by Maggie Pill
“My—” I realized she meant the pin-on name-tag conference attendees were given. “I’m not part of the retreat.”
“I see.” Her expression said she’d already known that. “May I help with something then? This is a private event, and we booked the entire inn for the weekend.”
There was no way I’d claim to be an admirer of Love-Able Ladies. “I just stopped to look the inn over, to see if I might want to stay here some time.”
“I see. It’s just that we got a report of a vandal defacing our signage.” Her direct gaze made it clear to me that the perfume girl had been paying attention after all.
“That’s too bad.” I didn’t specify if the tragedy was vandalism or the witnessing of same. What was she going to do—have me arrested for printing?
She raised a brow. “Apparently the writer fancies herself a feminist.”
“By feminist you mean women who believe the radical notion that they’re as good as men?”
“We all have strengths,” she said primly, “but ladies don’t try to be men.”
“They accept secondary status and less pay for the same work?”
She pursed her lips before answering, as if willing herself to be patient. “It isn’t a question of being primary or secondary. Men and women have different jobs to do.”
Even with my sister missing, I wasn’t inclined to let this ruffled, permed “lady” lecture me. “Then you’d agree with Timothy Leary that women who seek to be equal with men lack ambition?”
She completely missed the sarcasm. “Ambition is the problem. Why should women attempt masculine roles when we’re so perfectly suited to being mothers and wives?”
“I don’t know,” I said with an exaggerated shrug. “Self-fulfillment, maybe?”
She tried to appear patient, but her tense jaw belied that. “By holding some job that stresses her until she’s no fun to be around?” She waved a hand, conjuring an image. “A woman who seeks fulfillment might create a home business that provides an outlet for her creativity while still allowing her to be there for her children when they need her.”
“But if we only do home business, side business, small businesses, men consider us less intelligent and therefore less important.” I kept my voice low, but it took effort. “Do you realize women could once be put in asylums for questioning their husbands’ authority? Do you know in our parents’ generation a man could divorce a woman if she didn’t have sex with him as often as he wanted it?”
The woman—her badge said Angel—seemed at a loss for words, so I went on. “I’m not willing to go back to the days when men assumed that because we’re physically smaller, we’re weaker in all ways.” I shouldn’t have gone on, but I did. “And I have a hard time tolerating women who do.”
Her chin lifted. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t be here.”
“I have every right—”
“You have the right,” she interrupted, “but is it fair of you to inflict your views on us? You aren’t a member of our group. You didn’t pay the fee that everyone else did.” She touched the badge on her blouse. “We don’t follow you around and harass you, so why do you think it’s permissible for you to harass us?”
She had a point. I was invading space they’d reserved for their event. In addition to that, our argument was counterproductive to my purpose. I took a deep breath. “All right. I’m going.”
I walked away angry with myself for calling attention to my presence. Now they’d be on the lookout for the “vandal” in their midst, so I’d have to avoid the retreat organizers and search for Retta. How much help would I be if I got ejected from the St. Millicent premises?
As I stepped into the bright sunlight and blazing heat outside the inn, my phone rang. Lars. Thoughts of gender inequity dissipated like smoke, and I leaned my rear against a decorative wine cask set near the doors. “Hey, Barb,” he said when I answered. “What’s up?”
“I’m in Traverse City, and we’ve got trouble.” I told him briefly what had happened. The death of Agent Auburn was a shock, and the news Retta was missing brought a moan of anguish.
“I warned Chet,” he said when I finished. “He was a little off the reservation on this one.”
“You mean he was operating illegally?”
“No. Chet isn’t—he wasn’t that type. But I don’t think his superiors were fully in the loop.” Lars paused, and I pictured him running a hand through his light, slightly thinning hair. “I guess everybody in the Detroit office wants to see Engel arrested. Chet wanted to be the one who nailed him.”
“How much was he doing on his own?”
“I’m pretty sure his supervisor knew he hoped to get Dina Engel’s help. I don’t think Chet told him he’d recruited your agency to approach her.”
“Which means he was the only one protecting my sisters.”
“In his defense,” Lars said, “it shouldn’t have been a dangerous situation.”
“But now he’s dead.”
“Yeah.” I heard the brush of fabric as he shifted in his chair. “Have you called the cops?”
“I intend to, but I’d like to find Retta first and get her out of the line of fire. We don’t know who these people are, what they’re after, or even how many of them there are. Faye could be in danger too.”
“I can get you some help, but they’ll need time to get there.” He paused. “Barb, you don’t believe they’ll let Faye and Retta go when whatever they’re planning is over, do you?”
“No. They’re witnesses in the murder of a government agent.”
He seemed relieved to hear I had no illusions about honor among murderers. “If this fashion show is when things are going to happen, we have less than twenty-four hours.” He paused. “It’s probably safer for Faye if you get her out of there.”
I shook my head, though he couldn’t see it. “She won’t leave if it means putting Retta in danger. She’ll keep doing what they tell her to until we figure something out.”
“I understand that, but—”
“She’s safe at least until four this afternoon. After that we’ll re-evaluate.”
