Vacations Can Be Murder: The Second Charlie Parker Mystery by Connie Shelton

that I'm
likely to overdo the shopping. I had no plans of staying over in
San Francisco, but it never hurt to be ready.
    I would wear my generic black slacks and my
new cotton batik print blouse. In case of an emergency stay-over, I
stuck a change of underwear and a clean shirt into the small bag.
In the morning, I'd add my make-up bag and a hairbrush.
    My inflatable neck pillow and cassette stereo
would help tune out all extraneous noises. I'd try to sleep on the
plane, so I could be awake by the time I got back to Drake.
    Fluffs of bubbles rose a foot above the edge
of the tub like meringue on a lemon pie. Perhaps half the bottle
had been a bit much. I turned the cold water completely off,
leaving the hot at a trickle. There’s nothing worse than a bath
that begins to cool down before I’m satiated.
    My tired muscles loved it as I settled them
down into the steaming water. I leaned my neck back against the end
of the tub, and let the water lull me. Soon, I felt my eyes
drooping, and knew I better get out before I ended up spending the
night under water.
    The clock at my bedside told me it was eight
o'clock, but I guess my body was still on mainland time. I set the
alarm, just in case the wake-up call didn't come through.
    I must have died the very minute my head hit
the pillow, because the next thing I was aware of was the ringing
telephone. I wanted to punch the cheery good-morning person in the
face, which is probably why they don't deliver wake-up calls in
person.
    It was still dark out, and my brain wasn't in
gear yet. I am not a quick riser. My already-packed bag waited near
the door. I brushed my teeth and splashed some water on my face,
consciously trying not to come fully awake just yet. I tossed the
last two items into my bag and called the front desk to get me a
cab.
    By the time I stumbled downstairs, the car
was waiting to deliver me to the airport, where I managed to find
my flight. It was direct, so I snagged a pillow and blanket before
they were all gone, and tucked myself in.
    Nestled against the window, my Walkman
pouring Barry Manilow into my ears, I slept through the
announcements, breakfast, and whatever other courtesies they might
have tried to foist upon me.
    I awoke four hours later feeling like a new
person. I could have used the bathroom, but it seemed like too much
bother to squeeze past the teenage boy who must have been about six
foot seven, judging by the length of his legs, just to get into a
lavatory smaller than a phone booth. I did a little stretch in
place, and accepted the flight attendant's offer of a hot wash
cloth and a cup of coffee.
    I could now face the world.
    In the ladies room at San Francisco
International, I pulled out my little zippered makeup bag, for a
quick fixup. Even under the best of conditions, I don't take a lot
of time at this ritual. Foundation, blush, and lipstick is about
all I mess with.
    A woman approached the mirror beside me, and
settled her carry-on bag on the counter with a thump. Out came two
zippered cosmetic cases. I tried to look busy, but I have to
confess, I was probably staring. She gazed intently at her own
face, inspecting each square centimeter, and paid no attention
whatever to me. I thought she looked fine already, and I was
curious to see just what improvements she would deem necessary.
    She first went to work on her eyes, applying
concealer from a greasy looking stick, to the skin below them. Next
came eye shadow, three colors in all, which she placed with extreme
precision to different sections of the lids. Once the colors were
in place, she took a Q-Tip and smudged them together, making the
original colors blend into one. I didn't understand why she hadn't
just bought that color in the first place, but I guess some things
are beyond my realm.
    Liner pencil came next, two colors applied,
blended into one. She finished with two coats of mascara to each
set of lashes, then rechecked the job, dabbing with a clean Q-Tip
whenever she found minuscule