A Blush With Death

Barbara Konstantinos, my best friend, was exceptionally pretty and petite. Standing next to her, I felt like the Jolly Green Giant because Barb barely topped five feet and wouldn’t rock the scales at one hundred pounds unless she had just finished a seven course meal. I, on the other hand, stood five ten and weighed one fifty. Granted, I was lean and muscled, but still, I towered over her. Whether in her baker’s uniform or a slip dress, Barb was one of those women who always looked pulled together and ready to go. Her copper-colored bob exquisitely grazed her chin, with not a hair out of place. Or it had, until today.

Her sassy European cut had been butchered into short, jagged spikes, the color transformed into a brash calico of brassy reds and tarnished blondes. To make matters worse, the hairdresser hadn’t even bothered to try to create an interesting pattern—say, tiger stripes, for example. No, instead, blotchy patches dappled her hair, making her look like she had a bizarre case of ringworm.

My face must have belied my feelings, because she moaned and rubbed her temples. “Oh, God, Persia. It’s bad, isn’t it? I knew it! When they told me it was hip and cutting-edge, I knew they were bullshitting me.” She grimaced, and I could tell a migraine was incoming. Barb’s brow was pinched in that particular way that she had a few hours before the blinding headaches struck. I winced, wishing there was something she could do about them.

“Who did this to you?” I asked, unable to tear my gaze away from the train wreck that passed for her hair.

She fidgeted with her napkin. “I tried a new stylist,” she mumbled. Then, tears springing to her eyes, she said, “Please don’t yell at me for going there! Venus Envy doesn’t cut hair, and I wanted to try something new, so I dropped in there on an impulse, but I didn’t buy anything except the haircut. I really thought everything would be okay.”

My aunt’s shop, Venus Envy, catered to Gull Harbor’s yuppie set with herbal facials and soothing pedicures and manicures, as well as being one of the best-stocked bath and beauty shops in the county, but we didn’t offer haircuts, massages, or steam baths.

“Why on earth do you think I’m going to yell at you?” But even as I spoke, I flashed on why she thought I might be mad at her. There was only one place in town she could have gone that would piss me off. “Okay, spill it. You went to Bebe’s, didn’t you?”

She nodded, shamefaced. “Yes, I went to Bebe’s Boutique,” she whispered.

Nailed, right on the head. I sighed. “Barb, you do know they’re trying to run us out of business, don’t you? I can’t believe you still went there. What kind of friend are you?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize things were that bad with Venus Envy.”

She looked so contrite that I relented. She’d paid dearly for her indiscretion with that hideous haircut. I picked up one of the breadsticks and bit off the end. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. Don’t worry. Your hair will grow fast, and you can have it dyed back to normal. Until then, maybe Auntie will let your borrow her hat.” That cajoled a smile from her. She knew what Auntie’s hat looked like. Everybody in town knew the fuchsia wonder my aunt wore, with the stuffed bird perched on the side—a real stuffed bird.

Though I managed to remain calm on the outside, inside I was fuming. When Bebe’s Boutique had opened up on the other side of town a few months ago, it was soon apparent that they were hell-bent on putting us out of business. But their products were inferior, their sales techniques annoying, and their ethics nonexistent. They were aiming at regional domination, and we were their first target.

I’d heard through the grapevine that they were trying some pretty underhanded tactics to steal our business, such as telling people we used synthetic ingredients when we actually used as many natural products as possible, and a particularly onerous accusation—that my aunt didn’t keep Venus Envy’s day spa up to Gull Harbor’s health code regulations. We could prove that one wrong, but who was going to bother to go down to City Hall to find out?

“What did they say when you complained?”

Barb squirmed a little, looking miserable. “The girl told me it was edgy…hip…. I wanted to believe her because I couldn’t believe she’d butcher my hair on purpose. So I didn’t—”

“You didn’t say anything. Good God, they really tried to convince you that style is the hottest trend? Have they seen a copy of Vogue lately?”

