At least now I could see.
The goo on my body had congealed into a semi-hard shell. My arms were wrapped too securely to move, and the drying mixture had glued my armpits shut. Small bits of grass drifted through the window like confetti in a ticker tape parade. Attracted by the static electricity of the plastic wrap, they floated over and stuck to me. I was turning into a chunk of sod, one blade of grass at a time.
My nose ran and dripped with abandon, and no amount of sniffling could restrain the flow. Snot leaked onto my mouth. I ached to wipe it away and rub my tearing eyes. No sound came from beyond the door where Helga had disappeared. Probably taking a steroid break.
The sound of the mower grew more insistent. A man paced back and forth outside my window, only his shoulders and torso visible as he continued his parade.
“Help!” First I directed my call toward the other treatment room.
Silence. A big echoing silence.
I wiggled violently. The growing desire to scratch made me twitch involuntarily. My body jumped. There was a sound, a noise like ripping a Band-Aid off your skin, and I came unstuck from my bed. My body began a slow inexorable slide toward the open window, starting at a stately half inch at a time but quickly picking up speed. Spatial intelligence kicked in as I calculated height, width, and shape.
Oh boy. I could definitely slide out that window.
I started moving faster. My calves slipped off the end of the bed. Bound tightly by plastic wrap, my legs stuck out like a ledge. I wriggled. Bad idea. I picked up speed. My toes bumped the wooden molding around the window.
I held myself there, gripping with my feet and feeling the pressure of my weight growing, growing …
“Help!”
My toes were getting tired. Those ten pinkies were all that stood between me and the great outdoors.
The mowing man concentrated on the area directly outside my window. Muscular sunburned arms marched back and forth.
One of my feet slipped. I wiggled my toes in the fresh air. “Help!” I yelled louder. At this rate, I might even collide with the mower man.
I needed to get his attention! But he couldn’t hear me over the noisy engine.
“Help!” I yelled to the door Helga had used.
No use.
I lifted my head and screamed toward the open window: “Heeeellllllppppp!”
The mower sputtered and cycled down to a stop. “Ahem.” A thin sliver of face appeared between my toes. Soft grey eyes peered in. “What the? You all right in there?”
Okay, I told myself. So I look a little like Mystique, the Rebecca Romijn-Stamos X-Man creature. Except I’m brown. And I smell bad. Plus, I’m more ripe than ripped, and more fluff than buff. No need to be embarrassed. Not while modeling poofy Handi-Wipe panties! Wow. Can you say, “Hot! Hot! Hot!”?
“Yes, I require assistance. Please. I … uh … my nose … uh, achoo! I’m allergic to fresh cut grass, and …” I sneezed and sniveled, trying to control the snot streaming down my face. Call me Booger Queen. A web of mucous covered my lips, flapping as I spoke, “Please! I need help! Get Helga!”
My savior responded with a low chuckle. Using a walkie-talkie, he told the front desk to send someone to the mud wrap room, ASAP. “I think one of our customers is … uh … finished with her treatment.”
“Please tell them to hurry,” I whimpered. “My toes are getting tired. They’re all that’s keeping me from joining you on the lawn.”
“Well … that might be a bit uncomfortable for you. Seeing how you’re dressed and, and covered with … with I don’t know what.” Lawn Boy stared at me. “Can you hang on? I guess you have to, huh?” A pair of thick eyebrows shaded kitten-grey eyes. Crinkles in the corners told me he was smiling. Strike that—grinning like a fool. “If you don’t mind me saying so, that baby-baba brown shade … it ain’t your color, ma’am.”
SIXTEEN
SOME PEOPLE ARE LIKE toilets: you need to jiggle their handles to get them to work properly. Helga appeared, pronto, uttering a series of guttural noises I translated as abject apologies. Her touch was gentle as she hoisted me, steadied me, unwrapped the plastic, and sponged the goop from my body.
I’ll give her this, my skin was baby-butt soft.
Lunch arrived shortly thereafter. Three lonely leaves of lettuce, a half a slice of cantaloupe, a chunk of honeydew melon, braised asparagus, scrambled egg whites, and a bowl of parsley soup sat proudly on a silver tray.
But I’d had all the grass I could eat as an appetizer.
