A Blush With Death

by India Ink

  What to do, though? I had to make copies of at least a few of the pages—ones that would prove, at least to Auntie and possibly Kyle, that Bebe had been skulking around. Maybe we could ask Andy if there was any way to prove that they’d hacked our computer, now that we knew in which direction to look.

  I debated taking the entire file, but that would be both dangerous and stupid. The nearest copy machine was in the lounge, and I didn’t want to chance being caught—too many people were due to show up for work over the next hour or so. Finally, I chose a few pages with the most incriminating evidence, then cautiously replaced the file just as I’d found it. As I started to slide the papers in my purse, I lost my hold on the hobo bag, and it fell to the floor. Dropping to my knees, I shone my flashlight around to make sure that nothing had scattered that Leila might later find.

  Nope, nothing. As I scrambled to my feet, I glanced at the desk. From my vantage point, I could see a set of keys peeking out from behind a fluted vase. I took a closer look. The key chain said Maintenance. What was Leila doing with a janitor’s key? And then I knew. This was quite possibly a set of master keys, and my bet was that every bigwig at Bebe’s had a set. There was only one way to find out for certain. I palmed the keys, then quickly slipped out of the room, making sure everything was as it had been when I entered.

  An hour later, over an egg and sausage muffin at McDonald’s, I thumbed through the photocopies, then dropped them off at my apartment before returning to work. Upon my arrival, I was pleasantly surprised to find that Leila was out of the office until the afternoon. I briefly thought about returning to photocopy the entire contents of the file, but there were too many people running around the halls, making the chance of discovery too great.

  The second surprise wasn’t nearly as welcome. Apparently Bebe had left word with Debra that they were to conduct a memorial for Sharon in the early afternoon. Attendance was required, even though Bebe couldn’t make it. Janette and I walked ahead of Amy and Rhonda, who were engaged in a conversation about a movie.

  “You okay?” I asked Janette.

  She shook her head. “I’ll let you know by the end of the day. I’m just worried about something.”

  When I tentatively tried to draw her out, she clammed up and switched the conversation to something less personal.

  As we took our seats in the meeting hall, Debra slipped up next to me, but there was no place for her to sit down. She glowered. “I thought you were bringing in your paperwork today? Bebe will have my hide if I don’t have it by the time she gets back.”

  I shook my head. “Oh hell. I’m sorry, I left it on the table at home. I had it all ready to go and walked out the door without it. Tell you what, I’ll run home right after work and bring it back. Are you going to be here around six?”

  She sighed. “No, I’m leaving early to catch the ferry to Seattle. Just leave it on my desk, and I’ll come in a few minutes early and take care of it. But please don’t forget again, or you’ll get us both in trouble.”

  I reassured her that I would have it in bright and early on her desk, and she wandered off to find a seat near the front near the main entrance. I assumed that she’d either been one of Sharon’s friends, or she was looking to make a hasty exit when this thing was over. Janette and I glanced around the rapidly filling room. All the Belles were in full bloom—with their yellow jackets and tight cream-colored skirts, and they all wore lilies pinned to their breast. I’d never seen so much big hair in my life. The B-52’s had nothing on these women.

  The meeting hall itself was shabby and smelled like a brothel, the combination of stale smoke and cheap perfume overwhelming. One hundred seats filled the back third of the room, rising on a gradual incline. Down front, a podium stood on a small stage, illuminated by a single light. A movie screen had been lowered behind the lectern, and I had the feeling we weren’t getting through this without the requisite PowerPoint presentation. Though when I thought about it, I wouldn’t put it past them to drag out an overhead projector.

  The auditorium could hold a hundred people, but only about sixty chairs were taken, the majority of those by Belles. As I gazed around, I realized that the staff who actually produced the products was extremely limited. Either that or there was a lot of summer colds going around. The sea of yellow jackets told me that the sales department provided the motivating factor in this company—sales, hype, and forced enthusiasm.

  The woman taking the podium looked like a queen bee herself. Her entire outfit was lemon yellow, and her hair fell in coppery waves, tumbling over her shoulders. I sighed, glanced at the clock, then over at Janette. She was sitting upright, her face a blank mask.

  “Hello, hello, is this on?” The woman at the podium cleared her throat, tapped on the microphone, and then held up her hand for silence. We quieted down, though I noticed a few people shifted in their seats.

  “As most of you know, I’m Rita Sanders, in charge of human resources and PR. I have a painful announcement to make,” she said. “Sharon Wellstone, one of our brightest Belles, succumbed to her gunshot wounds yesterday, and died at around four o’clock. Her death has officially been labeled a homicide.”

  A buzz filled the room. Apparently some of Bebe’s employees hadn’t watched the news. I glanced around, looking for any reactions that seemed out of place, but it was hard to tell how many people felt from where I was sitting.

  “Bebe called and asked that we gather to honor Sharon’s memory, and that’s what we’re going to do.” An image flashed on the screen in back of her, and Sharon stared down at us, magnified to a grainy resolution, every flaw on her skin glaringly obvious. Her eyes were dark and cunning. I wondered just what had driven her into the Belles.

