Bad Hair 8 - Day Perish By Pedicure (4 page)

“We should go.” Rising, Marla stretched her arms.

“Chris may fire me,” Tyler said, lifting his head. “Or else she’ll tell people things. I can’t let her talk about me.”

“You’re too important to the team,” Georgia replied. Her tone oozed sympathy, but Marla couldn’t tell if she genuinely cared about Tyler, or if she felt obligated to reassure him. “She reminds me of a client who tells me how to use the curling iron every week at her appointment. It’s annoying, but I realize she just naturally orders people around. I nod my head and go about my business. That’s what you have to do with Chris. Act agreeable and then follow your own counsel.”

“I don’t agree.” Marla sank back into her seat as an aching heaviness invaded her limbs. She needed to get home and go to sleep, but the thought of greeting her houseguests immobilized her. “One of my former customers, Bertha Kravitz, used to order me around, but I had to do what she said. She knew something about me that could have damaged my reputation.”

Tyler’s startled glance told her he understood, maybe even shared the same problem. “So how did you handle her?” he asked.

Her mouth twisted wryly. “I didn’t charge for her hair appointments, and she came weekly. This went on for eight years, until she was murdered.”

“No shit.” Tyler’s eyebrows soared. “Tell me about it.”

“Yeah, Marla, you never mentioned this before,” Georgia charged. She remained next to Tyler but kept a little distance from him.

“You don’t want to hear the whole
megillah
. It’s a long story,” Marla said, her voice showing the strain of fatigue.

“Sure we do,” her friend prompted.

“All right. Bertha died while she sat in my shampoo chair. I was giving her a perm, and we were alone in the salon. The cops suspected me.”

“Omigosh, hon, is that how you met Detective Vail?”

“You got it.” She related the rest of her sordid past, leaving out some of the details. “So it ended well, for me at least.”

Georgia shrugged. “I can think of a few people who I wouldn’t mind removing from my customer list, although not in that manner.”

“Couldn’t we all,” Tyler put in. “I’m not a stylist, so I don’t do hair, but some of the salon owners that I deal with don’t know shit about the business.” Marla noticed how his vocabulary had deteriorated with the passing hours. ‘There’s one—“

“Wait, I gotta tell you about the flight attendant who wears her hair like airplane wings,” Georgia cut in, renewed energy in her tone. Clearly, she enjoyed shop talk.

They traded stories into the night, until Marla’s head drooped and she jerked herself awake. Rousing herself with effort, she grasped her purse and pushed up from her chair.

“Sorry to cut this short, but it’s late. Georgia, let’s go while I can still drive.”

“Hey,” Tyler said, plowing a hand through his tousled hair. With his bristly jaw and bleary eyes, he appeared much less debonair than earlier that evening. “Maybe I should go apologize to Chris. She’s gonna hate me for what I said.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Georgia told him, yet she hovered as though concerned for him.

“She might say things that could cause trouble.”

Marla sympathized with his concern, but it was late. “Why don’t you catch her in the morning? You’ll both feel better when you’re refreshed.”

“I won’t be able to sleep.”

“You’re such a baby.” Georgia rolled her eyes. “Marla, I should go with him. If he talks to Chris tonight, then we’ll all get a good rest. Liesl has two beds in her room. She offered one to me if I wanted to stay at the hotel. Why don’t I ring her and see if the offer still stands? It’ll just be for the one night,” she said in an apologetic tone.

“Okay.” Marla would be just as glad to have one less guest. After Georgia instructed her on what to bring from her suitcase the next day, she left.

Inside her car, she turned the air-conditioning knob to its coldest temperature and put on the radio so she’d stay awake for the drive west. Her mind numb, she craved the comfort of home and prayed Pam’s parents would be asleep.

Twenty minutes later, she saw that her prayers were answered when she entered her kitchen. Someone had left the light on, but only Spooks ran to greet her. Putting her purse on the counter, she stooped to pet him. His tongue darted out to lick her fingers. She could always count on his affection, she thought with a fond tug at his fur. When she straightened, the poodle trotted off to sniff at a pile of flight bags dumped on the floor. Holding her breath, Marla tuned her ears to the sounds in the house. Only the tick of the wall clock and the drone of the cooling unit filled the silence. Good, she hadn’t disturbed her visitors.

