Part 17 (1/2)

”You are Mrs. Schulz, then?” inquired the soft-voiced woman at the desk. The pink mohair materialized as a dress around a voluptuous body. ”How did you say you were going to take care of your charges today?”

”Uh ...” I fumbled with the slippery opening to my pocketbook. What charges? ”I need a cab,” I said uncertainly.

”We'll call one for you,” Ms. Mohair a.s.sured me breathily. ”We just need your credit card.”

I guess it had been a long time since I'd taken a cab. I thought they took only cash. I handed her my Visa.

”What happened to Nick?” Dusty demanded.

I was suddenly aware of being wet and very cold. ”I have no idea. Dusty? Could I get a ...?”

”A what?” she asked. ”What happened to Nick?”

”I don't know.” My teeth chattered. ”One minute I was standing at the counter, the next he was cras.h.i.+ng out of that blind above the store entrance-”

”The blind?” She was incredulous. ”He fell out of the blind? What in the world was he doing up there?”

The woman with the soft voice reappeared with my credit card and a paper slip and I signed. For what, I wasn't quite sure. What had happened to Marla's coupon? ”We can take you back now, Mrs. Schulz. Let's get you a dry robe,” she said intimately, ignoring Dusty, ”and put those damp things in our dryer. Shall we?”

It sounded good. In fact, it sounded wonderful.

”Gosh, Goldy,” said Dusty, ”are you sure you want to do your facial now anyway?”

”Oh, I ...”

Competing voices invaded my brain. I'm so sorry, Claire. I'm so sorry I couldn't figure anything out.

I'd made this appointment with Hotchkiss Skin & Hair because I was trying to discover why and how Hotchkiss was copying or stealing from Mignon, and if the fierce compet.i.tion between the cosmetics companies could extend to killing people. Behind the reception desk, I saw first one, then another woman scurry down a far hall. Both wore lab coats. But I felt unsteady. Stay here, where all was unknown? Or ask Dusty for a ride back to my van? Tom would certainly want to know what was going on. With sudden resolve, though, I decided to stay. I would manage, I would have this facial, I would call a cab. And I would tell Tom all about what had happened at the department store. But a question nagged. ”Dusty,” I said, ”what in the world are you doing here?”

She pressed her lips together and relieved me of my purse and the paper bag. Then she leaned in close and whispered, ”Reggie Hotchkiss wants to hire me. I mean, he's promised. We just had a meeting. You know, I just have to get away from Mignon. That place is crazy. Come on, I'll take your stuff back.”

”Mrs. Schulz,” said the soft-voiced woman, who had materialized once again at my side, ”just look at what a mess you are.” She took my arm with surprising firmness. A s.h.i.+ver with a life of its own went through my wet clothes. What a mess, indeed.

Dusty said she'd bring my stuff to my room when I was in the robe. The pink-mohair lady led me down the hall, where she put me in a small chamber that had the antiseptic feel of a doctor's examination room. Instead of an examining table, however, the middle of the room boasted an enormous reclining chair. It was probably the throne where you got your facial. Large, imposing machines sat next to the chair. Ms. Mohair handed me a green hospital-type gown that tied in the front. She said in that soft, whispery voice, ”Somebody will be with you momentarily.” Then she was gone.

Ravel's Bolero was being piped incongruously into the professional-looking s.p.a.ce. I stripped off my damp clothing and hung it on a hook, stepped gingerly across the black and white linoleum, and pulled a couple of paper towels from the dispenser over the sink. After what I'd seen fall from Nick Gentileschi's pocket, I was paranoid about my own s.h.i.+very nakedness. Who was watching? Oddly, the room held no mirrors. I glanced up at the ceiling-no cameras that I could discern-then chided myself for being ridiculous. I cinched the warm hospital gown around my middle, patted my damp hair with the paper towels, and took a deep breath.

Within moments a short, ponytailed woman of about twenty-five swished into the room. She was carrying a large plastic bag.

”These are yours,” she announced. ”Your friend had to leave. Your purse and department store bag are inside. They're wet.”

She dropped the bag lightly by the wall and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her white lab coat. She frowned as she a.s.sessed me. She wore little makeup over an acne-scarred face that was quite plain. I don't know why I found both of these physical aspects surprising. But her whole appearance, from the tightly pulled ponytail to her white stockings and white tied shoes said technician rather than beauty queen.

”Your hair is wet too,” she observed. She strode efficiently to a cupboard, retrieved a warm, folded towel, and handed it to me. I thanked her and rubbed the towel over my scalp. ”But you did not make an appointment for hair,” she said with a slight, scolding shake of the head.

