Still, her hands shook as she found new pajamas and put them on. When she settled into bed and closed her eyes, she imagined every sound was someone walking though her house. She almost called Dirk to come and stay with her, but she had already thrown herself at him once today; no need to send him screaming into the hills, running for cover from her neediness. Instead she forced herself to relax and make mental lesson plans for the next school year. Eventually she fell asleep.
The phone rang early the next morning and woke her. She fumbled for it without sitting up.
“Hello,” she slurred.
“I figured it out.” It was Marion.
Liza sat up. “You did?”
“It was a basic military cipher, although the message still doesn’t make sense. It says, ‘Ten James 2C 3P.’”
Liza frowned. “You’re right. That doesn’t make sense.”
“I tried every format and variation I could find, but that’s the only thing that made any sense.” She paused. “Maybe you should run this by Puck’s friend, just to get his take on things.”
Liza’s anxiety from the night before returned in full force. Her eyes darted frantically around the room, and she gripped the phone. If sensible Marion believed in any of this, it might be real.
“All right,” Liza agreed.
“Want me to go with you? I can ditch work.”
Liza smiled. “No thanks. I’ll be all right. I just have to figure out a way to tame my hair so I don’t look like a sunflower.”
“Yeah,” Marion agreed. She sounded guilty. “Sorry about that. Call me after.” She hung up without waiting for a goodbye.
Liza showered, ate breakfast, then sat at her kitchen table, staring at the paper Puck had given her. “Lincoln Stone,” it read, along with the location of the FBI office in the large city half an hour away. She tried to picture him. Lincoln Stone was a strange sounding name. Would he be burly with dark sunglasses and one of those earpieces usually worn by the Secret Service? Or would he be a rogue, like Puck had described him, a rule breaker who dressed how he wanted and made his own rules?
In the end he was neither. She found her way easily to the FBI office and briefly wondered if it should be so clearly marked. It stood by itself with a row of matching black cars in the lot. In some ways it resembled the weak kid standing by himself on the playground, just waiting to get picked off by a bully. The small nondescript building shook her image of the institution. Where was all the high-tech equipment? Where were the serious-looking men with guns?
She was still frowning as she entered. There was a security checkpoint that looked so flimsy she was sure even she could dodge it if she wanted to. The guard led her into the office and she stopped short. It looked like any office in America with a secretary, some cubicles with a couple of spaces enclosed by doors. The electronic equipment looked like it had been brand new in 1990.
“May I help you?” the secretary asked. Her eyes focused involuntarily on Liza’s hair. The security guard had made her remove her hat, and now it stood up like a yellow disco ball.
“I called a little while ago about speaking with Mr. Stone.”
“Agent Stone will be with you in a moment, Miss.”
Liza sat, feeling insecure and properly chastised. How was she to know he should be called “agent?” Nobody called her “Schoolteacher Benson.”
“You can go in now,” the secretary said. She made no move to show Liza the way. Instead she jerked her head toward one of the closed doors.
Liza’s hand shook as she opened the door. He didn’t look up at first, but when he did, Liza relaxed. He was ordinary. Even sitting down she could tell he wasn’t overly tall. His hair and eyes were both brown, and he had a plain, nondescript face. He dressed like the male schoolteachers she knew in faded khaki pants and a white dress shirt that had seen better days. His eyes flew to her hair and she knew by the cruel quirk of his mouth that things were about to go very, very badly.
Link Stone was not having a good day. The electricity in his apartment building was out, so his alarm didn’t go off. When he woke--late--he took a fast, freezing cold shower and hurried around his dark apartment grabbing the first clothes he could find, which later turned out to be old clothes he had set aside to donate to charity. He drove through a fast food joint for breakfast. The coffee scalded his tongue and the greasy, fatty breakfast sandwich now sat like a rock in his gut.
His secretary, Christine, was in the middle of a breakup with her boyfriend. For the first two hours of the morning she had wept at her desk until Link told her she either had to buck up or go home without pay. And now this.
When Liza Benson first opened the door, he thought she was cute. She had a pleasant face, but it was quickly obscured by her blindingly yellow hair which stood out in all angles from her head. Somewhere in his mind cuckoo clocks started to sound. Great. Just what he needed today: a nutter. He sat back and prepared himself to hear about her alien abduction. The first words out of her mouth confirmed his worst fears.
“Puck gave me your name,” she said.
Inwardly he rolled his eyes. Outwardly he sighed and folded his hands on his desk. There were certain people so notorious they didn’t require a last name. Puck was one of those people. He was a perpetual student and avid conspiracy theorist. They had shared a few classes together right out of high school, and Puck had been bustling with his take on world events. No matter what the occurrence, he was convinced the government had a hand in it.
Link realized the woman was still standing in the entryway. He motioned to the chair in front of him.
“Have a seat, Miss.”
“Benson, Liza Benson.”
She sounded shy, but that didn’t improve his opinion of her. It was the quiet ones you had to watch out for.
