A Blush With Death

by India Ink

The loudspeaker announced the opening ceremonies were about to begin. As the convention hostesses herded us toward Auditorium C—or as they were calling it now, the Gardenia Grove—I tapped Killian on the arm. “So, why are you telling me this? Why trust me?”

  “First,” he said, “it doesn’t matter if my feelings get back to her. Bebe already knows I think she’s scum, along with all of her little prima donnas.” Then, with a flicker of a smile, he added, “Second, I know you’re Florence Vanderbilt’s niece. She has a reputation for scrupulous honesty in the business, and she wouldn’t hire you on—relative or not—unless she trusted you implicitly. She’s an honorable competitor, and I have the highest regard for her.”

  Just then, an older woman scurried over and whispered something in his ear. “Shit,” he said. “Crisis time. I hope I’ll see you in the auditorium,” he hastily called back to me, racing away.

  As I watched him go, I realized that I wanted to see more of Mr. Killian Reed. Doubly glad that I’d shooed Sharon Wellstone out of the shop when I had, I decided that Auntie’s reputation reflected on me, and I wasn’t about to endanger that trust. I straightened my shoulders, linked arms with Barb, and strolled into the hall.

  The opening ceremonies were as bad as I thought they were going to be. Boring and drawn out, they were basically a gushing welcome to over three hundred attendees from all sides of the beauty aisle.

  We’d already spent an hour listening to introductions for the models and distributors when they finally got around to introducing the representatives for each company. They went in alphabetical order so, naturally, Venus Envy came last. I tried to keep focused, but it was difficult. My thoughts kept drifting away as I craned my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Killian. However, at the mention of two companies in particular, I snapped to attention.

  The first was Bebe Wilcox. She reminded me of Mrs. Simone, one of my English teachers, a bat from hell who had terrorized most of the students. Though I’d never intimidated easy, even I pussyfooted around her.

  Bebe was dressed in a Calvin Klein suit, and she could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek wheat-colored bun, and though I was fairly certain she’d undergone a round or two of Botox, she couldn’t get away from the prison-matron sturdiness that some women have from the moment they’re born.

  As she took the podium, I felt an instant revulsion. On the surface she seemed nice enough, but when I looked into her eyes as she gazed over the conference, I sensed a shark. Not a nice nurse shark who would most likely let a curious diver go about his business, but the dead eyes of a great white, trolling for her next meal. I fought the urge to slip out of the audience and head back to the shop.

  “Thank you for welcoming Bebe’s Cosmetics and Boutique to the convention, ladies. I just know we’re going to have a wonderful time. If you get a chance, drop over to our company headquarters for information on becoming a consultant or one of our Belles. And don’t forget to visit Bebe’s Boutique, over on Vicar’s Drive. Bebe’s Boutique is the only store in town that can fulfill every need you might have.”

  Next to me, Barb snorted, and I knew she was thinking about her haircut. As if on cue, she leaned close to me and whispered, “Do you know how hard it is to keep from jumping up and asking her what level of hell her stylist came from?”

  I glanced at her, grinning. If it had been me, I might not have managed to be quite so diplomatic. I’d probably be onstage, making a scene.

  Shortly after Bebe stepped down, Killian Reed took the podium. He looked a little haggard, and I had the feeling that he had yet to avert whatever crisis his friend had dragged him off to solve.

  “Thank you for welcoming Donna Prima Cosmetics into your lineup,” he said. “We represent a new face in the world of cosmetics, a more natural look. All our products are made with organic ingredients, and we don’t test on animals. Thank you for inviting us to the convention.” Killian was clearly distracted, and though I tried to catch his eye, he looked distant and preoccupied.

  Eventually, they worked their way through the entire alphabet, and it was my turn. I took the stage and looked over the audience. Most were women, though a few men stuck out in the bunch. Company employees tended to sit together; you could almost segregate them by dress and style. The group of Bebe’s Belles were easiest to spot—there must have been a half-dozen fur coats in the bunch, and a handful wearing bright yellow dresses or tight little skirt suits.

