Fed up

Vermont inn. Expensive off-white Berber carpeting was stain-free, and the four windows that let bright light into the room gave it a fresh, unsullied appearance.
    Leo’s promise to be right back suggested that he intended to stay while I gathered Francie’s clothes. Since I couldn’t order him to leave so that I could tear the house apart looking for clues, I had to make the most of my time. Leo’s return would require me to go through the closet. Consequently, I took advantage of his absence to peer under the bed, where I found nothing but a few dust bunnies, and to take a quick look at the night tables, on each of which sat a small lamp. The table on the left-hand side had nothing else. The second night table had, in addition to the lamp, an empty bottle of mineral water, a box of tissues, a clock radio, and a stack of magazines, with a recent issue of the New Yorker on top.
    Afraid of getting caught, I turned to the closet, which was jammed full of women’s clothes. Every one of its many shelves, drawers, hangers, and shoe racks was occupied by some item of clothing. Tail boots and plastic storage containers teetered at the edge of the top shelf; I resolved to keep an eye out for falling objects. I set down my cardboard box, shook out a garbage bag, and started to remove clothes from hangers. Francie had had a large wardrobe in a narrow range of colors and styles. The predominant shades were brown, beige, and gray. The boldest color was dark navy. Many items were conservative pieces from Talbots. I was learning nothing that would contribute to my amateur investigation, but the good news was that many of Francie’s things would work perfectly as interview outfits for the women at the shelter. I folded simple sweaters, blazers, and dresses and collected at least twenty-five pairs of nondescript dress shoes.
    Toward one end of the heavy wooden rod that supported the hanging clothes were several large zippered plastic clothing bags. Unzipping one, I was nearly blinded by color. The outfits in this bag were radically different from everything else I’d seen. Yanking the bag open, I fingered through a slinky pink outfit, an ugly flower-print dress, a series of short skirts, and even a man’s suit. I unzipped the next bag and found additional outfits as outrageous as those I’d just examined. I stood on tiptoe and pulled down a printed storage box that turned out to contain hats. Checking another box, I found high-heeled shoes, brooches, eyeglasses, and scarves, all in styles radically different from the dull, conservative look of the clothing displayed openly in the closet. Yet another box contained wigs: long hair, short hair, curly hair, blonde, brunette—you name it, and Francie had a wig for it. I sat on the floor of the closet surrounded by a mound of bizarre... outfits? No, not outfits. Costumes. These had to be costumes. But why? Why had Francie been dressing up as other people?
    “Francie’s little secret.” Leo’s voice made me jump. “I guess I should have warned you,” he said. “The things in the boxes won’t work for the homeless women, will they?” He produced an almost hysterical-sounding laugh. “Or maybe they will! Oh, what the hell does it matter now?” Leo tossed his hands up as he spoke. “Maybe you’ll think it’s funny. What the heck! Francie wrote restaurant reviews. You may have heard of her. The Boston Mystery Diner? She got the idea for the costumes from Ruth Reichl. You know that food critic from the New York Times ? Francie made reservations under false names, and she’d go to dinner all gussied up in one of these outfits. Sometimes I’d go with her. I’ve got some, uh, costumes, I guess you’d say, too.” Although I tried to keep my face neutral, my expression may have been what prompted him to add, “She wanted to do fair reviews and not get recognized as a reviewer every time she walked into a restaurant.”
    Francie? Francie, of all people, was the notorious Mystery Diner? Unbelievable! And fair reviews? Those I’d read had been ruthless, unforgiving, and cruelly unfair.
    “Wow,” I said. “I had no idea. For some reason I’d always assumed that the Mystery Diner was a man. Everyone does, I think. I don’t know why. Wow,” I said again.
    “She was the most prominent food critic in Boston. She was very astute and had high standards, so her praise meant a lot to local restaurants.”
    Praise? I wanted to ask. What praise? Well, maybe in reviews I