She blushed. “I feel so stupid. I’m ashamed to say that I actually paid them. I should have argued, but the stylist was so young…I didn’t…”

Barb’s self-esteem had been on the chopping block the past few months. She was forty-one and convinced she was losing her edge, which she wasn’t. But I could easily see her paying without complaint in a desperate attempt to keep some snot-nosed young punk from thinking she was old-fashioned and stodgy.

I held up my hand. “We all make mistakes. You were probably in so much shock from what they did to you that you weren’t thinking straight.” I had a nasty feeling that Barb had paid through the nose for that cut. The words “edgy” and “hip” guaranteed a high price tag in the worlds of fashion and cosmetics. But I wasn’t about to put her on the spot by asking. “So, make an appointment with your regular stylist and get it dyed back to your normal color.”

“I can’t.” Barb bit her lip and stared at the table. “Not for a week or so. I already consulted her and, fashion emergency or not, she’s booked solid. I know she’s pissed that I went somewhere else. I don’t blame her.”

Oops. Never good to make your hair stylist angry. “What did she say? Did she yell at you?”

“Not really, but she read me the riot act about going someplace else without finding out about their reputation first. I feel like a world-class heel. Anyway, after she was done lecturing me about fly-by-night operations, as she called them, she took a look at my hair and said that it’s going to be awhile before it’s back to normal. That little tart fried it, and the damage is pretty bad.”

“So you’re stuck?” I cringed, hoping she wouldn’t have to live with the cut and color for much longer. Barb was meticulous about her appearance, and there’s no way she could turn that mess into “classy.”

“Not only do we have to re-dye it, but Theresa wants to cut it super short in order to allow the new growth to come in without frizzled ends. I can’t believe I have to go out in public looking like this for over a week and then spend several months sporting a buzz cut!” She let out what was either a sob or a laugh, or possibly both.

“That must have been some powerful bleach.” I shuddered, fingering my own waist-length braid. Thick and jet black, my hair was naturally wavy. I’d been blessed with good genes. Not a gray hair yet, and I was thirty-one. “Well, hell. I guess we’ll have to keep you stocked with turbans for a few months.”

“That about sums it up.” She shrugged. “I deserve it, though, for sneaking around behind your back. And Theresa’s. Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never darken their door again, and I’m going to tell everybody just what they did to me.”

Tilda dropped off our menus. “Sorry we’re slow on the uptake today, girls,” she said. “The place is so packed that we can’t keep up with the rush.” She did a double take when she saw Barb’s hair but wisely kept silent.

I picked up my menu. Aunt Florence was supposed to meet us with some sort of news, but I was hungry and ready to order.

As if reading my mind, Barb said, “Let’s talk about something else. You said your aunt is joining us?”

I nodded. “Yeah, she’s got something up her sleeve. I can always tell. So, how’s Dorian?” It seemed like ages since we’d gotten a chance to sit down and dish. Barb and I worked in adjoining shops, but the summer tourist rush had left us both scrambling for a moment to breathe, and we hadn’t had time to duck out for a quick lunch in days.

She waited to answer until Tilda had taken our orders. I asked for a deluxe hamburger, a side salad, bag of chips, and a glass of iced tea. Barb ordered a bowl of gazpacho, grilled cheese sandwich, and a Diet Coke. Tilda returned with our drinks and then rushed off to another table.

“At least the BookWich and your bakery are doing good business. We’ve had a lot of customers, but they aren’t spending as much.” As I sipped my iced tea, a thought occurred to me. “Barb, why did you want a new hairstyle? You love the one you’ve got. Or, rather, the one you had.”

Barb shrugged. “I guess I’m restless. Dorian and I got into an argument the other night because I wanted to go out to a movie and he wanted to sit at home and watch some stupid baseball game. We haven’t gone out in over three weeks. I hate always staying at home.”

Dorian and Barb were a wonderful couple with two exceptions: his mother was the MIL from hell, and Dorian liked to stay home and putter. Otherwise, he and Barb matched. Maybe too well. Sometimes I wondered, if couples didn’t have any differences, what did they talk about?

“So you cut your hair because of an argument?”

