A Blush With Death

by Yasmine Galenorn

  Dorian was behind the counter; he waved when he saw me. “I thought Barbara was supposed to meet you at the convention center?”

  “I had to pick up the sample cases, and in the process, I smelled cookies.” I grinned. “I see Barb finally talked you into a haircut.” His shaggy locks had been transformed; now he sported a smoother cut, like Tom Selleck’s hair in Magnum P.I. And his five o’clock shadow had disappeared along with the tangle of curls. “Shaved your beard, too?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “My darling wife threatened to call Mama Konstantinos and tell her that I refused to shave or brush my hair.”

  Good way to bluff, I thought. The only reason Barbara would ever willingly call Dorian’s mother was if her news would be a thorn in Mama Konstantinos’s side. In that case, she’d dial the phone and grin from ear to ear as she dropped the bomb on her meddling mother-in-law. But apparently Dorian hadn’t realized that after all these years, and the threat worked.

  “Well, you look great. Give me a dozen peanut butter cookies, would you?” I pulled out my wallet, fished out a ten dollar bill, and handed it to him.

  He handed me the bag and my change. “A baker’s dozen, as always, and one for the road. Tell my lovely wife I miss her.”

  I promised to deliver the message and blew Dorian a kiss. Time for the conference, as much as I dreaded the thought.

  THE TEMPERATURE WAS climbing as I hugged the curves on Seguamish Road. When I passed by Willow Wand Antiques, the thermometer on their reader board stood at a balmy seventy-three. I coasted down the slope toward the beach to a four-way stop, where I turned right onto Degobar Drive.

  Another block saw me to the valet entrance of the Red Door Convention Center, which was conveniently located on the waterfront, a mere three blocks from the ferry terminal. A spacious six-story hotel with valet parking and a four-star restaurant, the Red Door was home to most of the conventions and VIPs who journeyed to Gull Harbor.

  The doors were actually lipstick red with gold trim, while the hotel itself sported a modern look in polished marble facade. I shook my head at the bellboy’s offer of help; Auntie had impressed on me not to trust anybody with the sample cases. Anyway, by the time I gave the valet my car key, Barb appeared at my side. She gathered up two of the bags, and I swung the other two over my shoulder, along with my hobo bag.

  “How do you do it?” she asked. “Your hair is in perfect shape—and the wind’s up.”

  I grinned. “Try a braid so tight it makes you wince,” I said, swinging my butt-length braid around to show her.

  She grimaced. “I think I’ll stick with hair spray. I haven’t got enough hair to braid, anyway.” She tried for a smile, and I glanced at her head. She’d done a remarkable job hiding the atrocious cut. The spikes were nowhere to be seen. Instead, she’d smoothed it back into a sleek, head-hugging style and lacquered it with enough hair spray to hold an army in place. Two glittering green combs, one on either side, took the eye’s focus away from the calico color.

  I galvanized myself as we approached the door. “So, how bad does it seem? Is it as awful as I was afraid of?” I dreaded going in, already imagining a buzzing foyer filled with wild-eyed cosmeticians, anorexic models, overzealous saleswomen, and dozens of start-ups eager to home in on the market.

  “Bad enough,” Barb said. “This is going to be a long two days.”

  As she fell in beside me, I winced. She smelled like a brothel gone bad. “Barb, I hate to tell you this, but that perfume reeks to high heaven. What on earth is it? It’s not one of mine, that’s for sure.”

  She coughed. “I am not wearing any of yours. I’m wearing six perfumes, to be precise, including the one I arrived in. I’ve already been sprizted five times by crazed testers. They’re hiding all over in there, waiting to pounce. I tried to fend them off, but they spray and run.” She shook her head. “I smell like a skunk, and I know it.”

  Great. Given my hyperactive nose, the next few days were going to play hell on my olfactory senses. I’d probably end up with a massive sinus headache. As we approached the door, the doorman—in a red and gold uniform—opened it for us. I steeled my nerves and, resigned, plowed through into the foyer.