Moving quietly, she slipped past the closed door of the guest room on her way to the master suite.

Her shoulders relaxed. Drained of energy, she prepared for bed in record time, and fell asleep soon after her head hit the pillow.

Dreams engulfed her: Bertha Kravitz’s grinning face one minute and then the old lady’s sightless stare the next. She saw again the wide-set eyes, pupils dilated, gazing blankly at the ceiling. Bertha’s bagged head, immersed in perm solution, lolled back against the sink. Her face was distorted by an ugly grimace. Marla touched her hand, feeling for a pulse, the flesh feeling like a cold, dead fish. Images swirled and collided, mingling past and present.

She screamed, jerking upright, covered in sweat. The screams continued, but they didn’t come from her mouth.

Her mind reoriented, and she focused on her bedroom where sunlight streamed through the cracks in the drapes.

Someone shrieked again, and she leapt out of bed.

Thrusting sleep-tossed hair behind her ears, Marla dashed into the kitchen from where the shrieks emanated. An older woman with brassy blond hair clutched her nose in front of the sliding glass doors that led outside. Beside her stood a tall, lean fellow wearing a collared shirt with a cardigan and looking very much like Mr. Rogers of television fame. Marla’s poodle danced about their ankles, nudging for attention.

“What’s wrong?” Marla said, foregoing introductions to Pam’s parents.

“This glass door, that’s what’s wrong,” Justine Keller retorted. “I walked right into it. My nose, did I break it?” she asked her husband.

“No, darling, I think you’ll just end up with a bruise.” He had a pleasant, smiling mouth and graying temples that contrasted with his dark hair.

“You must be Marla.” Justine’s scornful gaze raked Marla’s rumpled nightshirt. “Don’t you think you should put a big sign on this door, so people can see it’s there?”

She swallowed, feeling like a schoolgirl. “You’re right, I’ll have to add decals for visitors. Floridians are used to sliding glass doors.”

“You don’t say.” Justine’s hand dropped from her face. “I suppose I’ll live.”

“Here, let me show you how to unlock the door. Spooks needs to go out, anyway.”

The cream-coated dog barked in response. Unlatching the lock, she slid it open and let him out to do his business.

“If you’re okay, I’d like to get dressed,” she said, feeling embarrassed by her lack of proper attire now that the crisis had dissolved. Her bare feet chilled on the cool tile floor. “Please help yourself to whatever you like in the kitchen.”

“Tell me, my dear, how do you make coffee?” Lifting her chin, Justine sniffled. “I’m not familiar with this apparatus.”

Who talks like that
? ‘You don’t know how to use an automatic coffeemaker?”

Justine gave her a haughty glare. “We use a French press at home,
and
we grind our own beans.”

I see you dress for your meals, too
. It was only eight o’clock, and Justine wore a white silk blouse tucked into a canary yellow skirt, white hose with matching heels, and gold button earrings with a matching choker at her neck.

Marla blinked. “You’ll find a package of ground coffee in the fridge and filters in the pantry. When I come back, I’ll make it for you if you haven’t figured it out by then.” Turning on her heel, she strode from the room.

Lord save me. If I survive this, Dalton owes me
. Imagining how she’d exact restitution, she showered, blew out her hair, did her makeup, then pulled on a pair of black slacks and a ruby knit top. Not knowing what to expect at the convention center, she snatched a black Ann Taylor jacket from its hanger in case she would need it later.
One more thing
. Picking up the telephone receiver, she dialed her salon and left a message that she’d be there that afternoon with the Luxor crew. Thank goodness Georgia had stayed overnight at the hotel, she thought, finishing with a sprite of perfume. Dealing with two houseguests already had her frazzled.