She gave me a sheepish grin. “I know it sounds stupid, but I thought a change might get him moving again. He works hard all day, I know that, but so do I. And I still have the energy to get out in the evenings.”

I played with my straw. “Barb, did you ever think that he might have a medical condition? Low thyroid, or something? Dorian isn’t that old. Maybe he should see a doctor.” I didn’t want to scare her, but sometimes it was better to rule out medical problems first, then work on the issues that were left.

She tipped her head to the side, a quizzical look on her face. “You might have something there. It’s about time for our physicals. I’ll make the appointments tomorrow. Couldn’t hurt either one of us to get checked out.” She saluted me with her Coke. “Now, what about you? Bran and you still good?”

Bran Stanton and I weren’t serious—neither one of us was looking for anything permanent—but we had developed a free and easy relationship. No ties, just lots of long talks and great sex.

“As good as we can be, considering that his leg’s still healing. Not to mention the summer rush. He’s been trying to keep his boat going, even though he’s still using a cane. Tourist season brings in half his yearly income. He can’t afford to spend the summer resting. The doctor told him if he’s careful, he can go out on the boat, but I’m a little worried about him.” Bran ran a tour boat during the summer and taught outdoor recreation classes during the winter. He was also the local urban shaman, which was actually more accepted by the locals than I would have thought possible.

“That’s rough. At least he hired some help.” She cleared her throat. “And Elliot? Has the albatross been around lately?”

I grimaced. “God, yes. Damned idiot doesn’t seem to get it that I’m stacking up the evidence for a restraining order.” My ex-boyfriend Elliot had moved to Gull Harbor after he got out of prison; he didn’t want to listen to me when I told him we were done. Over with. Kaput. Or maybe he just wanted to make my life miserable, which was entirely possible. Either way, he was making a nuisance of himself. “At least he always stays out of my reach when he shows up. He knows I could break him like a twig.”

Barb broke into a grin. “I love it that you’re so macho…Not.”

I snorted. “Hey, I’m no girly-girl, even if I do love makeup and perfumes and sexy clothes. But you have to admit, working out pays off. Elliot tries anything with me, and he’ll find himself flat on his back, my knee in his nuts. Oh—here’s Auntie.”

Aunt Florence bustled over to the booth. A driving force in Gull Harbor, she was one of those unforgettable people, never easily ignored or dismissed. Five foot three, Auntie was as wide as she was tall, but she wore her size well. I couldn’t imagine what she’d be like if she ever lost weight, though I knew she’d still be the same driving force she was now. Aunt Florence had presence. True, her fashion sense left a lot to be desired, but I’d learned never to underestimate her.

She slid into the booth next to me, her flowered mu’umu’u a splash of yellow against the green seat, and her ever-present fuchsia straw hat perched atop her head. She seldom left the house without it, and the hat came complete with a stuffed parakeet. Squeaky had once been part of the Menagerie—the eight cats, three dogs, and rooster—that shared Moss Rose Cottage with us, but the bird had ended up on the wrong side of a fight with an extension cord. Zap! He lost, the cord won, and Auntie had him stuffed and affixed to her hat. They made quite the pair.

Tilda deposited Barb’s soup and my burger on the table and asked Auntie if she knew what she wanted.

“Ham on sourdough with provolone, mustard, and horse-radish. And a side of potato salad, please.” She handed the menu back to Tilda. “Oh, coffee. Lots of it, and make it strong. Cream and sugar, please.”

As Tilda left, Auntie flashed me a broad smile. “I’m going to grab dinner on the run, so you’re on your own tonight, Imp.” Aunt Florence had called me Imp since I was a little girl. Short for impetuous, the nickname fit.

“No problem,” I said.

Barb sighed, and with one fluid motion, Auntie turned to her and said, “Child, what the hell were you thinking? You look like you just escaped from a band of rogue punk rockers.”

With a grimace, Barb repeated her story. Auntie’s eyes flickered when she heard the name Bebe’s Boutique, but she was more tactful than I, merely raising one eyebrow. “I see,” she said. “And so you can’t do anything about the color for another week or so?”

