Stocks & Blondes
4
Getting a new look… or two
WHEN I SAY I feel like a new woman, it’s usually because I’ve replaced a few parts. Think about the way you look. How much of what you look like grows on your body? Well, my body is a blank canvas waiting for paint.
Not who she said she was
Maizie and I got to the office early this morning. For once we beat Cinnamon there. She was surprised when she came in. We went over the new case and she got on the phone. I had only the sketchiest of details about when Georgia McFearin came to Seattle, what company she worked for, and what she did for a living. I got Cinnamon to start putting together a profile for me. It will be good for her to do some actual detective work, even if she thinks she’s just office help. I started pulling together the notes from my meeting with Grover and making my travel arrangements to go to Savannah. I think I had put this off with the vague hope that there wouldn’t be a flight available or something, but after a moderate amount of hassle, I got a flight.
I was going to be miserable. The flight was at 6:10 Saturday morning and got in about dinner time. That meant I’d have to be at the airport before five at the latest. And I had a date Friday night! I seriously considered calling Tom and telling him I was going to have to bag it, but—damn—a date!
I’d just have to bite the bullet and get a vanpool ride to the airport. Leaving the apartment at four a.m. Then a rather evil plan came to mind and the object of that plan walked through my door at that very moment.
“Sugar?” Cinnamon said as she came in. “I got some bad news.” My plan kind of flew out the window.
“What is it?”
“Georgia McFearin didn’t work at Allied—at least not recently,” she said.
“What? Grover said that’s why she came out here to Seattle.”
“Well, it was, I guess.” Cinnamon was looking at her notes but I could tell she was just trying to look diligent. “HR won’t give out more than name and employment dates. They said she was employed at Allied from April 2014 to November 2014. That’s it.”
“No references, new job referral, reason for leaving?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Cinnamon confirmed. “They said all they were allowed to do is confirm dates of employment unless the employee specifically requested other information be forwarded.”
“Well, this babe isn’t going to be forwarding any requests,” I said. “I wonder if a request from the executor of the estate would get additional info.”
“Want me to check online to see if she’s listed anywhere?”
“Yeah. Google her and see what comes up. You never can tell when a company lists an employee on their website or something,” I said. “Dig in and let me know what you find, but don’t expect a miracle. It’s more likely we’ll find some mail or something at her house that gives us information.”
“You want me to run over and take a look?”
“Sure, but Cinnamon…”
“Yes?”
“I need a little favor.”
“Shoot, Sugar. You know you can count on me.”
“I need a ride to the airport Saturday morning,” I said.
“Morning?” She asked. “Like before noon?”
“Yes, way before noon. It’s official business. I have to fly out to meet my client on a six o’clock flight.”
“Six o’clock? In the morning? On a Saturday?” Cinnamon was looking at me like her new boss had just grown horns. I thought she was making a little much of it since she was usually in the office by eight-thirty. “I kind of have a date Friday night.”
“Yeah, I assumed so,” I said. “I do, too. I thought we could come home together after the game and whatever, and you could just stay overnight. That way, you won’t have to worry about not being able to get up in the morning. And neither will I.” The expression on her face was precious but after a few seconds it started to soften and the mischievous grin I’d come to expect from her crossed her face.
“Well, well. My new boss just invited me to spend the night with her,” she said. “What might come of that?”
It was my turn with the precious expression!
Becoming Peg
Tom called about a quarter past noon and confirmed our date. He said he’d pick me up at six-thirty Friday evening. We don’t have to worry about dinner since we’ll be eating in Geoff’s skybox. While Cinnamon continued her little investigation, I left for lunch and told her I wouldn’t be back for the afternoon.
Instead, my afternoon was spent with Stevie. You need to know a little about Stevie in order for this to make sense. She runs marathons, power-lifts 180, and dresses hair. She spent a few years as a theatrical makeup artist in New York and then came out here to do cosmetology in Seattle. She specializes in women who are in the midst of or have undergone appearance trauma. I don’t mean a bad hair day. I mean chemotherapy, mastectomy, stroke, disfiguring injury. Yeah. Me.
I met her years ago after spending a year at college, always being afraid my wig would blow off my head or my penciled-on eyebrows would run in a rainstorm. I had a little money from my inheritance and my doctor gave me a referral to Stevie. She changed my life. She worked miracles with my blank canvas of a body. She gave me confidence and taught me a whole slew of makeup tricks and techniques. What’s better is that because my baldness is a medical condition, my health insurance covers a portion of my sessions with Stevie and a new wig budget each year. Over the years, I’ve supplemented the collection with different styles and hairdos for the different aliases in my repertoire.
I called Stevie a few days ago and told her I needed a makeover, which she greeted as if it were the best news she’s heard in years. She promised to have a new look ready for me. And what a look!
It was important to me that my everyday look be kept easy. I needed to toss on my wig, know it won’t come off, and with a reasonably small amount of makeup be ready to go. This look was all that and very sophisticated as well. It had curls, new eyelashes, and new makeup. I was afraid Tom wouldn’t recognize me tomorrow night.
When I get a new look, I replace everything. A girl can get away with penciled-on eyebrows. I knew a girl who had hers tattooed on. But people freak out if you don’t have eyelashes. Those have to be glued on every morning. When Stevie got done with me, I felt and looked like a new woman!
Then we dealt with Peg Chester. I developed the Peg Chester alias as part of my undercover class with Lars two years ago. Each of the six students in his class had to develop three aliases during the year. They went from a quick and dirty disguise we could pass a friend and not be recognized with, all the way to fully developed. A fully developed alias has everything necessary to function in the real world. For me, that’s John Whitcomb, Riley Finn, and Peg Chester. They each have a driver’s license, passport, social security number, bank account, address, and credit card. Peg Chester is forty-nine years old. That’s a little younger than Georgia McFearin, but Georgia is about to become Peg’s cousin from Cleveland, not her classmate from Savannah.
I was sad to take off my sexy new look in order to have Stevie work on my alias but she insisted. I brought out my Peg wig, lashes and brows. Stevie tutted over my care of things, but they’ve been in my Peg suitcase for months. When you put on an alias, it has to be complete and real. It can’t just be a costume unless you want someone to figure out who you really are. When I put on Peg’s clothes and hair, I became Peg.
For the most part, disguise is about keeping it simple. I’d be older than I am now but every wrinkle had to be in the exact same place every time I put it on. It’s better not to create readily identifying marks that people can use as reference points, too. No warts or moles or scars. An alias is someone you have to slip into repeatedly and not have people thinking something is different. Once they start to think that, they start to look too deep and the chances of getting caught skyrocket. Stevie gave me a hand cream that changed the texture of my skin. She accented the circles under my eyes and I put in my brown contacts. I let my body down into itself slightly. Most people can change their height by two inches just by standing up straight. This is the opposite. Peg always wears flats and one of her shoes has a pebble in it, which makes me favor that foot slightly. Peg doesn’t walk much. When we were finished, Stevie turned me to look in the mirror.
I gasped. It wasn’t that I didn’t recognize myself. I recognized myself all too well.
I was my mother.
I’m back home. Maizie came bounding up the stairs as soon as I walked in, gave me a single sniff, and went to lie down in Dag’s chair.
I took an Uber home because Stevie insisted I wear my alias home and I didn’t want to drive my car with someone else’s identity. I had the driver drop me at the bottom of the hill and I walked in my painful shoes to my little apartment above Mrs. Prior, letting Peg’s character find a place in me to live.
Peg Chester is a sad and tired woman.
Comments
Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
