Alpine Hero by Mary Daheim

shifted on the chair, perhaps uneasily. I couldn’t be sure. “I like working with people. That’s why I decided to train as a cosmetician.”
    Deciding it was time to act like I was something other than Vida’s ventriloquist’s dummy, I asked Becca if she’d had an opportunity to chat with Kay Whitman.
    “Sort of,” Becca replied. “It was the usual stuff—I ask what problem areas they have with their skin, if they have any allergies to skin-care products, then I explain about the facial. I try not to talk too much. A facial should be mellow, relaxing.”
    Vida looked disappointed. “So Kay Whitman didn’t tell you anything about herself?”
    “Not really. She said she probably had spent too much time in the sun.” Becca’s hand automatically strayed to her own smooth cheek. “I said she must not be from around here. She just laughed.”
    Vida was sitting with her elbow on one knee and her hand propping up her chin. “Tell us this, Becca. You’re an expert. What can you discern from a woman’s face?”
    Becca was puzzled. “You mean—about how she takes care of her skin? Or—what?”
    “Let’s put it like this.” Vida sat back in the armchair.“A person’s face is a road map of life. Where do you think it had taken Kay Whitman?”
    Becca sucked in her breath. “Wow! I’ve never thought of it quite like that! But you’re right, Ms. Runkel—skin’s a true indicator. It can show how much you drink, eat, smoke, do drugs—whatever.” Letting her head fall back, Becca gazed up at the ceiling, which could have used a plastering job. “Ms. Whitman—Kay—is—was—in her midforties. Northern European ancestry—I can tell that from skin tones. She was right about spending time in the sun, but I don’t think it was lately, maybe when she was younger. No drugs, no smoking, but she drank some. Small broken veins you can only see under the big magnifier indicate that. She didn’t take extra care with her skin as a rule, but so many women don’t. Good diet, though, fresh fruit, not too much red meat. She should have drunk more water. Most women don’t, especially the ones over fifty. She didn’t exercise, either—I could tell that just from looking at the rest of her—very little muscle tone. She had a basic T-zone problem, which is common—oily around the nose area, much drier in the rest of the face. She worried—her forehead was too wrinkled for her age. Not a really happy person, because she didn’t have the laugh lines.” Becca lowered her head. “How am I doing?”
    “Marvelous,” Vida replied, and sounded as if she meant it.
    “Thanks.” Becca took another drink of water, living up to her own advice. “Let’s see—what else? Sex is a puzzle. You can’t tell much, only that if a woman cares about her looks, she’s getting some. Or wants to. That’s about it, I guess. Except for the two little scars.”
    “Scars?” I echoed.
    Becca nodded. “There was one over her left eyebrow and another at the corner of her mouth, same side. Theywere hardly noticeable, except under the light. Ten years old, at least. She didn’t mention them, and neither did I. It’s not my business to ask unnecessary questions.”
    Briefly, Vida and I looked at each other. In our business, we had to ask all the questions—necessary, embarrassing, provocative, insipid.
    “What time did you leave her alone?” Vida queried.
    Becca shook her head in a forlorn manner. “Sheriff Dodge asked that, too. I’d done a mini-facial on Dixie Ridley at one, so she was gone by one thirty-five, one-forty. Ms. Whitman came in about a quarter to two. I told Stella it was fine to take her early. We must have started about ten to. It takes twelve minutes to do the prelim stuff and apply the mask. I told the sheriff I left the room a couple of minutes after two o’clock.”
    That made sense to me. I’d been almost ten minutes late for my appointment. I’d probably discovered the body at two-eleven, two-twelve. The