“What can I do for you, Miss Benson?” He sat back and linked his fingers together behind his head. At first it took everything within him not to stare at her hair, but then her story was so amusing he forgot everything else.
“Let me get this straight,” he began. He did nothing to tamp down the amusement or sarcasm in his tone. It always went over the crazies’ heads anyway. “You want the Federal Bureau of Investigation to look into your missing flannel pajamas because you found a piece of tape in them?”
Her face flamed red. He would have found her pretty then, except he had a strict rule about not dating anyone certifiable--a lesson he had learned the hard way.
“My friend cracked the code,” she insisted. She shoved her hand in her pocket, and he tensed, ready to spring if she pulled out a weapon. Instead she pulled out a piece of paper and slid it across the desk to him. He didn’t look at it. He maintained eye contact and spoke very patiently to her.
“No one is out to get you. No one is stealing your lingerie.” He snickered and got himself under control again. “Very few average citizens become embroiled in plots involving flannel these days, but if I hear of a pajama bandit, I’ll contact you immediately.” He dropped his eyes to his desk, effectively dismissing her.
“You pompous, arrogant, self-righteous little man,” she said.
He looked up in surprise. Out of all the words, “little” hurt the most. He was self-conscious of his height.
“I came here today looking for a conversation. I wanted a professional sounding board to assure me there is nothing to worry about. Instead I received your condescending shtick. I am not mentally ill. I know how this all sounds, but I hoped you would be kind enough to hear me out and help me come to some reasonable conclusion.” She looked like she wanted to say more. Instead she gathered her purse and stood. “Shame on you.”
He watched her walk out of the office with her overly blond head held aloft, and he did feel ashamed. Especially because he was almost positive he saw tears sparkling in her eyes when she turned away from him. He had made women cry before, but they were always criminals who deserved it. To make an innocent cry, especially one who was mentally ill, didn’t make him feel like much of a man.
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He sighed and ran his hand over his face. Now he was going to have to ease his conscience by looking into her story. If he had simply been polite and listened to her, he could have easily dismissed her. When would he learn to keep his big mouth shut? Saying too much was what got him stuck out here in Podunk in the first place.
He pressed the intercom. “Christine, bring me all the info you have on the woman who just left.” He picked up the paper she had left behind. “Ten James 2C 3P,” he read out loud, and then sighed again. “It’s going to be a long day.”
Chapter 5
Liza sat in the parking lot of the FBI building and cried. She wasn’t sure she had ever been more humiliated. The way that man had looked at her. Her tears increased and she rested her head on the steering wheel. When her phone rang she knew it was Marion. She sniffed a few times before answering.
“How did it go?” Marion asked.
Liza let out a sob. Marion was one of the few people in the world she was comfortable crying in front of.
“That well, huh?” Marion said. “I have some news that might cheer you up. I called Trés Classique and they have an opening. You can go right now if you’re up to it.”
“Oh, I’m up to it,” Liza said. She started her car and put it in drive. “The sooner I get rid of this mustard mop the better.”
Marion laughed. “Let me know how it turns out. And I already gave them my credit card. My treat.”
“Mar, you don’t have to do that.”
“Sure I do. It’s my fault and we both know it. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” They disconnected and Liza drove straight to the salon.
When she arrived she wanted to turn and go back home again. The stylist who greeted her was her mother’s age. She had flashbacks to the Hungarian woman who ruined her hair. Weren’t stylists supposed to be young?
But, unlike the Hungarian, this one looked trendy.
“Oh, my dear,” the woman said. She opened her arms to Liza and hugged her tightly. It was like hugging her mom, if her mom was married to a plastic surgeon who made her look as young and thin as this woman. “Oh, honey. You should never try to color your hair yourself.”
“I didn’t,” Liza insisted. Tears filled her eyes again. Why did everyone think the worst of her today?
“Don’t tell me someone calling herself a professional did this to you,” the woman said. Her nametag read Tina. She sounded aghast.
Liza nodded. “And charged seventy five dollars for the privilege.”
Tina clapped her hand over her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.” She removed her hand and led Liza to a chair. “Come on. Let’s get you fixed up. What were you going for originally?”
“Gold highlights, but I don’t want that anymore. I just want it back to normal.”
“Nonsense,” Tina said dismissively. “A girl as beautiful as you should play up your assets.”
And that was when Liza decided that, for better or worse, until death did them part, Tina was going to be her stylist forever. No one but her mom had ever called her beautiful.
After a few hours of anxiety she felt Tina had earned her trust and devotion. She convinced Liza to go a couple of shades darker than her normal light brown. Apparently her coloring was too fair for her hair color. She also convinced her to go for the gold highlights and add a few face framing layers. (“Your eyes have gold flecks; play those up.”) Somehow she also allowed herself to be talked into having her eyebrows waxed. (“Like two fuzzy caterpillars up there. Trust me; it will make a huge difference.”)