“It’s nice of you to accommodate us,” Larry Keller told her after she’d returned to the kitchen and let Spooks inside. He’d spread the Saturday issue of the
Sun-Sentinel
on the table, which someone had set with three plates and utensils. While Larry read the news, his wife poured orange juice into glasses.

The strong aroma of brewed coffee filled the room. Actually, it smelled more like
burnt
coffee. Sniffing, Marla sped to the counter, where liquid spilled from the coffeemaker. Suppressing an exclamation, she grabbed a sponge to mop up the overflow. Obviously Justine didn’t know how to measure water.

Marla glanced at the woman. Justine had tied an apron around her waist, making her look even more like a housewife from the fifties. Who else wore heels to breakfast—on vacation, yet?

“I’m sorry that I don’t have more time to spend with you this morning,” Marla said. “Can I do anything for you before I leave?”

“No thanks, we’ll be fine.” Justine paused. “Dalton told us you have a friend staying here. Is she still asleep? I imagine she must be tired when you stayed out so late last night.” Her light brown eyes narrowed with disapproval.

Late for you, maybe. I don’t have a curfew
. “Georgia decided to stay at the hotel for the evening. Luxor

Products sponsored a cocktail party last night. We were expected to attend.”

“Yes, I got your note. I guess work keeps you pretty busy. It’s going to be tough juggling two full-time careers once you’re Brianna’s stepmother.”

Justine’s voice broke on that last word, and she turned to stare out the window over the sink. A surge of sympathy engulfed Marla. This couldn’t be easy on Pam’s parents.

It’s not easy for me, either
, a selfish voice claimed inside her head.
Dalton should have made room for them at his house.

“Where do you keep your eggs?” Larry said suddenly. Marla noticed how he didn’t usually comment when his wife was speaking.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t put them in the egg bin because it needs to be washed out. They’re still in the box in the back of the refrigerator.”

“I like mine scrambled,” he told her, returning his attention to the newspaper.

Clucking her tongue, Justine wheeled around, her gaze traveling over the kitchen. “It’s so helpful when you have a woman coming in to clean every week, especially when you have a job outside the home.”

Marla gritted her teeth. “I have a maid who comes twice a month for the heavy-duty work. I do the rest myself.”

“You don’t say. Well, if you talk to Dalton about it, I’m sure he’d be amenable to increasing her hours. With your combined incomes, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“We’ll see. Did you want toast with your eggs?” she asked Larry, desperate to change the subject. Normally she would have eaten a breakfast bar on her way out the door, but she didn’t want to hear Justine’s snide remarks about her dietary habits. Without further comment, she tossed together a cooked breakfast and choked down her portion. She couldn’t wait to leave.

Pam’s mother was insufferable, she thought during the drive to the hotel. Instead of being grateful for her hospitality, Justine had the chutzpah to criticize her housekeeping. At least Georgia would act as a buffer later on.

Arriving in the hotel lobby, she hadn’t gone two feet toward the concourse to the convention center when Georgia rushed over to her.

“Omigod, Marla, omigod. You won’t believe what’s happened.”

Tear marks stained her friend’s cheeks, and her normally bouncy hair hung in limp waves about her shoulders.

“What’s going on?” Marla asked with concern.

“It’s Christine. She’s dead, and I may have been the last person to see her alive.”

Marla’s jaw dropped in shock. “How can that be? She seemed fine last night, other than a headache. Not surprising, considering how much she drank.”

Georgia drew her toward a quiet corner. “A room-service waiter found her this morning, collapsed on her bathroom floor. The police have been questioning everyone from Luxor, especially those of us in the lounge with her last night. Oh, God, what am I gonna do?” She covered her face with her hands.

“Whoa, slow down and start at the beginning. “You said the room-service waiter found Chris?”

Georgia nodded. “Apparently she’d ordered breakfast the night before. When the steward came to deliver her tray, no one answered his knock. The door was ajar, so he entered and discovered Chris dead on the bathroom floor.”

Marla motioned toward a couple of armchairs. “Go on,” she told her friend, folding her hands in her lap. Georgia looked awful. And of course she hadn’t put on any makeup, since Marla had brought her cosmetic bag from her suitcase only this morning, along with a change of clothes as requested.