“You’re going to look for Retta, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to find Retta,” I corrected.
“Okay. I’ll get somebody up there ASAP.”
“Thanks.”
His voice got husky. “I wish I were there to help.”
“Me, too, Lars,” I said. “Me, too.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Retta
After what seemed like a year, I heard a key turn in a lock. A chain slid with a metallic rattle, and a rectangle of sunlight blinded me. Shielding my eyes, I saw Bill, who had bent to pick up the cardboard take-out container and bottle of water he’d set on the ground.
“I brought you lunch,” he said as he entered the shed, “but it’s kind of weird-looking. I just took what I could sneak out of the kitchen.”
Opening the container, I found a fish taco half-buried by a scoop of coleslaw. “That’s ahi tuna,” he said proudly, “with jicama slaw—whatever that is.”
“HEE-cama,” I corrected. “The j is pronounced like an h.”
“Oh. Well, that’s what your sister had for lunch.”
I guessed Faye hadn’t been particularly pleased. She’s a red meat-and-potatoes type of girl.
“What kind of wine?”
“Huh?”
“What wine did they serve with the ahi?”
“Um, the leftover stuff in the glasses was kinda pink.”
“Rosé.” I looked at him hopefully, but he hadn’t brought any along. I took a big drink of water and then tried the slaw, which was lovely. “What time is it?”
Bill checked his watch. “Almost two.”
I’d have sworn it was half-past six. “What have you been doing?”
“Helping the mic and lights guy set up for the fashion show tomorrow. Nice guy, but a little—you know.” He dangled a hand, but when I didn’t smile, he coughed and stuck it in his pocket.
“It was nice of you to bring me this,” I said, “even if the taco’s a little soggy.” He looked deflated, so I took a bite to show my appreciation.
He noticed the state of my clothes and hands. “You’re all dirty.”
“This isn’t exactly the Holiday Inn.” After another bite I asked, “Do you think you could bring me some stuff from my hotel room?”
“Stuff?”
“My hairbrush and a wet cloth for my face and hands.”
“How am I supposed to get that without somebody noticing?”
I’d thought about that. “Faye brought along a plain black tote bag for her books, and it’s got straps, like a backpack. Empty that and put my stuff in it.” When he looked doubtful, I held out my hands. “I can’t stand being so dirty. You’re the only one who can help me.”
He opened his mouth a few times then gave up. “I can try, I guess.”
I flashed him a big smile. “You’re the best.”
When he was gone I tested the doors, but he’d fastened the chain as tightly as before.
Maybe next time he’d be less careful.
Chapter Twenty-four
Faye
I stood in the right back corner of the room—which tomorrow would be enclosed with movable panels—ready to assess what needed to be done. After some preliminary demonstrations of turns and poses, Cecily went through the whole course, starting from the back of the room and moving to the front, striding confidently across the dais, and stepping gracefully down the other side without once glancing at her feet. The others watched critically, but Dina expressed satisfaction. “That’s exactly how it should look. Let’s see the rest of you do it.”
While they lined up, Cecily hurried back to where I waited. “Dina said I should put on my first outfit. Once they practice the walk and the poses, we’ll try it again, wearing the clothes.”
I selected a hanger. “Here’s one Dina thought would fit you.”
Cecily began undressing with no apparent concern, though Honny knelt only a few feet away, putting tape down to mark where the panels would go. I turned away, watching as Plenny entered from the left, went up the steps to the platform, and started across. “Stop there,” Dina ordered. “Turn. Slower, please. Okay, that’s not too bad.”
I’d been thinking it was really bad. Plenny moved like a tween in her first bra, all strut and no subtlety. Still, it was a start.
“Next!” Dina’s voice got stronger as she immersed herself in the project. “No,” she ordered Li. “Don’t smile. Look over the heads of the audience as if they aren’t there.” Li giggled nervously, putting a hand over her mouth and squinting her eyes.
Bibi came next, doing a pretty good job with her model stare but the walk—not so much. “Don’t swing your hips,” Dina ordered. “Keep everything straight and in line.”
“You mean like I got a stick up my—”
“Straight!” Dina interrupted. “You aren’t working to get a twenty stuffed in your G-string.”
Dail leaned toward her sister and said something that made Gail guffaw, but the steel in Dina’s voice pleased me. She was more confident than I’d first thought, at least when it mattered to her. In an industry as competitive as fashion, that was good.
Cecily stepped into the dress I’d handed her as she watched the action. “It’s kind of fun to be back,” she said wistfully. “Wish I hadn’t screwed up so bad.”
“If I’ve learned anything from living,” I told her, “it’s that looking backward doesn’t get you where you want to be.”
“Yes, but—”
“You made some mistakes,” I interrupted. “Focus on what you’ll do now, not what you did then.”
“You’re right.” She turned her back so I could zip her into the semi-fitted, cream-colored dress. Not only had Dina made a good guess as to the fit, it was perfect with her dark hair and coffee-colored skin. Taking the bag of accessories from the hanger, I helped with the necklace while she threaded incredibly long earrings through her lobes.
“Where did the jewelry come from?”