  The lobby of the Red Door was a bustling network of women—with a few men mixed in for good measure. Women in starched white coats, women in floral dresses, women in power career suits, women who could only be models drifting through in a breeze of gauze and linen.

  The lobby had been decked out with gold and red ribbons hanging from the ceiling. The registration and information tables were covered in red cloths trimmed with gold lace. And over the double doors leading into the main convention hall hung a huge banner that read, Beauty Bonanza Cosmetics Convention Welcomes You to the Red Door! The letters were red on white, with a golden halo, and paintings of what I could only assume were supposed to be lipsticks and eye shadows scattered in a haphazard manner around the banner.

  What the hell had Aunt Florence gotten me into? I could be home now, working with Trevor, taking care of a real problem.

  “Persia? Persia?”

  “Huh?” I said, startled.

  Barb nudged me with her elbow. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past couple of minutes. What on earth is wrong? You look really upset.”

  I frowned. “We’ve got a serious problem at home. I’ll tell you in a little while. First, let’s get registered.”

  We shouldered our way through the crowds to the registration desk, where I produced the forms Auntie had given me.

  The attendant was perky. Perky-annoying, not perky-cute. “Persia Vanderbilt, of Venus Envy, and Barbara Konstantinos. Very good—here you go; here are your badges. Now, be sure to wear them at all times; we don’t want security to think you’re sneaking in!” Her voice trilled over the words, and I tried not to cringe. She was, after all, just doing her job.

  “Where’s our booth?” I asked.

  She pointed through the double doors where people were milling about. “Through there, to the left in the Garden of Beauty.”

  “Garden of Beauty?” I mumbled, confused. “I thought this thing was taking place inside.” Maybe there would be some saving grace, if they were holding it outdoors.

  “Oh,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “that’s what the BBCC is calling Conference Room A. But we’re supposed to refer to it as ‘the Garden of Beauty.’” She gave me a secretive wink that told me she was onto just how bad it sounded, and I grinned, feeling like a jerk for having judged her too quickly.

  “Okay, so what else do we need?”

  She handed me a packet of information. “Here are your handouts. Keep your ticket stub with you—the BBCC has a number of door prizes planned for the next few days. And you can’t get away without wearing a name tag, as well as your badge.”

  Though it seemed redundant, I accepted the sticky tag and scrawled my name on it, elbowing Barbara to get her attention.

  “Huh?” she said. She’d been craning her neck, watching a group of young women who were obviously models, as they shared a single doughnut, cutting it into tiny pieces and handing it around amongst themselves.

  I handed her the marker. “Name tag. You have to wear a name tag.”

  She must have been off in the ozone, because she said, “But you just gave me my badge,” and held it up for me to see.

  I snorted. “Name tag, too. Get with the program, Konstantinos.” Within another moment, we were badged, tagged, and ready to go. “Here goes nothing,” I said, feeling a sense of dread as I took a deep breath and led the way toward the double doors. I couldn’t wait to get this weekend over with.

  Chapter 5

  THE ROOM WAS packed with presenters, at least six rows of ten booths each. The space assigned to Venus Envy was halfway down the third row. Each booth was spacious, big enough for three people, and had a canopy ceiling, lending a Moroccan feel to the room. A privacy panel in front of the table hid locking storage bins that re
sted beneath. Most of the booths were already taken, draped in silk, satin…almost every material imaginable.

  Auntie had packed a sea foam cloth for our table, and a mauve shawl to drape over the top, reflecting the colors of Venus Envy, and I shook them out, spreading them across the tabletop while Barbara checked the banner we’d been given to make sure Venus Envy was spelled correctly. I had images of some snot-nosed wiseass substituting a P for the V.

  After we’d tacked it to the top of the booth, we organized the samples into the display holders and stood back, gazing at the tiny bottles that lined the miniature display cases, making sure everything was symmetrical and inviting. I added a stack of brochures and business cards, then looked around, sighing.

  “Now, I guess we just wait. The opening ceremonies are scheduled for ten o’clock. We’ve got twenty minutes until then.” I arched my back, stretching my arms over my head.

