Arnie says, “Simple enough if you think about it. Mentions of prior places could have come out in conversation. Plus, there might have been info in the obituary. Or Carver could have attended the funeral and subtly pumped family or friends for information about past jobs. Once you get a hospital name, it’s simple enough to call the personnel department and say you’re checking a reference. Most places won’t tell you much without written permission from the employee, but they will give you dates of employment and often the area where the employee worked. That’s all you really need for a job application.”
Amazing. Not only was Karen Owenby not really Karen Owenby, she wasn’t really a nurse. Molinaro was going to shit a brick when she found out.
“You know, there’s something else we need to consider,” I say, recalling my talk with Deborah the night before. I tell them what Deborah said about Karen’s investment scheme involving doctors. “I have no idea what it might be,” I tell them. “I wasn’t aware of anything going on while I was working there, but I might not have been in the loop. Maybe we can find out more at the dedication tonight.”
“We can certainly give it a shot,” Izzy says.
“Which reminds me. Can I leave a little early today? I still have to find a dress to wear.”
“Sure, if things stay quiet,” Izzy says. “Just promise me you won’t try to do anything textured and pouffy again. That dress you wore to the mayor’s ball last fall made you look like a giant puffer fish.”
Reload.
By the time I leave work I have just under three hours to find the perfect, non-pouffy dress and make myself presentable. Both of these tasks carry the threat of being overwhelming, if not impossible, although the latter is going to be less so thanks to Barbara’s magical ministrations.
I hate shopping for clothes. Most women love it and treat me like a traitor to my gender simply because I loathe it. But then, most of those women are blessed with something close to a normal body whereas I am short-waisted, have arms like a baboon, and have thighs that rub together so tightly, I sound like a belt sander when I wear corduroy pants.
If I find a dress that’s long enough for my body overall, the waist is usually somewhere around my hips. When I try to wear long sleeves, they often end up being three-quarter length instead. Tight-fitting or slim-line skirts bunch up at the thighs and make my ass look huge, whereas snug-fitting slacks tend to make me look like I’m heading out to the riding range in my jodhpurs. I have pretty decent cleavage with any bra but hesitate to wear the type of neckline that will show it off. The last time I did that, I was picking crumbs out of there most of the night.
I head for the only women’s clothing store in town that has ever managed to provide me with passable stuff. Located just off Main Street, it is owned by a fifty-something German woman named Olga who is both tall and wide. Consequently, she carries a good assortment of clothing to fit women who possess either trait…or someone like me, who possesses both of them.
The first thing Olga digs up for me is a cocktail dress that fits snug to the waist and then flares out around the hips where the material is gathered in ruffled layers. It is sleeveless and has one halter type strap to hold it up. The color is a safe shade of beige and the flare of the skirt camouflages my thighs and hips—the same hips that David once told me were “obviously made for childbearing,” a comment that led to a weeklong case of no-nookie disease.
The dress looks fabulous on the hanger and I am excited as I carry it into the dressing room and slip it on. A quick glance in the mirror doesn’t make me gag, so I step out, my expression hopeful. I do a twirl as Olga casts her critical gaze upon me. Two seconds later she gives me a thumbs-down.
“What?” I whine. “What’s wrong with it? I like it.”
“Fine, wear it if you want,” Olga says, her German accent turning every w into a v. “But it makes you look like a cauliflower.”
I take off the beige dress and try on two pink ones, a hideous salmon-colored thing, and a teal-colored sheath that makes my skin itch. I’m getting cranky when Olga tosses yet another specimen over the dressing room door, this one in a shade of pale, silvery blue. I hold it up to my face and see that the color is very striking against my skin and hair, magnifying the blue of my eyes. I start to pull the dress on over my head when I notice the back of it.
“Olga, have you lost your mind?” I yell over the dressing room door.
“What’s the matter? You don’t like the dress?”
“It has a bow on the ass, Olga. A really big bow. I’m not wearing any dress that has a bow on the ass.”
“Come out here and let me see,” Olga says.
I pull the dress on, my jaw set in determination as I take a quick glance in the mirror at my profile. The bow makes my butt look bigger than Minnesota and it’s a shame because, from the front the dress looks great—shapely, but not snug. The style is a good one that hides most of my natural flaws. Disappointed, I step out of the dressing room and stand sideways in front of Olga with a What’d-I-tell-ya? look on my face.
Olga turns me around, fiddles with my butt for a second, and says, “You are right. No butt bow.”
I sigh and glance at my watch. I’ve already used up nearly two hours of my time and I’m about to ask Olga what else she has when she snaps her fingers. “Gone, like that,” she says. “I take the bow off.”
“I’m pretty pushed for time, Olga. This thing starts at six.”
“Give me five minutes. I just need to open the seam, take the bow off, and close it back up. You can’t spare five minutes?”
I glance at my watch again, and then take another look in the mirror. Other than the bow, the dress is perfect. I glance at the price tag. High, but within range. “Okay,” I say. “But hurry.”
“You know, I have a nice shawl that would go great with that dress,” Olga says. “Do you have a wrap of any sort?”
I don’t and ten minutes later Olga has a big smile on her face, I am $278 poorer, and there are only forty minutes left before I am supposed to meet Izzy. When I realize I don’t have any shoes to wear with the dress, Olga takes pity on me and loans me a pair of hers, which are half a size too small but look great. I hurry home, dress, and do a quick fix to my hair, all of it under the watchful eyes of Rubbish, who circles in and out between my feet, nuzzling my legs and mewing.
Izzy, who hates being late, shows up as I’m starting my makeup. “You about ready?” he asks.
“Not quite. I need a couple more minutes.”
He sighs and stands in the bathroom doorway watching me, trying to be patient, but tapping his foot and glancing at his watch every few seconds. Rubbish, who is sitting at my feet, suddenly gets up and opens the bathroom cabinet with one paw. He climbs inside, letting the door shut behind him. At the sound of the thump-ump, I laugh and say, “I see you’ve finally mastered it.”
“Mastered what?” Izzy asks.
“I was talking to the cat. He likes to play in this cabinet. See?” I reach down, swing open the door, and apparently scare the hell out of Rubbish, who runs out of the cabinet and leaps for my arms. Unfortunately, he doesn’t make it past my knees, where he sinks his claws in and starts to climb. By the time I pry him loose I have two flaming red scratches and several trickles of blood on my leg, as well as a pair of panty hose that resemble a railroad switching yard.
“Well, that’s just great,” Izzy says. “Hurry up and change, please.”
I reach up under my dress and yank the panty hose down to my knees. “I don’t have any other hose here, Izzy. We’ll have to stop somewhere.” I kick off my shoes and peel the hose the rest of the way off. Then I toss them to Rubbish, who immediately attacks and kills them.