Killer Pancake

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 competition 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 shiver 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 space. 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 shivery 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 assessed 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 mass 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 massaged 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.”