Free The Perfect Ghost by Linda Barnes Page B

made a grocery list that included coffee and orange juice, then worked through a tricky transition in a section about Garrett’s youth, keeping in mind the positive spin he wanted to place on his childhood.
    Today’s interview was scheduled for three o’clock. I tried on my sophisticated Manhattan outfit, but it looked all wrong for the Cape. I sniffed the crotch of my jeans. They were ostensibly clean, but when I put them on, they looked unexpectedly grungy, and my all-purpose V-necks seemed worn and drab. Confronting Garrett Malcolm was challenge enough, but when I thought about the additional possibility of facing a heartthrob like Brooklyn Pierce, my heart quailed.
    One of my foster mothers wore so much makeup it looked like she pasted a mask over her real face every morning. She wore what she called “foundation garments” that completely altered her actual shape. Another so-called mom regarded makeup and push-up bras as cheating, not only ungodly but a fraud perpetrated on men by girls who lacked character and natural beauty, which came from deep inside or the grace of God, depending. Any man would recognize and disapprove of such fakery, she maintained. That she was dead wrong about men did not deter her one iota.
    I patted faint pink gloss on my lips and considered phoning the Dennis Port Police Department, returning Detective Snow’s call. They must have an online presence, a screen displaying a phone number other than 911. I could call the general number and ask for Detective Snow. But if I used my cell, they’d keep a record of the number. I hated the idea of strangers knowing my cell number.
    Damn. My list of necessities cried out for more than coffee and orange juice. Hadn’t Malcolm challenged my professionalism with his query about my age? I felt wounded by the encounter, in need of something akin to battle armor, a mail shirt, a corselet of polished bronze. My chances of finding such a powerful garment prior to our afternoon session seemed remote, but once the thought entered my mind, there was no remedy but a quest.
    Detective Snow could wait.

 
     
    CHAPTER
    thirteen
     
    In jeans and faded olive tee, I made the half-hour drive to the Cape Cod Mall. If all else failed, I would wear them for the interview and Garrett Malcolm would look right through me.
    The salesladies at Macy’s gazed through me as well, and even though I’d chosen the mall for its size and anonymity, at the deciding moment I spurned the big anchor store. Too many choices, a kaleidoscope of solids and prints; too many colors, clashing oranges and purples; too many departments, catering to teens and young adults and working moms; too much stuff. I blundered on, hardly noticing where I was going, eliminating stores based on the merchandise in the display windows. Had I panted after running shoes or kitchen accessories, my quest would have been easier. I wanted to look professional, but I also wanted something more.…
    Glamorous? The saleslady attempted to finish my halting query when I stammered a request for help. I decided she was making fun of me and started to leave, but she put a restraining hand on my arm. I usually hate that, but she was gentle and apologetic. A plump woman in her thirties, she smiled and said she’d be happy to help me find an attractive outfit. Her right cheek dimpled when she inquired what sort of work I did. When I nervously babbled that I was a writer, she assumed I was the one who was going to be interviewed, maybe on television. She asked my name, so I made one up. She dimpled again and said she thought she’d heard of me.
    She seemed to understand how flustered I was, how overwhelmed and confused by the racks and shelves of garments. She guessed my size, just by looking, and insisted I’d have plenty of choices because I was so small. She led me to a curtained dressing room so I could be by myself. The flowered curtain billowed, blown by a fan. I didn’t mind the tiny room; it was cozy, like a