Killer Pancake

kind of guy, who spent a lot of money. You mentioned him, he was here before—a thin, tall blond man? Anyway, never mind that it was his wife’s money, this guy spent it like crazy, buying stuff for his wife, I guess, but always only from Claire. He wouldn’t even buy a tube of lipstick from one of the rest of us. He’d hang around here like a loyal dog, waiting until her shift. And you know how Claire was. She’d flirt and bat her eyes and just have the best old time. Or maybe you never saw her do that…. Hold still, I’m going to use this cleanser on you.”

I sat motionless while Dusty used two cotton balls to spread luscious-smelling cream over my cheeks. It felt divine. If my stomach hadn’t been growling, I would have been certain I was in heaven.

“Anyway,” she went on, “Claire would just make this guy feel like a million dollars. ‘You’re not really goin’ to buy that too! Y’goin’ t’be broke!’” Dusty’s imitation of Claire’s Australian accent was dead-on. “So. Pretty soon the wife, who spends a lot of money here herself, comes in with her husband to see why her husband’s developed such an enthusiastic interest in cosmetics all of a sudden.”

“When was all this going on?” I asked, trying to keep still as Dusty smeared lime-scented toner over my face. I slid my glance sideways to see if Harriet was having any luck with Mrs. Got-Rocks in the black and white dress.

“Watch out!” Dusty cried sharply.

Startled, I fell off the stool where I was perched. “Huh? I was just looking to see how Harriet was doing.”

“I don’t want to get this stuff in your eye! You don’t know what could happen!”

Dusty had become so suddenly flustered that I sat back slowly on the stool and opened my eyes wide. “I’m fine. Look. I love the feel of this stuff you put on me—”

Dusty took a deep breath and began to write on my ticket, or whatever it was. When I asked her what she was doing, she informed me that this was my client card. She’d record everything she sold me so that next time she could just look it up when I came in and needed new blush or whatever.

“I have to tell you honestly, Dusty, I don’t think there’s much chance that I’ll be spending a lot of time or money here….”

“Okay, close your eyes and keep them closed. I’m going to do your moisturizer.” She didn’t seem to hear me.

I obeyed. “So what happened with this man and his wife and Claire?”

Dusty finished with the moisturizer and began to dab on something else. From the position of her fingers, I guessed it was concealer. I didn’t dare open my eyes though, for fear of another eruption.

“I think Claire and the man had an affair. He was, like, smitten. I mean, the guy seemed crazed. Obsessed. I do know they broke up later, because she told me. But he still came around—you know, hanging back where he figured we wouldn’t see him. He would skulk through Shoes, watching her. I mean, who could miss him? He’s so tall, and that blondish-white hair makes him look kind of young and real cute. Okay, now I’m doing your foundation.” More scented stuff was liberally spread over my face. Pat, pat, pat. “Never tug or pull on your face,” Dusty warned sternly. “That’s what causes premature loosening of the skin around the eyes.”

Noted. Keeping my eyes closed, I inquired, “So what happened to the skulking guy? Why was he here this morning?”

“Well, I don’t know about this morning, because he was just asking a bunch of disgusting questions, like what had happened to Claire’s body and stuff like that. Okay, I’m doing your eyes. Hold still.”

While Dusty worked on my eyelids, I was reminded of those X-ray technicians who tell you to hold still and not breathe. Then they go behind a foot-thick wall and zap you. What happens if you breathe? Do you go radioactive, or do you just screw up the X ray?

“All right,” said Dusty. “Now blush.”

It took me a second to realize that wasn’t a command. “Can I move? What happened to the guy?”

“Don’t talk or I won’t get this on straight. Well. As far as the affair goes, a while back the guy’s wife started coming in just to ask if her husband had been here. I mean, you talk about screwed up. You can look in the mirror now.”

I did as ordered. I looked different, that was for sure. No more smudges under my eyes from lack of sleep; lots of radiant cheek tone that made me look either acutely embarrassed or much more physically active than would be justified by a short daily regimen of yoga. Most prominent and startling were the black eyeliner and brown eyeshadow. I no longer looked like a caterer; I resembled an Egyptian queen. Make that a promiscuous Egyptian queen.

“Wow, Dusty,” I gushed. “You’re amazing! This guy who was watching Claire … What was his name, do you remember?”

Dusty batted her eyes at me and then held them open wide. I had the uncomfortable feeling that she was vamping me. But the eye movements were apparently some kind of universal signal of what she wanted me to do. She needed to apply my mascara. When I obeyed, she continued. “His name was Charles Braithwaite. Don’t you know the Braithwaites? Our bio class went over to his lab once on a field trip. Look up now, and hold still.”

“Yes, I know them,” I said carefully. “Babs Braithwaite invaded my life a few weeks ago, and it hasn’t been pleasant.” In fact, I thought with a shiver, Babs was making me feel distinctly uneasy, the way she kept interjecting her presence into Julian’s and my life.

Dusty said, “The Braithwaites are, like, mega-rich. I mean, they live in this huge place in the country club. But I guess Charles Braithwaite fell in love with Claire. Like the bumper sticker, you know? Scientists do it unexpectedly. Okay, look out, I’m going to do your lipstick.” She giggled. “Nectarine Climax. How do you like having that on your lips?”

“Sounds … intriguing. You went on a field trip to Braithwaite’s lab? What did he do in the lab?” My head was spinning.

Dusty dotted my lips with a Q-Tip loaded with what resembled cooked pumpkin. She spread it all around, then ordered me to blot. Only when she’d put the cap back on Nectarine Climax did she answer, “Oh, you know, he has that big greenhouse. Haven’t you seen it? I never wrote up my report on the trip because I … left the school. But anyway. Last I heard, Charles was working on roses or something.”

I looked in the mirror. Nefertiti blinked back. My eyes, dark-lined and shadowed the color of burnt toast, had a hard time concealing astonishment. Roses or something. Experimenting. The way you experiment to produce a blue rose, like the one I’d found on the garage floor near where Claire was hit? I furrowed my newly powdered brow, squinted at the smorgasbord of brightly packaged products lined up on the shiny counter, and asked Dusty to sell me some hand cream for my friend in the hospital. While I dug through my wallet looking for the emergency hundred-dollar bill, she picked out a jar for eighty bucks. Twenty dollars wasn’t going to get me too far in an emergency.

“Please, Dusty,” I begged, “don’t you have something less expensive?”

She shrugged, as if I were about to make the biggest mistake of my life. “The smallest jar is sixty.”

“I’ll take it.” While she rummaged below the counter for the sixty-dollar size, I asked nonchalantly, “What about a guy named Shaman Krill? Did Claire go out with anybody by that name, before or after her fling with Charles B.?”

Dusty plunked a shiny box down on the counter. “Shaman Krill? Never heard of him. What does he look like?”

I handed her the hundred-dollar bill. “He’s an animal rights’ activist with a dark ponytail, gold earring, short stature, and big attitude. Sound familiar?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Are you kidding? He sounds disgusting. I never saw anybody like that. And Claire would never have gone out with some weirdo.” She pressed buttons on the cash-register terminal to ring up my purchase, lifted the jar and the receipt—for the cameras, I guessed—and gave me the bag.