”This towel's fine. My hair is just ...” Well, my hair. No amount of money lavished on it was going to change that unstylish ma.s.s of curls into anything. ”Let's just start with the face today, okay?”

And start she did. While Bolero played in the background, the white-coated woman, whose name was Lane-short, crisp, efficient, fitting her persona-told me we were beginning the process with a thorough cleansing. Her fingers energetically ma.s.saged thick, creamy stuff onto my face which she then wiped off with a warm, wet towel. This was followed by a fruity-smelling toner, which she applied in simultaneous swipes across the left and right sides of my face.

”Okay!” she said when the toner was turning my face into what felt like a dry Popsicle. ”I'm going to start a list of all the products you should be using for your face. For starters, Wizard cleanser and pore-closing toner.”

”Well, er, how much do they cost?”

She waved this away. ”We can just put it on your card.”

”I'm sorry, I need to know.”

She consulted a sheet. ”Thirty-six dollars for a ten-ounce bottle of cleanser.” Impatient. ”Forty dollars for a twelve-ounce bottle of toner.”

I didn't mean to gasp, but I did anyway. I saw Arch going shoeless for the rest of his life. ”But that's even more than Mignon! And I thought they were the most expensive.”

Lane pursed her lips, then announced: ”We are the most expensive. Do you want to improve your skin or not? We are the best. You'll see real results if you work with these products.”

I mumbled something along the lines of ”Okay.”

Lane slapped down the pencil on her tray. ”Let's go to the next step, then.”

She turned on one of the imposing machines next to the chair. I became more nervous when she a.s.sured me that the machine was for brus.h.i.+ng. Or, as I thought when Lane stroked my face with electric brushes attached to hoses that ran to the machine, it was sort of like getting a shoe polish for the face, minus the shoes and the polish.

When she was done, Lane gave me a disapproving, suspicious look and ordered me to close my eyes. Having learned my lesson from my Mignon makeover with Dusty, I closed my eyes without argument. Lane placed a wet cloth over my closed lids, levered the chair back, and turned on a rumbly machine that she told me was for steam.

”I'm taking your clothes to the dryer, and I'll be back in twenty minutes,” she said. Her white nurse's shoes squeaked toward the door. ”Relax.”

Left to steam, my thoughts, and Bolero, I tried to unwind. I tried to think about what it was Maurice Ravel was setting to music. Unfortunately, all I could hear was the crash and thud of a vehicle hitting Claire, the shatter and crack as Nick Gentileschi fell out of the department store's blind.

When Lane returned, she whipped the cloth off my eyes, turned off the steam, and retrieved what looked like a small magnifying gla.s.s from her pocket. I recoiled. My face had never been examined at close range.

”I'm going to turn off the light,” she declared bluntly, ”and a.s.sess the amount of damage you've done over the years to your skin.”

By the time I'd managed to stammer, ”Do I have to?” the overhead light was off, a purplish light had winked on, and Lane's magnified eye was accompanied by tsk-tsk noises a la Sherlock Holmes. She flipped the lights back on, donned plastic gloves, and picked up a needle.

”Wait, wait.” I sat up quickly. ”I thought women came in to have facials because it was fun and relaxing. Sort of like having a ma.s.sage.”

”You're going to look so much better,” she a.s.sured me. ”We need to get rid of those blemishes.” She brandished the needle.

”Please, no,” I said feebly. ”I have a real problem with ... needles.”

Lane's countenance was that of a nurse with an unpleasant but utterly necessary medication.

She said, ”The receptionist reported you claimed you were terribly upset about your skin. Now you say you're unsure about buying products, and you don't want to have a facial. Are you certain you came in here really wanting to improve your appearance? Or is there some other reason you're here?”

Paranoia reared its unattractive head again, and I succ.u.mbed. ”It's why I'm here,” I said meekly, and slumped back in the chair.

Lane poked and I shrieked. Again I got the displeased-nurse routine. Blemishes, she said as she poked again. I felt blood drip down my forehead. Lane dabbed at it. She put down the needle and, with two plastic-gloved fingers, squeezed the skin on my nose with all her might. I screamed again. At least with a dentist you got anesthetic.

Lane sighed reprovingly and brought the gloved hands to her abdomen. ”Are you going to let me finish my work or not?”

”Not,” I said decisively, rubbing my poor, bent nose. The area above my nostrils felt as if it were on fire. My will-my entire desire in life-was now focused on getting out of Hotchkiss Skin & Hair.

”Do you just want your masque now?”