  “My name is Persia Vanderbilt, and I represent Venus Envy, a bath and beauty shop from right here in Gull Harbor. We’re local, and we offer various day spa services by appointment. I’m in charge of our line of Persian Rose Fragrances—custom blended to your every sensory need.” I’d recently applied for my own business license; Auntie had encouraged me to. “Thank you for inviting us to participate. I’ll be giving a speech tomorrow about the power fragrance plays in attracting a mate. You’re all welcome to come listen.” I cleared my throat. The hostess had asked me to include a little blurb about my upcoming speech.

  After another interminable round of speeches and notes, during which Barb and I surreptitiously played solitaire on her PDA, the meeting broke up, and we filed into the dining hall for lunch. I was pleasantly surprised to see that Barbara and I had been assigned to the same table where Killian and his retinue were eating. He brightened up as we approached, hurrying to pull out my chair for me.

  The older woman who’d waylaid him in the hall was named Trish Jensen, one of Donna Prima’s research assistants. Other members of his company who were there included Betsy Sue, a receptionist, and a thin, gawky man named Julius Skye.

  “My mother had a thing for Caesar,” he said with a grin as we shook hands. Julius and Trish were both wearing tailored green lab coats, and they were the primary members of research and development.

  “Looks like we got the short-end-of-the-stick table, ladies,” Killian said.

  I glanced around and immediately understood what he meant. We weren’t anywhere near the bigwigs’ tables; in fact, we were situated next to the door. Bebe’s Belles hadn’t fared much better; they were stationed nearby—near the kitchen—and nobody in the group looked happy about it.

  Trish raised her eyebrows. “I cannot believe they are wearing fur coats in this weather. They’re insane.”

  Killian chuckled, “Bebe would probably hang them from the rafters if they didn’t show up in full regalia. Her nickname’s Attila, if you didn’t know.” He scowled again. “You can’t trust her. She’s a vulture.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I mumbled, thinking about her campaign to shut down Venus Envy. “She’s spreading rumors about my aunt’s shop.” And quite possibly resorting to corporate espionage, I thought, if she was the one behind doctoring our roses with insecticide.

  Killian glanced at me, a concerned look on his face. I told him about Bebe’s Boutique’s attempts to drive us out of business, and Barbara tipped her head to show them her haircut. I was about to ask him what experience he’d had with Bebe when the waitress deposited our dinners at the table—chicken breasts with parmesan noodles and asparagus spears.

  As we started to eat, there was a ruckus from the door.

  “Oh God, time to watch the fur fly,” Killian said, rolling his eyes. “I may not like the Belles, but that woman is just as bad. Won’t she ever get over herself?”

  Somebody as bad as Bebe? I glanced over to see who he was talking about. A tall, young twenty-something in jeans and a flannel shirt, the woman’s hair was yanked back in a tight ponytail, and her face was devoid of both makeup and smile. She barged through the door, followed by several young men and women dressed in various stages of wannabe hippie garb. Next to me, Barb groaned.

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “Nancy Louis and her crew of environmental rough-necks,” Barb spoke up. When I shot a questioning look at her, she added, “The Animal Freedom Association? Remember, I told you about Patty Ann, my niece?”

  I rolled my eyes.
“Yeah, I remember.”

  “Nutnick extremists,” Trish said. “Don’t get me wrong, I support a variety of environmental causes, but these fruit-cakes are fanatics, and they go to extremes to make a point.” She shook her head as she patted the corner of her lips with her napkin.

  “Tell me about it,” Barb said. “We’ve been trying to coerce my niece to leave the group for months. She’s the brunette in the flannel shirt and cutoffs.” She sighed, obviously not happy about the fact. “Bullheaded little brat.”

  “What are they doing here?” I asked as they strode into the room, past our table, and directly over to the Belles, all of whom looked uneasily up at the group.

  Bebe rose. She was tall, at least as tall as me, and she towered over the group. “I thought I made myself clear at our last meeting, Ms. Louis. If you continue to harass my staff, I’ll take out a restraining order and file charges against you for stalking.”

