Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

Speaking of which, I couldn’t bear recalling Julian’s disbelieving face and his stricken What? What? I felt his absence by the extra amount of work I had to do: clearing dishes, refilling platters, wiping spills off the granite bar. Sometimes engaging in a load of work heals the heart. In this case, it didn’t.

The lunch took an eternity. When it was almost over, a slender, elegant woman with long raven-black hair that contrasted with her sleek beige dress and pale orchid corsage got to her feet. Sending a twinkly smile in the direction of the guests, she announced breathlessly that Mignon was going to show slides of the new line of cosmetics for autumn, and then we would have dessert. The spotlights dimmed, and soon we were looking at the luminous, enlarged faces of stunning women. Then we saw the same lovely females with their fingers caressing suggestively shaped plastic bottles. The bottles were filled with stuff you were supposed to put on your face: Magic Pore-closing Toner with Mediterranean Sea Kelp. Extra-rich Alpine Nighttime Replacement Moisturizer with Goat Placenta. Ultragentle Eye Cream Smoother with Swiss Herbs. It sounded like makeup by Heidi. Then we saw the same dramatically made-up women modeling colors of foundation, blush, lipstick, eyeshadow, and mascara. Strawberry Sundae lipstick. Hot Date blush. Foreplay eyeshadow. S’More mascara. The models’ eyes were half closed and their lips were pursed, as if they were trying to kiss the air, or at least seduce it. When it came time for the lipstick, out came the models’ tongues, just touching the tops of their mouths. The message wasn’t exactly subliminal: Buy these cosmetics and you will get sex . When the slides were over and the lights came up, there was so much clapping, you would have thought they’d just announced the Nobel for Makeup.

I wondered how Julian was doing. I wondered what phase of the investigation the police were in now. Tom had said the state patrol handled traffic, which included hit-and-run. I wondered if the driver who had struck Claire had turned himself in. I tried to imagine where Tom was, what he was dealing with….

“Okay, girls,” announced the black-haired woman, who had left her table and was standing in front of the slide screen, “that was for you!” She put her hands on her hips and wiggled them provocatively. There was more uproarious clapping. She quieted the group with a restrained Queen Elizabeth-style wave. “We’ve got the best products and the hottest line,” she continued authoritatively. “Everyone is going to be copying us—but we’ve got the jump on them because we’ve got the best sales associates and the best customers!” More thunderous applause. “And you’re going to take us into the future!” From her jacket pocket she whipped out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. This was some kind of cue, because from her table, half a dozen other women quickly donned sunglasses. “So look out, everybody!” she cried. “The future of Mignon Cosmetics is so bright you’re going to have to pull out those shades!” And then there was final, furious clapping from the audience as the black-haired woman strutted back to her seat. Wearing sunglasses, she had a hard time finding it, but someone finally took her hand and guided her back to her spot.

Out of place. That was what Tom always said he looked for, something out of place. And that was what appeared at exactly that moment: a person who didn’t fit. Someone who was usually a slob. Someone who didn’t wear lipstick or blush or face powder—ever. Someone who, as far as I knew, owned nothing but an ancient, too-large black trench coat and a ratty pair of sneakers held together with duct tape.

“Frances?” I asked tentatively as I doled out pieces of Nonfat Chocolate Torte to the women in line. “Frances Markasian?”

She smiled broadly at me and winked, then put her finger to her lips. But I was having none of it

“Why are you here?” I demanded of Frances Markasian, a reporter from Aspen Meadow’s small weekly newspaper, the Mountain Journal. Had the Mountain Journal even run one article on fashion and makeup? The only piece I remembered seeing was on hunters wearing camouflage blackface when they went looking for elk.

Frances Markasian arched one freshly plucked eyebrow at the superbly groomed women who surrounded her, and grinned broadly. She patted her dark dreadlocked hair, now pinned into a thick, frizzy bun, then wiggled fingers at the women as they surveyed her. I itched to tell them that Frances Markasian wearing sling-back heels and a spangled St. John’s knit dress was about as rare a sight as a red-tailed fox at a country club tea. But I kept mum.

As the women wandered back to their tables bearing their plates of Nonfat Chocolate Torte, I hissed, “How could you possibly have heard already?”

Frances picked at crumbs on the torte plate at the bar. “Heard what?”

Doggone it. When she finally raised her trying-to-look-innocent black eyes at me, I said evenly, “About the demonstrators. One of them tried to block the door and I whacked him.”

“You whacked him? With what? A knife or a chocolate torte pan?”

“A tray of vegetables.”

The sleek black-haired woman had taken off her sunglasses and was making a concluding announcement. The Mignon luncheon was finally breaking up. I tried to make my tone to Frances conciliatory. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here? In fact, why don’t you help me pack up my stuff while you’re spilling your guts?”

“Do you have any real food? I’m still hungry.”

I sighed. “Peach cobbler or brownies?”

Before Frances could reply, a short, slightly plump young woman with dyed orange-blond hair cut in a brushed-forward pixie style appeared at the bar. Dusty Routt, unlike journalist Frances Markasian, was not out of place at this perfumed, stylish lunch. Dusty lived just down the street from us in a house built by Aspen Meadow’s branch of the charitable group Habitat for Humanity. For a time she’d gone to prep school with Julian, but had been mysteriously expelled before graduation. She and Julian shared the bond of being scholarship students, and they’d started going out before Dusty was expelled. But a month ago Dusty had made the mistake of introducing Julian to her fellow sales associate in her new job. The fellow sales associate had been Claire Satterfield. Now Dusty’s usually cheery face was mournful and her cornflower-blue eyes pleading.

“Hi, Goldy,” she said in her singsong voice. “Where’s Julian?”

“Busy. Dusty, do you know Frances Markasian? Frances works in Aspen Meadow, at the Journal. Frances is a friend of mine,” I said. I did not add sort of a friend. Not a friend I would ever call when I had to confide something . They nodded at each other.

“You work for Mignon, Dusty?” Frances asked in such an innocent voice that it was clear to me she already knew precisely what Dusty’s job was.

“Don’t say anything,” I warned Dusty as I covered up the food trays. “Frances thinks she’s the premier investigative reporter in our little burg.”

The shorn quality of Dusty’s Dreamsicle-colored hair made her look younger than eighteen. In fact, I always thought she resembled a plump Peter Pan. “Wow! I mean, you don’t look like a reporter. You must be successful. I saw that St John’s suit in Lord & Taylor. It looks great on you. Really! Great.”

Frances shot me a spiteful look and announced she wanted a couple of brownies. Dusty said yes please, she wouldn’t mind a couple herself. I doled the baked goods out, then asked if they could help me get my equipment into the boxes. Thankfully, the nightclub staff was responsible for cleaning the tables and washing the dishes. The cosmetics crowd thinned out. When they’d swiftly polished off their brownies, Frances, in her usual trying-unsuccessfully-to-be-delicate manner, pumped Dusty for information about Mignon’s animal-testing practices as they helped me pack. Dusty shrugged. Frances reflected, frowning, as she rinsed and wrapped the steamer. Then she cleared her throat and asked how security was at Prince & Grogan. Dusty folded up the last box, said she didn’t know much about security, and moved off.