Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

While she was gone I looked around her office, which was in desperate need of the upcoming paint job. The interior walls of the old Montgomery Ward had been covered with a mind-numbing aquamarine pigment. On the far wall of the office, paler squares indicated spots where framed recognition of merit awards, maybe even family photos, had once hung. Next to them, also painted aquamarine, was what looked like a medicine cabinet or key box. On the floor, computer print-outs were neatly stacked two feet high. Then by the wall closest to me was a gray set of file cabinets. My fingers itched to open the cabinet and look up Satterfield, Claire. But with my luck, not only would the drawer be locked, but Lisa of accounts payable would sashay back in while my hand was still on the handle.

Lisa did indeed sashay back in, and luckily my hands were placed innocently in my lap.

“The head of security has your check, and his office is locked. Nick’s out dealing with some insurance investigators today, and was wondering if you could come back tomorrow.”

I wanted to growl something unappreciative, such as Why doesn’t the bonehead just mail it to me? but I was coming back to the mall the next morning for the food fair. Besides, after a few years of running my small business, I was becoming somewhat cynical. Promises of checks coming in the mail all too frequently meant We might mail this when we get to it. Then again, we might not .

I checked my watch again: three forty-five. I still felt repulsed by the idea of going back to the hospital to wait, so I made the instantaneous decision to go down to the Mignon counter. Just briefly, just to see if Dusty and Harriet and maybe even Tom were there. I had Julian grieving at home. Perhaps if I returned with something to tell him …

Before I knew it I was on the down escalator. As I descended I could see both Harriet and Dusty on the floor below. Harriet was talking to a hunchbacked woman whose white hair was piled elaborately on her head. One of Harriet’s hands held a bottle, the other tapped the bottle’s shiny gold top.

“And what’s that one called?” I heard the older woman ask as I neared them.

“Tangerine Tide,” confided Harriet smugly. “It’s coordinated with Raspberry Dunes and Apricot Sunset—”

I imagined a beach full of fruit.

“—and it’s exactly the hue the designers are using for the fashion colors of late summer. We sell so much of it, we can’t keep it in stock!”

“Well, then!” said the white-haired woman decisively. “I’ll take some!”

Dusty was lifting the long, heavy pages of what looked like a ledger. A handsome, balding customer had approached the counter and was picking up bottle after bottle and appraising each one. Dusty, shaking her head over the pages, seemed not to see him. She did catch a glimpse of me, however, and came scuttling over. Her forest-green uniform barely swathed her ample tummy. Her orange-gold hair was somewhat wilder than usual, and her eyes were bloodshot.

“Goldy, did you hear about Claire?” Her voice was raw. I figured she’d been crying for quite some time.

“I did. I’m sorry. You all must be devastated.”

She took a shuddery breath. “We are. How’s Julian doing?”

“Not well. I’m trying to convince him to take some time off.”

She said, “We have to work. Do you believe that? So, the cameras are watching. Are you interested in something? What kind of problems are you experiencing with your face?” she asked brightly.

“What cameras? Can I look around? Will you show me?”

“I can’t now,” she replied softly. She brought out a slender white tube with a gold top. “This is Timeless Skin.” She squinted at me. “This will do wonders for those dark circles under your eyes. Why don’t you let me do a free makeover?”

“Er, thanks, but not now. I was thinking that sleep would do wonders for my dark circles.”

“Well,” Dusty said, scrutinizing my face, “how about some Ageless Beauty/Endless Appeal night cream for when you’re getting an that extra sleep? What kind of skin regimen are you using for your face?”

“No regimen.” I gestured at the stacks of glistening bottles arrayed on the glass countertop. “Nothing, really. I don’t want to buy anything, Dusty. I just wanted to check on you. Because of Claire.”

She shook her head. “We have a new line of—” she began.

The man at the counter cleared his throat loudly; Dusty glanced nervously at him.

“Go help him,” I pleaded. “I’m really just looking.”

“Okay,” Dusty said with a hasty look back at the ledger book. “But I doubt he’s going to buy anything.”

I moved away from the blushes and scanned a pyramid of Carefree Color lipsticks. Cherryblossom Cheesecake. Fudge Soufflé. Rose-hips Revolution. The person who named Mignon lipsticks must have been a dessert caterer.

Dusty greeted the balding customer and nodded knowingly. She became animated, or pretended to be animated, when he started to talk. Tall, mid-fortyish, good-looking, he was the kind of fellow I saw at high-society catered events all the time. I squinted: Maybe I’d even seen this guy at some catered event in the Aspen Meadow Country Club area. He picked up bottle after bottle and examined it, asking questions the whole time, as if the shape of the container were more important than what was in it. Then he put down the bottle, leaned in to Dusty, and said something. She reared back and replied. Their conversation appeared to be veering toward an argument.

“Don’t act ignorant, Reggie,” Dusty said loudly to her customer. “We saw you. You are going to get into so much trouble!”

I touched the tops of the lipstick tubes. Trouble? What kind of trouble? Who saw him? Saw him doing what? I peered at a display of blushes near Reggie, and then moved toward it as if I’d finally discovered what I’d come for.

Reggie, whoever he was, waved off Dusty’s concern and pointed to a large white bottle. “So what are your sales projections on the new moisturizer?” he asked. Farther down the counter, Harriet Wells gave Dusty and her inquisitive customer a disapproving glance.

I picked up one blush after another—Sensuosity, Valentine Kiss, Lustful Gaze. No thanks. I peeked sideways: Dusty and Reggie were standing with several trays of mascara between them. Yes, I was eavesdropping , I could imagine myself admitting later to Tom. I wanted to hear what Dusty had to say to Reggie, the guy who was going to get into trouble.

“I noticed they changed the packaging for the compacts,” Reggie was observing.

“Yuppies don’t want white,” Dusty informed him airily. “White reminds them of old ladies. So Mignon changed it to navy-blue and gold and we’ve sold a zillion of them.”

“Don’t use the word zillion , Dusty, it’s not specific. And I can’t imagine that you were selling lots of them. You said you were behind the last couple of months.”

“Don’t be a prick, Reggie, or I’ll tell the world the truth.”

“You wouldn’t do that. Now, listen,” he went on, “just tell me if they’ve set their sales goals for this new line they introduced yesterday, before all hell broke loose.”

“Yes, of course they have, you know they always set goals. Twenty-three hundred a week for the full-time people.”

Reggie considered this, “What did they send you to advertise them?”

Harriet had finished with the white-haired woman and was heading back toward the center of the counter. For the first time, I realized that although she was short, the way she held herself revealed she was either a former model or dancer. Instead of coming to me, however, Harriet walked straight up to Dusty and her male customer, Reggie-the-troublemaker.