“Great, isn’t it? I heard Dina say she has an old friend from college who designs costume jewelry. She plans to use her stuff all the time.”
“What about shoes?” I asked. “Where are the shoes that go with the outfits?” Frowning, I added, “I never thought how much goes into putting on a show like this.”
Cecily chuckled. “You mean when it’s done right, or the way we’re doing it?” She pointed to a large plastic tub. “What we’ve got for shoes is in there.”
I opened the tub to find a jumble of footwear, each pair connected with plastic thread. They were new, but they definitely didn’t look like accessories for haute couture to me.
“Here are the rest.” Honny’s voice came from behind me, and I turned to find him opening a second tub of shoes. He seemed embarrassed but explained, “Mr. Engel cancelled Dina’s shoe order and suggested we stop and buy shoes at Shoes-a-Rama on the way north. He said nobody will be looking at their feet.”
I was disliking Roger Engel more and more. “Cheap shoes, amateur models, no one to help load and unload. Is that how he contributes to his daughter’s success?”
Honny touched the shaved area above his ear. “You’d have to know Mr. Engel to get it.”
Sorting through the tub, Cecily tossed rejected shoes onto the lid to get them out of her way. “We each got to pick two pairs of dress shoes and one pair of boots.” She held up a cheap shoe, adding, “Woohoo!”
“I figure the girls can mix and match for tomorrow and keep the shoes afterwards.” Though Honny seemed proud of his bargains, even a novice like me knew this was no way to run a fashion show.
When she was dressed, Cecily hurried to the front. As I expected, there was a spirited discussion of the shoes she wore. It was probably a good thing Honny had left the room, or he would have got an earful. Dina shot me a despairing look, but I gave her a thumbs up. Cecily looked good, and I changed the thumb to a “one,” indicating my opinion she should be the first model. Dina nodded agreement.
Cecily demonstrated the walk again, highlighting the costume’s attributes as they were described. I didn’t get to see all of it, since Dina had shooed Dail in my direction. I turned to the rack, hoping the outfit we’d chosen would soften some of her hard edges. Her ink showed through the thin fabric of her blouse, but Dina had said the problem would be addressed. So many problems. So little time.
Halfway through the first round of fittings I had developed a fairly smooth system. I handed each woman an outfit generally suited to her size and coloring. Once she put it on, I made an assessment. If there was a major problem with the fit, I made notes for Dina. If only a tuck or two was required, I made the alterations myself, using safety pins or a few stitches. At one point I borrowed Honny’s duct tape to close slits I’d made in the side seams of a top. The stuff was as useful for quick clothing repairs as it is everywhere else in life.
Only once did Dina disagree with my choice, and the model involved was Plenny. Since there was almost a twenty-inch difference between her bust size and her waist, I had to switch tops with another outfit. It worked, but Dina’s sharp eye caught the substitution.
Leaving Cecily in charge, she hurried back to me. “I’m not fond of the black shirt with the brown pants.”
When I explained the problem, she nodded. “Let me see what I brought for extras.” Sifting through the rack, she located a long, swingy black jacket. “Put her in the emerald blouse that goes with the pants, then cut it up the back. Do whatever it takes to make it look okay, then put this over it to hide the damage.”
I did as she suggested, though it made me cringe to slice into the beautiful, expensive fabric. Plenny put the blouse on, and I stripped duct tape across the back to shape it to her unbalanced figure. The jacket covered the tape and added a touch of finish to the outfit—not that I thought myself a competent judge of such things. From her place at the front, Dina signaled that the look was good
. When Plenny returned and took the blouse off, I lined the tape on the outside with more strips on the inside so it wouldn’t stick to her skin during the show.
As the afternoon wore on, I did pretty well adjusting Dina’s creations to the irregular forms of the models. They were a likeable bunch except for Dail and Gail, but nobody seemed to pay their sarcastic comments much mind. The Asian girls were tittery, at least two of them were. I guessed that was more from nerves than anything else. They’d been tossed into something they didn’t understand, and their poor command of English made it even more difficult. They did okay, watching the others and doing as they did.
As I pinned and sewed, I worried about what was going on outside the world of Dina’s preparations. Barb and Retta were probably talking to the police right now. They’d arrest Bill and Ted, ending whatever they had planned for tomorrow. When the rehearsal was over, I might be free to leave St. Millicent’s and go home.
Once the women were dressed in their first outfits, Dina called for a timing. She served as moderator, reading her prepared comments from index cards. She had to make a few changes to account for the alterations, but all in all, Round One went well. Honny kept track with a stopwatch, and the models listened to Dina in order to match their movements to the descriptions. I caught only quick glances, since I’d already started fitting Cecily for her second outfit.
The Paisley tunic top was too big for her slim figure, so I pinned it along the seamlines. “Don’t make any sudden moves until Dina has a chance to sew those in,” I told her as she put on the matching cranberry leggings. “You’ll suffer the death of a thousand pokes.”
“It’s often like that,” she replied. “There were times when the outfits we wore were just basted together. You say a little prayer your skirt doesn’t fall off halfway down the runway.”