Killer Pancake

“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.?”