Free All in One Piece by Cecelia Tishy Page B

for women entering the workforce full-time for the first time in their lives. They need wardrobes,
     and we provide them at low or no cost. The inventory is donated. StyleSmart is a not-for-profit.
    “What’s up for today?” I try to sound chipper.
    “You sure you’re fit to work?”
    “Anything to get my mind off homicide for a little while.”
    “Something I learned in my fifteen years as a caseworker, Reggie: you better face your trouble, or it comes back to bite you
     hard.” Nicole appraises my outfit, a taupe two-piece. “I knew you weren’t feelin’ good the minute you walked in. You got on
     those fog colors.”
    I flush. This is about my wardrobe. As Gina and as Mrs. Martin Baynes, you see, I long favored tasteful neutrals and pastels.
     This knowledge was eagerly sought at StyleSmart, or so my aunt told me in her last weeks when she summoned the strength to
     put me in touch with Nicole Patrick, who in turn flattered and cajoled me into coming to work for her. My job was to create
     office-ready ensembles for the entry-level women. So I’m second-in-command, but there’s a twist.
    “Reggie, before you’re through today, let’s do a little something for your color palette.”
    “Operation Peacock Reggie?”
    She nods and points to a candy bowl. “Colors like those Jelly Bellies.”
    That’s the twist, the nub of things: Nicole Patrick has taken charge of my makeover. I’m her coworker, but also, like the
     welfare women, I’m her client.
    “So meanwhile, Reggie, here’s today’s project. I’m thinking the store needs a supersize section for our full-figure ladies,
     but something with a nice name, maybe Boutique Royale. Let’s look over here.” She leads me past racks of suits and jackets
     to a corner of the store beside the fitting rooms. “Right here, let’s create a special spot, put in a few racks with the nicest
     big clothes. And I got a trick up my sleeve: we’ll cut out the size tags. Nobody will feel like they’re getting on a scale.”
    “How will they know what size?”
    “Just hold ’em up and try ’em on, like we all do. With sizes as crazy as they are, why not?”
    “Nicole, it’s a great idea. Terrific.” So I spend nearly two hours snipping out size tags while Nicole arranges the racks
     and waits on customers, one woman hoping to pass a word-processing test, another training for restaurant hostessing. Nicole
     calls me, allegedly to consult. “Miss Reggie, how about this emerald green? Fabulous with Keesha’s skin tone, don’t you think?”
     Yes, I think. “And the sunflower yellow?” Absolutely. She winks to let me know this is a sly stealth exercise for Peacock
moi
.
    At last we take a break back at the nook, and she refills the teacups. “Nicole, it’s been great to play with scissors all
     morning, nothing but tags on my mind. It’s a relief.”
    “Reggie, that poor young man killed right over top of you. You are sorely tested in these times. And him so close to Jo.”
    “Close? What did you say?”
    “Oh mercy yes, to hear Jo tell it, he was a son to her.”
    “A son? Steven Damelin? They were that close?”
    “Or maybe she meant sunshine.”
    I nearly choke. “What did Jo say?” It’s against my grain to allow long pauses. It seems antisocial. But Nicole won’t be hurried.
     It’s a long shot, but I ask, “I hear Steven traveled. Maybe his trips involved his special deal with Jo?”
    Nicole adjusts her bracelets. “At least one of them did.”
    “Which one? Where did he go?”
    Nicole raises her cup, eyes me. “Reggie, I don’t know what the two of them were up to. But Jo said Steven took special trips
     to fire up something they were working on.”
    “And when was that?”
    “Over a year ago. I was taking inventory, so it was probably March.”
    “Was it something financial?”
    She crosses her legs. “Reggie, let me tell you something. This part of Boston’s my home, and over my lifetime they’ve called
     Roxbury a slum, a