Barb shook her head. “No, and it’s too hot to wear a hat.”

“Nonsense,” Auntie said, pointing to her own fuchsia wonder. “I wear a hat almost every day of my life. You run on over to Marianne’s after lunch. She’s bound to have something that will work. And as for Bebe’s Boutique, I have a few choice things I could say about them, but I’m a lady, and this is no place for that kind of language.”

Tilda returned with Auntie’s coffee. She refilled my iced tea and Barb’s Diet Coke, then scurried off. Barb spooned up her soup and I started in on my hamburger as Auntie pulled out a sheaf of papers.

“So, what’s your news, Auntie?” I asked, thinking that we might be able to take Barbara’s mind off her hair.

“That’s what these are about,” Auntie said, spreading out several flyers and brochures on the table. “There’s a convention in town, which means more business for everybody.” She picked up one and flipped it open. “Persia, I know you’ve been feeling worn out the past couple of weeks, so I’ve planned something new. A break, of sorts, though it’s really a working vacation.”

I perked up. About the only holiday I’d been counting on was my upcoming trip to a B and B in Port Townsend in September after Labor day was over and the tourists were gone. The trip sounded eminently better than a “working holiday,” but in the meantime, a break was a break was a break.

“Great,” I said between bites. “What is it?”

She handed me one of the pamphlets. “The Beauty Bonanza Cosmetics Convention opens at the Red Door Convention Center on Saturday, as you know, and I decided that we have to be there. Venus Envy’s going to have a booth, and I signed you and Tawny up. You can take turns manning it.” She beamed.

The Beauty Bonanza Cosmetics Convention? She had to be kidding.

Not sure I’d heard her right, I said, “You mean you want me to hang around a beauty convention?” Subject myself to a week of giggling, simpering models and cosmetics mavens? As much as I loved my work, I couldn’t stand the backbiting that I’d seen in the industry.

Aunt Florence stared at me, silent. I squirmed in my seat and tried to finish my hamburger, but her gaze drained any will I might have to protest. I finally pushed my plate back and sighed.

“You know I’m not cut out for that sort of thing. Can’t you just send Tawny instead? I’ll be glad to fill in for her at the store.”

She shook her head. “Imp,” she said, a warning note in her voice.

“But, it sounds so boring,” I started, then stopped. I could hear the edge of a whine droning in my voice. That put an end to my temper tantrum. “All right, I’ll go. Just so long as you know I’m not happy about it.”

“Trust me, I knew what your reaction would be.” Auntie laughed. “I have to balance the books, or I’d go in your place.” The twinkle in her eyes told me she was full of hogwash. At least about the “go in your place” part.

I rolled my eyes. “You lie and you know it.”

She winked. “Caught me red-handed. Oh good, here’s my lunch. I’m starved.” Tilda set Auntie’s sandwich in front of her. As Auntie unfurled her napkin, I leaned back and leafed through the brochures. Like it or not, I was headed for hell-week.

“I know you think you’ll be bored, but maybe you’ll have fun. Think of it as one of your responsibilities. For the good of the shop,” my aunt said, peeking at one of the brochures over my shoulder.

She frowned. “Venus Envy has to keep abreast of what’s going on in the industry. We must keep pace with what’s in style, and you can do that by going.” Polishing off the last bite of her sandwich, she wiped her fingers on her napkin. “Persia, you know how much Bebe’s Boutique is cutting into our business. We can’t let them shut us out.” She shook her head. “I just can’t believe so many of our loyal clients are are stabbing us in the back.”

“Their prices are lower, at least on their products,” I said, glancing at Barb. “I think they’re making it up in the salon. Anyway, I guess it comes down to money in the end.”

Auntie hadn’t been the only one surprised by how quickly our friends had turned away. Oh, not everybody had deserted us for Bebe’s Boutique, but enough so that it smarted. Even if we manage to regain our customer base, it was going to be hard on me to be as friendly as I had been, though I knew better than to take it as a personal insult. Like it or not, I was learning that I had to separate business from my friends. It wasn’t easy.