“Ugh.” I made a face at Suzanne. “Could we order out for a pizza?”
“Heaven forfend! This meal will help you shed toxins. These are natural diuretics.”
In other words, I was on the “pee your way to weight loss” plan. “Yeah, but I already lost a gallon of fluids with all that sneezing.”
Suzanne spoke to me sternly. “You should have listed your allergies on our intake form.”
I grumbled to the bunny food on my plate. How was I to know new mown grass was on the docket? Geez. By my calculations I’d lost a half a pound of skin, thanks to Helga’s ministrations. One quarter came off as she scoured my body, and the other peeled away with the mud. Evidently what Lawn Boy called “Baby-Baba Brown” both defoliated me and exposed a fresh layer of skin. I’d also given up at least an ounce of oil and gunk to the woman in white who squeezed my blackheads. Who knew that could be a career? Another ounce was torn away by the cheerless gal who’d waxed my eyebrows, my legs, and my girlie bits.
Let me say this: After a bikini waxing, there’s nowhere your day can go but up. Nothing else could be that painful or embarrassing. It’s right up there with getting a mammogram from a cold-handed sadist with a heavy foot on the compression pedal.
Having hot beeswax spread in places only my gynecologist had ever seen was a frightening experience. Having the bandage of solid wax and cotton ripped off, hairs intact, was a shock to my system. Afterward, the technician used tweezers to pluck stragglers, thus prolonging my agony.
Here’s the worst of it: I had no idea what was coming next. Suzanne followed me around with a clipboard, making check marks at regular intervals. Obviously, when Sheila decided I needed polish, she had an exhaustive regiment in mind. Heck, most of these “treatments,” I’d never heard of. Did women really pay to have all this torture inflicted on them regularly? How do you talk shop when you are a hair plucker for people’s privates? What did she put as occupation on her credit card app? Bush whacker? And the other lady wielding the metal tool with a nasty ring at the end? What was her job description? Pimple popper?
Ugh.
I knocked back my “hearty” lunch. By my calculations, I downed a whopping 200 calories. Hardly enough to restart hair growth.
Suzanne led me—snarling and snapping for lack of food—to a quiet room where New Age music played. Yet another brawny woman, this one with a name badge that read “TiffanY” prepped me for a soothing foot massage.
I wondered. Did she hit the shift key by mistake or was she really graced with a capital letter at the end of her name? Like all my other minders, TiffanY ministered to me while referring repeatedly to a typed sheet of paper.
“Um, are you a beginner?” I asked cautiously. The foot massage felt good. Really good.
“No,” she said. “I’m Bulgarian.”
Well, that explained something, but I wasn’t sure what.
“Uh, I think I’ll be leaving after the pedicure and manicure.”
TiffanY cast a worried glance at me over her paperwork, “Ne! Na kukovo ljato.”
“Uh, you could try that in English?”
“I say ‘not in a cuckoo summer.’ You need hair highlighted, cut, and styled, and make-up done. Mrs. Lowenstein said this. She is big tipper.”
The afternoon hours dragged by. My tummy rumbled in protest. New portions of my body endured manipulations, burnishing, and painting. I stung in parts I couldn’t touch in public, and I ached all over.
As a distraction
, I puzzled over Yvonne’s murder. Was her gambling spouse involved? Or was the culprit Rena, the good friend who was sneaking around with Perry? And how about his secretary or co-worker? Did Rena and the other-other woman compare details and discover he was cheating on his wife and two-timing them? Could they have worked together to set Perry up? Was Yvonne the real target? Had the tainted scones been intended for someone else? Maybe the brick and graffiti were not generic hate crimes, but specific attempts on her life? Was Yvonne murdered to ruin Time in a Bottle’s business? Could the scones have been a food-tampering plot gone wrong? Why were the police hounding my friend, Mert?
I tried to formulate answers, but the lemony cream TiffanY stroked and kneaded into my calves was so soothing. The scent worked on every tense muscle in my body—even ones my masseuse wasn’t rubbing.
“What is that stuff?” I asked.
“Melissa,” she responded.
“Melissa Who?”
Seeing my confusion, she handed me the bottle. “Melissa,” it seems, is another name for lemon balm, a member of the mint family.
