Killer Pancake

I negotiated a labyrinth of sparkling crystal and china displays, blaring audio equipment, whirring small appliances, and large, blank-faced mirrors. These were not like Tom’s quasi-antique mirrors with their charming, wavy glass. These were oversize, glaring department store looking-glasses, the kind the ad maven surely had in mind when he said, Make a woman insecure enough and you can sell her anything. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see myself in my denim skirt, white T-shirt, and sneakers; I just wanted to find the department store office.

Eventually, I was successful. The Prince & Grogan personnel, security, billing, credit, and customer service departments were grouped together in a section of the second floor that was still being renovated. After several misdirections I finally ended up sitting in a tiny office across from a straight-haired woman named Lisa, who claimed she handled accounts payable. Lisa shuffled through papers and files with no luck, however, and went off mumbling about finding someone from security.

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.”