  Barb snorted. “That sounds delightful. Do you want me to watch the booth while you go? It won’t hurt my feelings to miss out on the inspired speeches they must have planned for us.”

  I glared at her. “Not a chance, Konstantinos. If I have to go, you have to go. Anyway, they have security guards to watch over the merchandise during presentations. Here, I brought treats.” I held out the bag of cookies, and Barb’s face lit up. “Dorian said to tell you he misses you. You sure lit a fire under him about the beard and hair.”

  A blast of music ripped through the hall. Apparently festivities were getting under way. Blondie blared through the loudspeakers with “Rip Her Apart,” and I had a sinking feeling the song was a presage to what was to come. As if on cue, a bustle of activity and shrill voices echoed from a few stalls down. Barbara and I peeked down the row to see what was going on.

  Heaven save us from idiots. A gaggle of Bebe’s Belles were air kissing each other in a major love fest, letting out excited squeals as they staged a hyper meet-and-greet, jumping up and down in their thigh-hugging power suits. I grimaced, thinking they looked like escapees from some deranged motivational meeting. The Belles hadn’t even opened their booth to customers yet, but they were about as psyched as they could get. I pulled back as Sharon Wellstone popped into view. She hadn’t noticed Venus Envy’s booth, and with luck, she’d be too busy to bother with us when she did.

  As the group of women blurred into a semicircle around their booth, an elegantly coiffed Belle that I vaguely remembered as being Mimi Carter, the wife of our butcher, suddenly charged out of the elevator, up to the group, and gave one of her sisters a nasty bitch slap. So much for camaraderie.

  “You stole my sale with Carla Willis—she lives in my territory, and you know it!” Mimi’s voice was so loud it echoed through the auditorium. “I’m telling Bebe!”

  “Mimi, don’t be so quick to assume the worst!” An older woman strode up and separated the sparring partners. As God was my witness, she was wearing a fur coat in the middle of a hot August day. Indoors. The convention hall was air-conditioned, yes, but watching her prance around in a mink was on the far side of surreal. “Maybe Linda didn’t realize Carla lives in your area. Remember our motto: When Belles bond, Belles bloom.”

  Mimi sniffed. “But Tammy, she moved in on my territory. She’s trying to sabotage me because she knows I only need fifty more in sales to win the car!” She burst into tears and glared at her rival.

  Linda, her opponent, launched into a high-pitched protest. “I deserve that prize. I’ve had a hard year. Don’t be so selfish—you’re rolling in money! Your husband could easily afford to buy you a new car.”

  Apparently the befurred Tammy had run out of patience, because she straightened her shoulders and began tapping a stiletto-heeled foot against the floor. “Knock it off. How do you think this looks? People count on us to set an example of confident, competent career women. Now, both of you, up to the main suite. Bebe will take care of this matter.” She pointed toward the elevator, following as the two dissidents marched toward it, glaring at each other the entire way. As the three disappeared, the crowd of Belles dispersed quietly, the love fest apparently over.

  I turned to Barb, openmouthed. What on earth could I possibly say about the spectacle? “Surrealistic catfight?”

  Barb shuddered. “More like the American dream gone horribly wrong. I wonder what they were fighting over.”

  “A sparkling lemon yellow convertible.” The voice was smooth as velvet.

  I whirled to find myself facing a tall, red-haired, bearded man. He was the most gorgeous man I’d seen in ages, and to my chagrin, I let out a little gasp. Tall and lean, he wore a pair of black jeans and a tweed, leather-elbowed suit jacket over the top of a black tank top. His hair was short and just ever so slightly spiky. As I stared into his eyes, I slowly extended my hand.

  He slid his own over it. His skin was warm and smooth and set me to tingling. Grinning, he said, “Didn’t mean to startle you. Forgive me?”

  I blushed. “No problem,” I said.

  Barbara cleared her throat. “I’m Barbara Konstantinos, and this is Persia Vanderbilt. She’s with Venus Envy. I’m just along for the ride.”

  “How do you do?” He nodded to her, but his gaze remained fastened on me. “I’m Killian Reed, owner of Donna Prima Cosmetics. And I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot of good things about Venus Envy.” His lips were full and ruddy, and I couldn’t take my eyes off them—or that brilliant blue gaze that searched my own.

