious address in London where Sherlock Holmes lived. Violet Hunter was a character. The Copper Beeches, I think.”
“Copper…” Stacy looked confused.
“One of the Holmes stories.”
“You mean Violet gave me a fake address?” She flipped her long blond hair over her shoulder and stared at him through sad eyes. He wondered whether she was more disappointed about being lied to or about losing her referral income.
“Yep.” He flicked the card between his fingers. “And I doubt her name’s Violet.”
“It happens,” Toni said. “Sometimes they don’t want to be contacted. Maybe, they only want the free makeover, and of course don’t like to admit that so they give us false data. But why choose Washington? It’s possible she lived there.”
“Or she figured even…she thought you people would clue in to the fact that she wasn’t from London, England, so she picked a state far away from where she truly lives.” He focused on Stacy. “Did you two talk at all during the makeover?”
“Of course. A little. Mostly I explained all the products to her and showed her how to apply them. It’s what we’re supposed to do,” she said, shooting a half-scared glance at the dark-haired woman at her side.