  The crowd shuffled in their seats, and I caught the scent of unease running through the auditorium. After a pause, Rita said, “The authorities don’t know who killed Sharon, but we’re confident they’ll find out. And now, Ms. Leila Doyle, head of research and development, will offer a few words in her memory.”

  Leila appeared from the side of the stage. She looked haggard, the lines on her face deeper than they’d seemed the day before, and her suit was wrinkled. I even saw what looked like a little stain on the front of her blouse. I had the feeling this was the most unkempt she’d been in her life and was suddenly curious as to what could cause such a quick transformation.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said, the jagged edge of grief cutting through her voice, and it dawned on me that she was struggling not to cry. Had she really liked Sharon so much? Had they been good friends instead of just coworkers?

  “I’ve known Sharon since she was born,” Leila began, her voice raspy. “Her mother was my best friend, and I was Sharon’s godmother.”

  Godmother? So that was the connection between them. I stared at my hands, feeling sorry for both Sharon and Leila. I didn’t like either woman, but Sharon didn’t deserve to have her life snuffed out, and Leila was obviously in pain from her loss.

  “Sharon was a good wife, and though she and her husband never had the children they’d hoped for, she thought they had a good marriage. John’s decision last year to separate from Sharon hit her hard. I wanted to help pull her out of her depression, and so I found her a position here, as a Belle, one of the best remedies for low self-esteem I can think of.”

  While Leila paused to clear her throat and dab at her eyes with her handkerchief, I thought about what she’d said. I hadn’t known that Sharon and her husband were splitting; that could easily account for the change in behavior and her fierce devotion to Bebe’s Belles. If her ego had been hit by the divorce, then she’d naturally be loyal to those who helped her shore it back up, who gave her a haven when she needed reassurance. Neither did it escape me that Leila’s words were a subtle jab at John and would no doubt influence the way some of the Belles and their families behaved toward him. Leila was sneaking one in below the belt, whether she realized it or not.

  “Sharon was quickly working her way up to becoming
one of our top Belles, and what most of you don’t know is that she was about to start on a new endeavor in our research department. She proved herself adept at discovering new products, and we all had such high hopes for her. And even though she was struck down in her prime, she’ll never be forgotten. To keep her memory alive, we are naming our newest product in her honor.”

  People were starting to shuffle, and I got the impression not everybody cared as much about Sharon’s death as did Leila. She stared into the audience with that glacial stare of hers, and the room quieted down.

  “Sharon was working with our skin care research and development team. They had just finished developing a new product when Sharon was attacked. Unfortunately, she didn’t live to see it unveiled. And so it is with both sadness and pride that I announce our newest product to hit the markets—Sharonique, the first in our antiaging line!”

  Sharon’s face disappeared from the screen as the image of a gigantic tube of cream sporting a nimbus of pink burned itself into our gaze. The name was, indeed, Sharonique, though it looked like the text had been added after the picture was taken. No doubt Sharonique wasn’t their initial choice of names, but circumstances demanded homage, and homage there would be. It also occurred to me that this was the tackiest use of somebody’s death to promote sales that I’d seen in a long time. The Belles would outdo themselves trying to hawk the cream, and they’d do so in Sharon’s name.

  Beside me, Janette jerked. I whispered, “What’s wrong?” but she didn’t answer.

  Leila continued her pitch with more enthusiasm than I’d thought her capable of. “Sharonique is our newest defense against wrinkles and age-related lines. We think this will be a winner, so we want you Belles to push it. The product will be available for shipment within two weeks. We’re asking every Belle to begin using the product so you can claim ‘scout’s honor’ when your customers ask you if you like it.”

  Throughout her little monologue, her demeanor had shifted from tragic loss to rah-rah team. My sympathy for her dried up. So much for grief. I glanced at Janette. Her face was a blank slate, and she let out a loud sigh but refused to meet my gaze. After a few more comments along the vein of “Sell, sell, sell,” Leila released us to go back to work.

  As we filed out of the auditorium, I tried to catch up with Janette, but she hurried ahead of me, and by the time I got to the laboratory, she was on the phone, talking in hushed whispers.

  Amy and Rhonda were both subdued. Amy shrugged when I asked if she was okay. “I didn’t know Sharon,” she said, “but it’s always a bummer when somebody gets killed.” She took off for the storeroom.

  Rhonda was more direct and to the point. “It’s going to be glum city around here for awhile. Sharon didn’t have a lot of friends among the Belles—she wasn’t good at team-work. With her, it was always about looking out for number one, but Leila loved her, of course. And everybody’s going to have to pretend they did, too, so we don’t rock the boat.”

  “Leila wasn’t acting then?” I asked.

  “Nope, the two were like this.” Rhonda held up two fingers, crossed. “Leila’s going to be a real bitch for awhile, so watch your step.”

  I nodded, letting my mind wander to my journal. Where should I start looking for it? Tonight, a few hours after closing, I planned on using those keys I’d palmed to sneak back into the building. Chances are, her grief so overt, Leila wouldn’t even notice they were gone.

  My first order of business—even before I left for the day—should be to find Sharon’s office so I wouldn’t waste valuable time in a wild-goose chase.