  This was promising to get interesting. I looked around for security, but apparently the convention organizers had assigned them to watch over the display tables, and no one was minding the dining hall. A well-groomed woman I recognized as one of the event planners slipped out the door, no doubt to summon assistance.

  “You torture innocent animals in your research labs, and all in the name of vanity. And look at you—you’re wearing dead animals on your back! That’s sheer human ego! Do you know how many animals were slaughtered just to feed your vanity—”

  “Enough!” Bebe leaned down till her face was inches away from Nancy’s. Her voice echoed through the room. “I guarantee you, I’ll be filing for a restraining order this afternoon, and if you break that order, I’ll haul your ass into court so fast you won’t be able to spit, little girl.”

  As security made their way into the room, Nancy yelled out what sounded like a war cry. Acting in unison, she and her friends reached into their pockets and came out with what I thought were guns. Oh my God, were they going to massacre the Belles?

  Security moved in, but they weren’t fast enough. Within seconds, I heard a loud noise, and the Belles at the table screamed as a spray of red hit the air. Oh shit—blood?

  “Hit the deck!” I grabbed Barbara and dragged her under the table as the room erupted in chaos. Killian, Trish, Julius, and Betsy Sue dove for cover along with us, and we all huddled together, trying to fit under the tablecloth. Trish was praying quietly, and I saw her hand move to the crucifix hanging around her neck. Betsy Sue pressed up against Julius, and his arm automatically pulled her close.

  Something seemed off to me—no sound of bullets. Just as I was about to comment, a voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

  “Please return to your seats, ladies and gentlemen. Everything is under control. You aren’t in any danger. We repeat, you are not in any danger.”

  We slowly crawled out from under the table. As I stood up, I saw that security had taken control of the situation. Nancy, Patty Ann, and the rest of the group were sitting on the floor, cross-legged, looking sullen. Bebe’s Belles were in a state of disarray, covered with patches of brilliant crimson. A light went on in my head, and sure enough, I knew what had happened. Not blood, but spray paint. Red spray paint. What I’d thought were guns were actually spray cans.

  Barbara took in the situation and pushed past me, her face set in an angry mask. She stomped over to where security was holding the young people.

  “Patty Ann! What the hell do you think you’re doing here? Does your mother know you’re causing havoc?”

  Patty registered shock when she saw Barb leaning over her. “Aunt Barbara—I didn’t know you’d be here—”

  “You know this young woman, ma’am?” One of the security officers took out his pad and pencil. I moved up behind Barb and placed a hand on her shoulder for support.

  “I most certainly do,” Barb said over Patty’s protests. “Her name is Patty Linden. She’s my niece, although at this moment I’m ashamed to admit it.” She stared down at Patty, who remained seated. “I can’t believe you’d act this way. It’s one thing to follow your conscience, another to terrorize and destroy property—”

  “Your niece is a grown woman and can make up her own mind,” Nancy Louis broke in. Bad idea, I thought. Barb was a tough customer when she was riled, and right now, she was about as furious as I’d seen her in ages.

  Barbara whirled on Nancy. “Take your propaganda and shove it. You’re the worst of the lot. You use your influence to turn these kids into criminals. You’re only looking for publicity! You’re no better than any terrorist group, and I hope you end up in prison.”

  “Aunt Barbara! How can you talk to us that way?” Patty struggled to get to her feet, but the guard waved her down again.

  Barb set her hands on her hips. Her voice carried through the entire dining room. “You should be thankful I’m talking to you at all. I’m ashamed of you, and I’m going to call your parents. You have to learn to take responsibility for your actions.” She pushed past me, back into the vendor’s chamber, her mouth set in a grim line.

  I was about to go after her when Kyle, along with three officers, entered the room. He took in the situation in one glance and nodded to his men, who produced handcuffs and began reciting Miranda rights to the members of the Animal Freedom Association. So much for lunch, I thought, reaching to grab my dinner roll before we were all herded back out of the dining room.