Auntie sighed. “Their prices are lower because they use such crappy ingredients. People just don’t care about quality anymore if they can save a buck or two. I know that it makes a big difference with groceries, but let’s face it, the people who patronize our shop aren’t exactly hurting for money. No, they’re listening to those awful rumors going around.”

Barb looked like Auntie had just smacked her one. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to take business away from you! I just got my hair done there; I didn’t buy anything. I never thought about it, but if people saw me there, they might think I prefer Bebe’s to your shop, too. I’m so ashamed.”

“It’s okay, child,” Auntie said, patting her hand. “I’m not blaming you. Besides, you’re right. We don’t do hair at Venus Envy. But I suggest you stick with your regular girl. That look…” She shuddered. “Honey, it isn’t good.”

I broke in. “So what do I need to be on the lookout for at this shindig?”

Auntie shook her head. “Just use your intuition, Imp. Since Venus Envy will be yours one day, it’s time you get used to dealing with the industry mavens and wheeler-dealers.” She leaned in. “Not to mention the fact that Bebe Wilcox is bound to have a booth there. You can scope out just what they’re doing to subvert our usual clientele. They can’t be going for the haircuts,” she said, grinning at Barb.

“You know, I think it might be fun to go to this gig,” Barb said. She picked up one of Auntie’s brochures. “At least you’ll get out of the shop for a day or two. I’d love to get away. The bakery’s been busy nonstop this summer. I’m about to implode from overwork.” Her eyes flashed. “Especially since it’s being held at the Red Door Convention Center. That place is gorgeous.”

I stared at her, an idea forming in the back of my mind. “Auntie, is the entrance fee steep?” When she shook her head, I asked, “Would you be willing to front Barb to go with me?”

Barb sputtered. “I can’t leave Dorian stuck with the bakery!”

“Yes, you can. Dorian won’t mind. You know he gives in on just about anything you ask!” I wheedled. If Barb could go along, it might not be so bad. We could sit in the booth and tell jokes and gossip to pass the time. “Please? For me? I need my best bud there.”

After a moment, Barb rolled her eyes at me and broke into a grin. “Oh, okay, if your aunt agrees, then I’ll ask Dorian. I could use the break, and maybe I can find something to help distract my attention from this god-awful hair.”

Auntie glanced from me, to Barb, back to me again. “You two are as bad as a couple of teenagers.” She laughed. “Barb can go in as your assistant, and it won’t cost a dime. Anything to ensure you’ll be there.”

I threw my arm around her shoulder, giving her a big hug. “It’s a deal. Thanks, Auntie. So, tell us more about the convention. What should we expect?”

She sipped her water. “Three hundred saleswomen, cosmetics manufacturers, models, and store owners are about to descend on Gull Harbor for five days of workshops, lectures, and discussions. That doesn’t count the local traffic—it’s open to the public for a fee. You can rest easy, though. I’ve only signed you up for the weekend, so don’t get too bent out of shape. Tawny will handle the remaining time.”

“Three hundred guests? Want to bet the Chamber of Commerce is ecstatic? They’ll be able to use this as advertising to attract even more conventions next year,” Barbara said, an edge in her voice. As much as Gull Harbor’s economy profited from the tourist boom each year, there was always a love-hate relationship between the summer visitors and the locals.

“You’re right about that,” Aunt Florence said, handing me one of the brochures. The pictures were a jumble of crowded booths and photos of flawless faces, bright with lipstick and shimmering shadows.

I loved makeup as much as the next woman, but for some reason, the photos gave me the creeps. “They look like automatons,” I said, pointing to a group shot of at least a dozen women, all with brilliant, eye-popping smiles. Clad in golden blazers and cream-colored skirts, they reminded me of a field of buttercups.

Auntie squinted at the page. “You’re on the money,” she said. “Those are Bebe’s Belles.”

I glanced up at her. “The same Bebe who owns Bebe’s Boutique?”

“One and the same. And the same Bebe who owns the Bebe’s Cosmetics factory on the outskirts of town. Her saleswomen are scary.” Aunt Florence shook her head, frowning. “I swear, those women aren’t right in the head.”