  Janette finished up with her phone call and stomped back over to her desk. As I watched, half paying attention, she began piling her things in a box. Curious, I was about to ask what she was doing, when Leila entered the room, a vague look of distaste on her face.

  “Janette, you wanted to talk to me?” Her voice echoed in the room as she stood there, arms folded across her chest. The silence that followed her statement was deafening.

  Janette stared at her, eyes cold. “Yeah, you two-bit, conniving bitch. I quit. You make me sick, you and Bebe. You’re nothing but a bunch of thieves and liars, and you’d better watch your back, because one of these days, you’re going to get what’s coming to you.” She stripped off her lab coat and tossed it on the floor at Leila’s feet.

  “Ms. Jensen, you will remove yourself from the premises immediately. I don’t know what this is all about, but I’ll get to the bottom of it.” Leila took a step forward, and we all pulled back. All except Janette, who grabbed her bag and stormed out the door.

  Jensen…where had I heard that name before? And then, the pieces clicked. Of course! Janette Jensen, who lived near her aunt Patricia. Patricia Jensen. Janette’s aunt was Trish Jensen from Donna Prima, and the antiaging cream must have been the product that Sharon had swiped. Killian and his crew had been working like crazy to recreate and market it again before Bebe pushed through production, but he’d failed. Janette must have been doing the same thing I was—infiltrating the enemy.

  Staring after her, Leila said, “Don’t just stand there like a group of cows chewing their cud. Get back to work, and I don’t want to be bothered. If you have a problem, figure it out yourself.” She marched out of the room.

  I inhaled and let it out slowly, trying to keep my face impassive. I wasn’t about to complicate matters by saying anything. Apparently, both Rhonda and Amy were of the same mind-set, and we worked through the afternoon without so much as a “How are you doing?”

  After work, I was so antsy that I called Barb and asked if she wanted to meet me at the BookWich for a quick bite. Dorian was going bowling with his buddies, so she said she’d meet me there in twenty minutes.

  I hurried back to the apartment—which I was coming to hate—and slipped into black jeans and a black tank top. I tossed my tote bag, containing my wallet, a flashlight, a camera and film, my cell phone, and a pair of gloves, into the backseat of my Sebring and headed downtown.

  A twinge of loneliness ran through me as I pulled up behind the BookWich. The back entry to Venus Envy was only a few doors over, and a wave of homesickness hit me, even though I’d only been gone a couple of days. And even more than the shop, I missed being home. Moss Rose Cottage was my haven now, and Auntie, my family, and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  Barb was holding a booth for us when I entered the café. The smells of pot roast and gravy and chicken soup filled the air, and even in the quiet heat of the early evening, I found myself craving a good, hot meal. I slid in opposite to her and eagerly sipped at my iced tea, which she’d already ordered.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Hey, nice outfit. I love it!”

  Barb grinned. Her mangled cut was covered with a flowered Hermes scarf, which looked very much like a cloche. She had paired it with a pair of sky-blue hiphugging jeans and a white eyelet button blouse and, altogether, looked like a regular fashionista.

  “So, how goes life on the dark side?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Makes me miss the daily grind at Venus Envy more than you can imagine. It’s scary over there. I feel like I’ve stumbled into my own private twilight zone, only Rod Serling isn’t anywhere around to narrate my way out of it. The place is surreal. Especially when the Belles are wandering around in their bright yellow jackets like a group of Stepford wasps.”

  Tilda made her way to our table. “Ready to order, girls?”

  I looked at Barb, who nodded. “Yes, thanks,” I said. “I’ll have a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a double order of cheese bread.”

  Barb grinned. “I see the stress hasn’t affected your appetite.” She glanced over the menu one last time. “Why don’t you bring me a fishwich with coleslaw, and a side of mozzarella sticks?” Tilda nodded, then moved off.

  “So, did you hear Sharon died?”

  Barb leaned back against her seat. “Yeah. I did. Bad news there. Do you know if Kyle is any closer to finding the murderer?”

 
; I shrugged. “Haven’t talked to him much. I’ve been so focused on trying to find out just how they’ve been under-cutting us. I did make two discoveries, however, that confirm my suspicions.” I told her about the files in Leila’s office, as well as my suspicions about Sharon and my journal.

  “Then it could still be hidden there somewhere?”

  “That’s my guess.” I dangled the keys in front of her. “And these babies are going to help me find out.” Leaning forward so no one could overhear, I whispered, “I think I’ve got the master key on here.”

  “Don’t they have a security system?”

  “You’d think they would, wouldn’t you? But nope…I had a look on my way out of the building. Nada. Of course, Venus Envy doesn’t either. I think if our shop grows any more, we’ll install one, but they’re expensive, and monitoring doesn’t come cheap.” I played with the straw on my iced tea.

  Barb flashed me a look that I knew only too well. “Can I come with you? I’m good at snooping!”

  “No,” I said, wondering how I was going to get out of this one. Barbara was hard to dissuade when she put her mind to something. “I can get away with it, but if you were caught in there, you could be charged with breaking and entering—you don’t have a reason to be there.”

  “Neither do you,” she argued.