  Trying to shake off the feeling that I was two seconds away from making a fool of myself, I asked, “So they’re fighting over a car?”

  “That’s about the whole of it.” Killian relaxed then, pulling back just far enough to allow me to breathe. “Every year, one of the Belles wins a yellow convertible. It goes to the sales associate with the highest profit record. Second, third, and fourth prizes are shoddy fur coats. Those women are like a pack of hyenas. Not only do they hunt their quarry but each other as well.” He laughed then, and my self-consciousness slipped away.

  “That sounds about right, from what my aunt told me about them. They’re like some maniacal cult. I think they’re all brainwashed.”

  Barbara cleared her throat. “You’re not far off. I hear they do use some common programming techniques among their sales staff. How else could they manage to sell so much lousy merchandise?”

  Killian glanced over our display. “Well, you certainly have a better display than they do. Their booth is so garish that it positively reeks.”

  “You said you’re with Donna Prima?” I asked. “That’s a new company, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged, hooking his thumbs on his belt loops. “We’ve been around for a while, but we keep a low profile.” Industry jargon for we haven’t hit it big yet. He shot another look at the gaggle of Belles, who were now snipping at one another in yet another hissy fit. “They never give it up, do they?”

  I thought I detected a frown on his face, which deepened as Sharon Wellstone turned around. Oblivious to our presence, she was glaring at one of her coworkers. I was troubled by the sly look on her face. Though we’d never been close friends by any shot of the imagination, Sharon had always seemed very nice until she approached me in the shop about leaving Venus Envy. Now, her whole demeanor seemed downright vicious.

  Sharon was cornering a tall blonde, and the two looked like they were really getting into it. I couldn’t catch what they were arguing about, but another woman, petite and looking ready to pounce, stepped in and with a short word or two, quelled the discussion. The blonde headed toward the entry, while Sharon stared after her, glaring.

  I glanced at Killian again. “So, what do you think about Bebe?” It would be interesting to hear his take on the group.

  “Can’t stand her or any of her ilk.” He shook his head. “That one in particular,” he muttered, jabbing a thumb Sharon’s way. “Listen, be careful what you say around here, and who you say it to. There are spies in the mix.”

  “Spies?” Barbar
a perked up, looking around as if she expected to see James Bond wandering down the aisle.

  I snorted. “Put your eyes back in your head. Sean Connery is not going to come rambling through to sweep you off your feet.”

  She snorted. “Says who? He was the only real Bond, you know.”

  “I happen to agree, but that’s beside the point, so shush!” I wanted to know what Killian meant. “Were you joking, or do you really believe there are spies running around Gull Harbor’s convention center? I don’t mean to be flippant, but that sounds like a tall order.”

  He leaned close and lowered his voice. “I don’t mean military spies. I’m talking about corporate espionage. It happens a lot, or didn’t you know that?”

  Bingo, now it made sense. I nodded. “Actually, yes, I’ve been reading about a few cases lately in my aunt’s business magazines. Corporate crime is more widespread than people think.” I decided to forgo mentioning that our roses may have been the latest victims in the corporate wars. “You think there are people here trying to ferret out company secrets?”

  Killian looked grim. “I don’t just think it, I know it. But there’s no way to dig up any proof at this point. Just watch your back, watch who you talk to, and don’t say anything too confidential.”

  The loudspeaker announced the opening ceremonies were about to begin. As the convention hostesses herded us toward Auditorium C—or as they were calling it now, the Gardenia Grove—I tapped Killian on the arm. “So, why are you telling me this? Why trust me?”

  “First,” he said, “it doesn’t matter if my feelings get back to her. Bebe already knows I think she’s scum, along with all of her little prima donnas.” Then, with a flicker of a smile, he added, “Second, I know you’re Florence Vanderbilt’s niece. She has a reputation for scrupulous honesty in the business, and she wouldn’t hire you on—relative or not—unless she trusted you implicitly. She’s an honorable competitor, and I have the highest regard for her.”