And it did. Somehow all the changes brought out the subtle prettiness in her face and made it not subtle anymore. Now she was actively pretty, and she stared at herself in wonder as Tina beamed triumphantly behind her.
“We carry a line of cosmetics here,” Tina said. “Are you interested in a makeover?”
Liza nodded dumbly. At this point she would do whatever Tina suggested. For her own sake she hoped Tina wasn’t a member of some obscure cult she would now have to join.
Tina deftly handed her off to a makeup artist who explained in the gentlest possible terms that Liza was a complete nincompoop who had been applying makeup incorrectly her entire life.
“Why would you smear makeup over these freckles? They’re adorable,” the makeup artist said. She stared so closely at Liza’s nose she appeared cross-eyed.
Liza would have bitten her lip if it weren’t being worked on at the moment. She had hated her light smattering of freckles ever since a boy teased her about them in the fourth grade. Since then she had spent untold amounts of money to cover them. She had trusted Tina, though, and that had turned out well. She would put her faith in this woman, too.
Almost an hour later she was glad she had. Her eyes, which she had always found ordinary, were now luminous, and, as Tina had said, gold-flecked. How had she looked at herself every day and never noticed that detail? Her freckles stood out, but now she looked somehow cute and sophisticated.
Her full lips, which she had always thought her best feature, looked even better now that they didn’t dominate her face. It was the first time she had ever looked in a mirror and thought the person looking back at her was pretty. Always before she had been passable. She wasn’t in danger of being signed for a modeling contract, but she could hold her own now, even next to Scarlet who had become her measuring stick for every standard.
Dirk called her as soon as she finished paying. The bill, including a full line of makeup, was so massive there was no way she would make Marion pay.
“Hey,” she said cheerfully. Her makeover had forced every bad event from her mind, so it was surprising when he sounded reserved, glum, even.
“Hey.”
“What’s wrong?” She shoved her giant bag of makeup and hair products in the car and sat down.
“I’ve got to go out of town for a week,” he said.
She gripped the phone hard. She had been looking forward to a big reveal of her new look. “Why?”
“Business.” He sighed.
She frowned. He was a used car salesman. What business could cause him to travel?
“I was hoping to see you tonight, but that’s not going to happen. Are you feeling better?”
Her cheeks pinked, remembering the way she had clung to him so desperately. Had that only been last night?
“Much,” she said with conviction. Her makeover had given her a new lease on life. “Thank you. I’ll miss you,” she added tentatively. Usually he came and went as he pleased and she made no claim on him, emotional or otherwise. The freedom was what kept him coming back.
“I’ll miss you, too,” he said. She could tell he was smiling and her heart rhythm increased until he continued. “I haven’t had a decent meal in days. Nobody cooks like you, Babe. See you. I’ll call when I can.”
She snapped her phone shut and tossed it in her purse. Of course she had been stupid to hope he actually missed her. What he really needed was wholesome food. Cynically she wondered if he was even going out of town. Maybe he was simply dodging her after her clingy display. She dismissed that idea as quickly as it arrived. If there was one thing Dirk was, it was honest. He had never lied to her once in five years. After seeing how easily some of Marion’s loser boyfriends had lied to her, Liza was even more thankful for Dirk’s honesty.
She spent that evening with Puck and Marion who were properly impressed and amazed by her transformation.
“Mar told me you went to see Link,” Puck said. “How did it go?”
“Uh,” Liza searched for a way to phrase it nicely but failed to find one. “I think I might hate him, and I’ve never hated anyone before.”
“What?” Puck leaned forward on his elbows. “He wasn’t nice to you?”
Liza shook her head.
“But he’s like the nicest guy ever.” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Maybe they were forcing him to act that way.”
Liza looked at Marion for an explanation, but Marion shrugged as if to sa
y, “Who can understand the mind of Puck?”
After the successful reveal of her new look, Liza searched her memory for more people who might appreciate the change. Her mind gravitated to her older brother, but quickly turned away from that idea. If she wasn’t covered in binary code, he wouldn’t notice anything about her. It had been a while since she heard from him, though, so she dialed him on her way home.
“Bryce,” she said. “How are you?”
“Who is this?” he asked.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m not. What’s up, sis?”
“I got a makeover.”
“Fascinating.” He sounded bored.
“And I got a new computer.”
“Really?” There was a shuffling sound as if he sat up. “How many CPU’s?”
“I didn’t really get a new computer. That was an experiment to see if you would actually take some sort of interest in my life.”
“Are you twelve again, drama queen? What gives?” It sounded like he was now munching on something. She didn’t want to know what it might be. He was the only thirty year old she knew who still dressed and ate like a teenager.
She sighed. “Nothing. Bad day, I guess.”
“Let me guess, Dirk?”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“Because it’s always Dirk. He’s had you twisted up in knots for five years and I’m tired of it. Cut him loose. You can do better.”
“No I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” he said emphatically.
The Pajama Affair Page 4