“Makes good tea, too,” said TiffanY. “At night can help you sleep. Good for upset tummy, gas, and monthly cramps. One cup helps you be calm. Here, I get you some.” She returned with a warm drink, which I sipped greedily. It tasted like lemonade.
“More please,” I begged. Between ruminating on the murder and gearing up for the night ahead, I was antsy. My nerves were kicking in, big time. I started gulping the tea, and TiffanY brought me a small pot of the brew.
What I really needed was good old-fashioned Valium. There are moments in one’s life where having a drug dealer in your Rolodex would be a grand idea. Instead, I would content myself with sipping an herbal brew. By the gallon.
After the pedicure, which felt ridiculously good until TiffanY’s puttering around tickled, another woman fixed my nails while a stylist used a rat-tail comb to divide my hair into precision plots. Each area of hair was painted and wrapped in tin foil, leaving me looking like a television antenna’s dream date. A makeup artist applied “permanent” false eyelashes, one by one, before lining my eyes, darkening my brows, and “doing” my face. My hair was rinsed, cut, dried, and blown out, only to be curled loosely with a hot iron. Finally, Suzanne led me back to the dressing room and handed me a gift bag tied with ribbons.
“Here are your undergarments and accessories. Howard dropped them off. Your gown is hanging in the locker there. Please hurry,” she said as she consulted her watch. “He still needs to pick up Mrs. Lowenstein.”
Inside the bag I found a long-line Spanx. Of course, it fit, and better yet, it tamed my wobbly bits into a smooth, taut line. Remember Barbie? And the instructions to dress her the way real models did by stepping into her clothes? It wasn’t lost on me. I stepped into my dress.
Suzanne reappeared to help with the zipper. She held my hand as I slipped on my shoes. From the bag came another box. The lid was removed to reveal a small beaded purse in gold. I was smoothing the flowing chiffon of my skirt when I heard excited giggles from the lounge next door. “Please,” said Suzanne, “would you show the other staff members how you look? They want so much to see the final effect.”
I followed her, more than happy to comply.
“Turn around,” said Suzanne, pointing toward a floor-to-ceiling three-way mirror.
I gasped.
The woman in the glass was absolutely beautiful. Her skin glowed, her hair curled artfully to frame her face, her plump lips glowed in a perfect shape. Everything about my reflection was polished to a classy perfection.
Could that person really be me?
“You was like loser from Survivor,” said Helga in her thick accent. “Now you Swan. Gorgeous! We do this good work.” Suzanne, TiffanY, the manicurist, the hair stylist, the makeup artist, and all the other workers gathered to approve the finished product—me!
“Wow, I didn’t even look this good on my wedding day.”
“We know,” sighed Suzanne joining the crowd in nodding sadly. “Mrs. Lowenstein showed us pictures.”
It should have offended me, but I knew it was true. Even the limo driver did a double-take as I walked to the Lincoln. Halfway there, I realized I’d forgotten the contents of my locker. Howard opened my door, handed me in, and scurried away to find a spa employee. A moment later, he hustled his way back with word my belongings were being retrieved. I waited in the air-conditioned car, twisting my hands with nervousness.
My door opened. A pale pink shopping bag festooned with ribbons was handed in. The hand holding the bag was attached to a muscular arm. My eyes followed that gorgeous bicep up, up, to a strong chin and a pair of grey eyes. I did a double-take. Lawn Boy, for that’s who passed along the bag, was an absolute stud. My breath caught in my throat. Framed by longish auburn hair was the face of a man who’d seen it all, but right at this moment, liked what he saw. Sort of a rougher Billy Ray Cyrus. Resting one arm on the roof and leaning into the interior of the car, he admired me without a shred of pretense. I blushed happily under his inspection.
“My, my, my. That gold you’re wearing, that’s definitely your color, babe. Definitely.”
LEMON BALM (MELISSA OFFICINALIS)
This herb was once used by lovers to send messages to each other! Like most members of the mint family, one plant can take over a garden. You may wish to keep the herb in its own pot and sink it in the ground that way so the roots stay confined. The plant produces a lovely, tiny white blossom. The leaves can be dried and stored.
