Free Pasta Imperfect by Maddy Hunter Page B

from his throat. “Hey, get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
    His sister had died? I closed the door behind him.
Good going, Emily. Way to rip open old wounds.
Oh, Lord.
    I wandered around my room, craving sleep, but too wired to lie down. I thought about calling Etienne, but it was after two. I’d never call anyone at two in the morning unless it was an emergency, and this really wasn’t an emergency. It was just one of those times in my life when I could use a little reassurance from someone who loved me.
    Beating back my need for hand-holding, I rearranged my shoes along the wall, reordered the mess in my shoulder bag, then scanned the list Duncan had given me earlier to see what room Jackie had ended up in.
    Ooh. Mom would love this guy. He’d taken time to alphabetize and cross-reference all the names. Let’s see.
Thum
— 212. And directly beneath that,
Trzebiatowski
— 211. Hunh. Cassandra Trzebiatowski had been in the room across the hall from Jackie, but it was the name in brackets on the same line as
Trzebiatowski
that caused my heart to skip a beat.
    Frounfelker.
    Cassandra had been sharing a room with Brandy Ann Frounfelker?
    I set the list down, reliving the scene that had played out earlier in my room. In my mind’s eye I could see an ash blonde fighting over my denim dress and swearing that Gabriel Fox would be eating out of her hand when he saw her in it. I knew now the blonde had been Cassandra Trzebiatowski. I also recalled Brandy Ann Frounfelker in the middle of the fray, beating off the competition with her massive fists. And I knew that Duncan had been wrong about one thing.
    Brandy Ann had indeed spoken to Cassandra this evening. In fact, I believe the exact phrasing had been, “If you don’t let this dress go, I swear I’ll kill you.”
    KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
    I jackknifed upward out of a sound sleep. I squinted at my door. I checked my travel alarm: 5:43.
    KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
    Now what? I glared at the door and mumbled a groggy, “
Uff da.
”
    “
Uff da
” is an expression of irritation and/or alarm used by many Iowans, especially those of Norwegian descent. It’s kinda like the “F” word disguised in a rubber nose and glasses.
    “Coming,” I muttered. I struggled into my dress and sleepwalked to the door. Dick Teig stood in the hallway looking like three hundred pounds of lime Jell-O in his too-small polo shirt embroidered with the words JOHN DEERE . He was as wide as he was tall, with a head as big as a medicine ball, but hey, at least he wasn’t naked.
    “What can I do for you, Dick?” I asked, unable to stifle a yawn.
    “What time’s breakfast? I didn’t hear last night.”
    I slumped against the doorjamb. “Starts at seven. Ends at nine.”
    He checked his watch. By now it had to be at least 5:44. He looked relieved. “Good. We can still make it then.”
    I forced a smile. “Only if you don’t dillydally.”
    “One more thing.” He paused and took a deep, anguished breath, as if he hated to continue. “It’s about Helen’s…problem.”
    Helen had lost her eyebrows in a freak accident with a gas grill, so for years now, she’d had to pencil on fake ones, compliments of Revlon, L’Oréal, and Maybelline. His anguish could only mean one thing. “Unh-oh. Did her eyebrow pencil get incinerated in Rome?”
    “It’s her own fault. I told her she should carry a spare with her at all times. A woman’s gotta take precautions when her brows keep sliding off her face. But what do I know? I’m only her husband. You have one she can borrow?”
    “I don’t use eyebrow pencil. But I have liquid eyeliner. Would that help?”
    “Liquid, hunh? She said not to bring back anything that was water soluble.”
    I took a quick mental inventory of my cosmetic bag. “The only other thing I have is long-lasting lipstick. I can’t guarantee its durability, but it comes in six luscious colors.”
    He slatted an eye at me. “She’s tried lipstick before. It smudges. Then