  Somehow, we managed to survive the rest of the afternoon, though not much went on—people were too busy gossiping about the attack on the Belles to pay much attention to the booths. I tried to spot Killian, but he was busy somewhere, so Barb and I spent the rest of the afternoon handing out samples and making small talk. I could see she wasn’t in the mood to discuss her niece’s fiasco.

  Around five, people started to drift away. There weren’t any major events the first evening, so I felt no obligation to stick around. Barbara helped me pack up the samples, and we headed out.

  “Thanks for coming with me today,” I told her as we stowed the bags in my car. “It would have been unbearable without you. You and Dorian coming to the barbecue tonight?

  “We’ll be there around seven thirty. See you then.”

  As Barb drove away, I headed for the shop where I knew Auntie would be waiting for a full report. The downtown area had cleared out; at this time of day, the tourists were dining, and since most of the restaurants—the nice ones—weren’t directly in the town center, the traffic was relatively light.

  I pushed through the doors of Venus Envy, carrying the bags with me. Tawny looked up and waved me over to the counter. “Let me take those. You go talk to your aunt. She’s frantic.”

  “What happened? Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, she’s fine, but the store’s computer is not.”

  Uh-oh. That couldn’t be good. I headed back to the office, where I found Auntie, her brow knit with worry, hunched over the keyboard, cursing a blue streak under her breath.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know—Persia, I can’t get this to work. I don’t know what happened, but I can’t find most of the store’s records.” She scooted out from behind her desk and let me squeeze in.

  Neither one of us were very computer literate, though with my friend Jared’s help I was making the attempt. I brought up the My Computer screen, and clicked on My Documents, where most of our files were stored. It took forever, but finally the folder opened, and I stared at the blank screen, a growing sense of dread creeping up my spine. Where were all our documents? Our letters, our inventory lists, our spreadsheets?

  With a deep breath, I began poking through all the other files. It was as if something had plunged our computer into mud—it was running so slowly. And what little I knew to look for was nowhere to be seen. I remembered a little trick that Jared had shown me and clicked on the Start button, then on Search. “Auntie, do you remember the name of any of the documents we had in the folder?”

  She thought for a moment, then said, “Yes, actually.
I wrote a letter to Pete Stephens last night when I was answering e-mail. He wanted to know if we were interested in some fish for the freezer, and I sent him a letter in Word, saying yes. I called the file Pete1.doc, then copied and pasted it into the body of the e-mail.”

  I ran a search for Pete1.doc but came up with nothing. Nada. If it had ever existed, it was gone now. I opened the recycle bin, wondering if Auntie had somehow managed to delete the folder, but the bin was empty.

  I glanced up at her. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but Auntie, all our inventory sheets, our spreadsheets and files…they’re all gone.”

  “Gone?” she repeated. “Persia, what are we going to do?”

  I stared at the blank screen, wondering the same thing.

  Chapter Six

  I stared at the computer for a moment, then inspiration struck me. “Let me call Jared and see if he’s home.” Jared, one of my close friends, had worked for Microsoft once upon a time before returning to Gull Harbor, where he took a job with the community college, teaching computer science. He also ran a consulting business on the side. He kept after Auntie and me to let him check out our system and update it, but with the summer rush and the worries over Bebe’s Boutiques, we hadn’t had time.

  His life partner, Rod McKinley, a local artist, answered the phone. “Hey Rod,” I said. “Is Jared there?”

  He sighed. “No, he’s not back from Seattle yet, and he won’t be until Monday. What do you need?”

  “I don’t suppose you know anything about computers?” I asked, hoping he might say yes. My wishes were destined for disappointment, however.

  “Me? No, Jared’s the whiz. What’s wrong? Should I take a message?”

  I debated. Even if Jared was back on time Monday, there was no guarantee he’d be able to hurry down to the shop and check out our problem. “No, but do you know what computer store he goes to? We have a nasty glitch here and need to get it fixed.”

  “Hold on,” Rod said, and there was a muffled noise that sounded like flipping papers. “Yeah, he goes to a place over on Devonshire Point called In-A-Fix Computers. Their number is 555-8822.”