For stomach and digestive complaints, or as a sleep aid, the leaves can be brewed as a tea and taken several times daily. In one study, people who drank a cup or more of lemon balm tea daily found it reduced their general anxiety. The leaves may also be used as an accent in salads or fish dishes.
SEVENTEEN
“COULD YOU TAKE A photo of me with my camera phone? I’d like to send it to my mom.” I offered the Katana George had given me the year before last for Mother’s Day to Sheila. With a brief tutorial she was good to go. She snapped my photo. I sent it to my mom and followed up immediately with a phone call.
“Hi, Mom. Can you believe it’s me? I spent the whole day getting gussied up for a fancy event with Sheila. See the picture on your screen? Don’t I look nice?”
Sheila turned her head to watch the scenery. It was a small gesture designed to give me a bit of privacy. I listened to my mother, before saying goodbye and closing the phone.
“What did she say?” Sheila’s eyebrows lifted. “She must have been surprised by how lovely you look.”
I swallowed hard and bit my lower lip. I snatched a tissue from my new gold purse and dabbed my eyes. I lifted my chin and tried to smile. “Uh, she, uh … she said you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
The party tent outside of the Sally S. Levy Opera Theatre was all decked out in tiny white lights, white floral arrangements in silver bowls, and white table cloths. A greeter checked us in and gave us tiny envelopes. Inside was an ivory card on heavy linen stock embossed with our names and table number. I squared my shoulders and stepped into the crowd. Around us swirled women in fairy tale gowns and men in statesmanlike tuxedos. I couldn’t help but be impressed by the sight. Sheila and I could barely make it through the crowd for people stopping my mother-in-law to chat. “Photo, please,” interrupted a man carrying a large camera with an industrial-strength flash. “Of course I recognize you, Mrs. Lowenstein,” said our paparazzi pausing to jot our names in a notebook, “but this is?”
“My daughter-in-law, of course. This is the famous Kiki Lowenstein, scrapbooker extraordinaire. Mother of my adorable granddaughter.”
I stood there in shock. From Sheila, this was positively effusive. But I wasn’t taken in. Much of this was about Anya, about making sure I made the right impression so Anya could follow in her grandmother’s footsteps socially. Sheila took the notebook from the roving photographer’s hands to make sure he spelled my name correctly. (I guess she was conce
rned he’d spell it KINKY. That’s happened before.) “And,” she said imperiously, “you will have copies of the photos to my home, right? Please take several more.” She posed next to me, whispering, “Chin down, lick your lips, tuck your tummy in and buttocks under, one hip forward, stand straight.” The flash went off enough times to temporarily blind me.
As I blinked and tried to get my bearings, Serena Jensen joined us. We chatted in a desultory way until she said, “Speaking of scrapbooking, did you hear about the scrapbooker who was murdered? Wasn’t it at a what-do-you-call-it? I hadn’t heard about it when I came by your store.”
“A crop,” I offered, “and unfortunately I was there.”
“Really? Oh, Kiki, that must have been awful.” She added, “My son works with the husband of the woman who died.” She leaned closer to me. “I don’t like to gossip, but the word is Mr. Gaynor wanted his freedom. Seems he has his eye on a much younger co-worker.”
“Is this common knowledge?” Sheila asked.
“Oh, yes. My Donald—you remember him, right, Sheila?—is a marketing vice president at RXAid. Donald says the human resources director is fit to be tied. Mr. Gaynor hasn’t been at all discreet. That sort of behavior is simply unacceptable. People sue so easily, you know.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know the name of the young woman, would you?” I smiled conspiratorially.
“Let me think. Oh, yes, it’s Cindi with an ‘i,’ Starling. And Perry Gaynor’s not the first man Cindi’s tried to lasso. The young woman has designs on a wealthy husband. Oh—there’s Nancy Parkington. Excuse me. She and I need to chat about an upcoming fundraiser. Nancy, darling!”
Sheila put her lips to my ear, “Do the police know about this? About this … relationship?”
It tickled me she was so interested. Methinks my mother-in-law was getting caught up in the excitement of solving a crime! I answered, “I can’t be sure. Detweiler’s part of the Major Case Squad.”
Her mouth tightened. “Your … friend? He’s involved in this?”
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