“That bad, huh?” But I already knew the answer. I’d witnessed firsthand the trouble their fearless leader had stirred up for us this summer.

Auntie heaved a sigh. “They are the most hideous group of brainwashed, cackling hens you’ve ever met. The company directors are bad enough, but Bebe’s Belles—Persia, it’s like a cult.”

Barb broke in. “I’ve chased them away from my house before. They’re like the Jehovah’s Witnesses, only instead of pushing religion, they’re pushing makeup. And it’s not very good. I tried it a couple times and threw it away, before she opened up the boutique.”

I frowned. “You mean they go door to door, like Avon or Mary Kay?”

“Yeah, but without the class or products worth buying,” Barb said. “Their stuff is crap and it hasn’t gotten any better since they opened up the boutique. Just like their haircuts.”

Auntie nodded. “Barbara’s right. The company uses low-quality ingredients, and I suspect they don’t always adhere to industry specifications. I seem to remember that they were investigated last year, but nobody could find any specific violations to shut them down. Bebe Wilcox is bent on pushing her way into the larger markets. They’re local right now, but their eye is on the national scale. Don’t underestimate her. She’s ruthless.”

I began to see why Auntie wanted eyes and ears at the convention. “Okay, I’ll find out what I can.”

Auntie scooted out of the booth and grabbed the check, giving me a grateful look. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Lunch is on me, girls.” She started toward the cashier, then turned back. “Oh, one more thing. I almost forgot—I signed you up to give a lecture on Sunday at the convention, Persia.”

My stomach lurched. “Okay…what’s the topic?”

Auntie laughed. “Get that hangdog look off your face, girl. You’re an expert on the subject. The name of your workshop is ‘The Fragrance of Desire: Driving Men Mad With Your Scent.’” Before I could protest, she tossed the waitress thirty dollars and was out the door like a light.

I sputtered. “How on earth am I going to host a workshop with that name? That’s positively embarrassing.”

Barb chuckled. “Face it, Persia. Your aunt plays to win, and she seldom loses. You know it, I know it, everybody knows it. Bebe’s got her work cut out for her, that’s one thing in Venus Envy’s favor. So if I were you, I’d get started writing that speech, because I have a feeling you’re not going to escape this one.”

As I gathered my purse and keys, I knew she was right. “Yeah. I’d better get back to work,” I said, glancing at the time. “Since Bebe Wilcox is out to usurp Venus Envy, I suppose I have to make sure I’m not late for any more of my appointments. Bebe’s Belles can ride out on the same turnip wagon they rode into town on.” But, despite my bravado, I had the feeling that the Wilcox woman was going to be more of a pain in the neck than I wanted to deal with.

Barb grinned. “Come on. Ever think the convention might not be so bad?”

“You’re annoying,” I said, but gave her a grumpy smile.

“Lighten up,” Barb said, but she gave me a long look. “Persia, do you really think Venus Envy’s future is in trouble?”

“I think it might be,” I muttered. “We thought our customers were loyal, but I guess you can’t mix business and friendship. Auntie’s an incredible entrepreneur, but somebody’s been bad-mouthing our products around town, and word gets around. Business has dropped off. I’m still getting a lot of clients looking for an individualized scent, but most of our customer base seems to be out-of-towners lately. That doesn’t bode well for the rest of the year, especially the Christmas season.”

Barbara sobered. “That does sound bad. Now I feel horrible about setting foot in that boutique.”

I gave her a weary smile. “Stop beating yourself up, Barb. I’m more pissed that you paid for that atrocity, rather than the fact that you actually went there. But, you know, maybe it’s time Venus Envy looked into hiring a licensed stylist. We do manicures and pedicures. Why not hair?”

As we passed through the door into the sunlight, Barb held up the brochure with the Belles on it. She shook her head. “They look like a bunch of Stepford Wives.”

“Bebe’s Belles,” I muttered. “I sure wouldn’t want to be one of them.” And with that, I headed back to Venus Envy.