1 Killer Librarian by Mary Lou Kirwin Page A

more style.
    A few blocks away from the B and B, I came across a clothing store and walked into the Chic Boutique. At home, shopping for clothes wasn’t my favorite pastime, but having a new dress or, as they called it, a new “frock” from London might be very smart.
    The shop was barely big enough to turn around in, but brimming with clothes: racks of dresses andtops. Shelves to the ceiling packed with scarves and sweaters. I looked at a few garments, but all the clothes looked way too young for me. Too small, too bright, too fussy.
    As I was ready to walk out, a young woman with bright red hair, brighter red lips, and an immense smile popped up from behind the counter. “Hello, hello,” she sang out.
    “Hi,” I said, startled into being a stodgy American.
    “Looking for something special?” she asked and came around the counter. She was wearing tight, slashed jeans, and an orange top that clashed with all her redness but somehow still managed to look very good on her.
    “Oh, not really. Just looking,” I mumbled, quite overcome by her vibrancy.
    Orangina, as I named her in my mind, walked around in front of me, getting between me and the door. “Hmmm, we have some new colors in that would suit you perfectly.”
    I looked down at the clothes I was wearing: brown walking shoes, jeans, gray sweater. Orangina didn’t seem at all impressed that the warm gray color of the sweater I was wearing complemented my eyes.
    “You’d look lovely in a dark red. Are you going anyplace special?”
    “I’m going to the theater tonight.”
    “Perfect. Wait till you see what I have for you. Came in not a moment ago.” She ran through a door behind the register, rummaged around, and came back out carrying a package.
    In a dramatic gesture, she unwrapped the package and swirled out the garment. A lacy-knit shawl.
    I fell in love the moment I saw it. It was a deep burgundy, the color of overripe cherries, and so soft looking you just wanted to touch it, stroke it. I reached out for it, then pulled my hand back.
    “But I don’t wear shawls,” I blurted out.
    “Why ever not? They’re perfect for you. Elegant, but casual. Simple. That’s your style. But you could get more richness in your wardrobe. Some people think that you must give up style for comfort. You can have both.” As she was saying all this she had walked forward and was wrapping me in the shawl, swaddling me in it.
    She turned me to face the full-length mirror.
    I have always loved makeovers. One of my guilty pleasures. A plain or even unattractive woman who gets a new haircut, puts on some makeup, takes off her glasses, smiles, and becomes a beauty. I find them hopeful and fascinating. But I had never known it could be done so quickly and so easily.
    When I looked into the mirror, I saw a new person.The shawl had transformed me. My hair had turned darker, my eyes deeper, my skin rosier. I felt as if I had even grown an inch or two. I looked like I knew something secret and divine.
    I had changed into Glam Librarian.
    There was no question about buying the shawl. I didn’t even look at the price tag, something I had never not done before in my life. I didn’t care what it cost. I just handed her my card. That luscious burgundy wrap was going home with me.
    In fact, it was hard for me to take the shawl off. But finally I handed it over to Orangina and she wrapped it in tissue paper and put it in a box.
    “Ciao,” she said to me as I left the shop with the shawl tucked safely under my arm.
    I couldn’t help peeking at the receipt as I walked away. What I saw made me swallow hard—nearly a week’s salary. I couldn’t believe what I had done.
    I hoped Caldwell would like it.

SEVENTEEN

    Favorite Tragedy
    I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the only mirror in my suite. I was wearing my simple black dress made of some chemical compound that was guaranteed never to wrinkle. After bandaging a blister, I had put on shoes with a small heel that were very