“Lila!”
I turned from the mirror and stepped out. Instantly, I was snatched to the side by a woman wielding a comb and a can of hair spray. She plunked me in a chair by a lit mirror, raised a hand to start her magic, and squeaked, “What have you done to your hair? It’s matted against your head. I’d have to be a miracle worker to do something with this.”
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, I thought, daring a glance at her own closely shaven style that sported multicolored streaks. At least I had an excuse. My snowy walk to the agency from the police station had thoroughly soaked my hair, and then slapping on my helmet to get to the Arts Center had form-fitted my chestnut tresses flat to my skull. But all I said was, “It was snowing outside, and I was wearing a helmet.”
“A helmet? Cool.” Her eyes lit up. “Harley?”
“Vespa.”
“A what?” She scrunched her nose at me.
“Vespa. It’s a scooter.”
“Oh.” She quit talking then and started torturing me with the comb, pulling, backcombing, and pulling more, intermittently dousing me with hair spray. Then she started spinning me in the chair, examining me from every angle.
“How’s it going over there?” Vicky wanted to know.
“I need a little more time,” my torturer claimed. Then she said to me, “You need color. You look as pale as a ghost.” She turned to dig through a bag on the counter. She whipped back around with a tube of lipstick in hand. “Pucker.”
I did, and she swiped color on my lips. Then, tossing me a tissue, she ordered, “Blot.” She turned back to her bag again and started rooting for something else. “Darn! Thought I packed brown eyeliner. I’ve got every other color in my tool bag.” She sighed. “Guess black will have to do. Look up.”
Tool bag, I thought as she started penciling around my eyes. Funny she should call it that. But I guess for a cosmetologist, a makeup bag did hold the tools of her trade. Tools. I thought back to something Dr. Meyers had said earlier. “Smuggling in the nail gun was easy. I just carried it in my book bag.” But how’d she know Chuck would be here? More precisely, how’d she know the refrigerator would break down at that particular time? The good news was that Sean would probably get all those answers soon. He’d reached me on my cell earlier on my walk back to the Arts Center and told me that the state police had already apprehended Dr. Meyers on the freeway to Raleigh and they were transporting her to his department for questioning. He promised to shoot me a text later with an update . . . and to let me know if we were still on for dinner. Which I hoped we were. After a day, heck, a week, like this, I was craving some downtime and a chance to pick his brain about the case. There were still so many unanswered questions.
“Done!” the cosmetologist declared, turning me for a quick glance in the mirror. My face reflected back the shock I felt. I’d never worn this much makeup in my life and my hair poofed out like a poodle’s! But there was no time for adjustments. As if on cue, the first notes of the string orchestra filled the air, signaling the start of the show. Vicky began sending the first of the models out to the catwalk.
“There’s nothing to it,” she told me, once I found my place in line. Of course, it was just my luck to get paired with a tall, lithe bride, in an ever so slinky mermaid-styled shimmery satin wedding gown. Together we looked like a mismatched pair of bookends. “Listen for your cue and when it’s your turn, walk to the end of the catwalk and step to the left side. That’s your left side. Your bride will be right behind you, with a groom meeting her halfway. When they reach the end of the catwalk, she’ll stop and both of you will turn a couple of times to let the audience view the dresses from all angles.”
All angles? The very thought of it sent shocks of fear through me. Instinctively, I pulled my tummy in against my backbone.
The hair and makeup woman butted in with a pair of strappy sandals in her hand. “Size eight?” she asked.
“That’ll work.” I dropped them on the floor and slid into them, bending to fix the strap around my ankle.
Vicky continued, “After you’ve turned a couple of times, follow your bride off the catwalk and onto the floor. You’ll be mixing with the audience, so the ladies can get a close-up look at the dress.”