“Christine had been soaking her feet in one of those portable foot baths. The cop said she might have had a seizure and toppled over. I guess that’s their theory because she’d bitten her tongue. She ended up facedown in the water.”

Marla pictured Chris with her head in the murky foot-spa water. “How horrible,” she said, grimacing. “Was there enough water in there for her to drown?”

“They won’t know the exact cause of death until the medical examiner does an autopsy.” Georgia drew in a shaky breath. ‘They asked me if I knew anything about her medical history. Chris didn’t confide in me. I wouldn’t know if she was taking pills or had any problems.”

“Maybe she had epilepsy or some disease no one knew about. In that case, I don’t understand why you’re so worried.”

Georgia gave her a bleary-eyed look. “After you went home last night, Tyler headed upstairs to apologize to Christine. I came along to give him moral support, but the boss lady was in a bad mood and kicked us out. I stayed to argue with her, which was like trying to budge a tree trunk. I gave up, figuring we’d have a better chance to talk after a good night’s rest.”

“Can Liesl verify what time you entered her room?”

“She was sleeping. I’d gotten the key from the front desk. I fell onto the other bed and slept until the police banged on our door.”

Tapping her chin, Marla frowned. “How did they know to question you?”

“Tyler must have told them. But he was there, too. Chris was just as mad at him.”

She crossed one leg over the other. Something didn’t add up in this equation. “But he’s the one who started it all. Chris got angry at Tyler’s remark in the bar, and she left in a huff. I was witness to that much. You didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, I did.” Georgia sniffed, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I let him sit next to me. That was enough to put me in Christine’s black book. Listen, Marla,” she began, but just then Sampson swooped down on them.

“There you are,” the artistic director said, waving his arms. “What is going to happen to us? I am ruined, ruined!”

Marla shot to her feet. “Calm down. Tell me, who’s in charge of the group now?”

“Jan would be the logical person to take over.” He shook his head, as though to dismiss administrative duties as beneath his talent. “We’ll have to cancel. What a disaster! Good God, the scandal will destroy me.” His face was chalky white.

“That’s not true,” Marla said in a soothing tone, while Georgia rose slowly with a dazed look on her face. “I don’t see any reason why the show can’t go on. As long as the sales reps and salon owners manage the counters, you and Ron can proceed with your stage demos. How much stuff got unloaded last night?”

“All of the heavy equipment.” Sampson had regained his composure and was now glowering at her. “But we’ll be delayed in putting the exhibit together, and we still have to prep the models who are coming by this afternoon.”

“No problem. Did you pick up your exhibitor badge?”

“I’ve got mine,” he said, tapping his pocket.

“Georgia? Do you have yours?”

Georgia glanced at Marla as though she were from another planet. “Huh?”

“Come with me.” Grasping Georgia’s elbow, Marla marched her toward the registration desk and pushed her into the line for exhibitors. “Here’s the stuff you told me to bring,” she said, handing over the sack she’d brought from home.

“Thanks. I’ll wash up in the restroom after we get our badges. I must look like a wreck.”

Marla turned her attention to the registration clerk when their turn came and gave their names. Then she waited outside the ladies’ room for Georgia to refresh herself.

Sampson trailed after her, pinning his badge onto his blue cotton dress shirt. He chatted up a storm as though needing to distract himself, asking Marla about her salon and offering advice until Georgia emerged. “Let’s go,” he said, loping toward the exhibition concourse.

The cavernous hall showed none of the finishing touches that would come tomorrow with the opening ceremony. Carpeting had not yet been rolled down the aisles, and wires trailed everywhere on the concrete floor. Sounds of hammering and the whine of electric drills resounded throughout. Searching for their booth number, Marla picked her way down rows strewn with half-emptied boxes, banners waiting to be hung, and large advertising posters.

“Clear the decks,” yelled a voice from behind, accompanied by a beeping noise.

Marla stood aside while a forklift lumbered past, carrying shipping crates on its outstretched arms.
This counts as hazardous duty
, she thought, bumping into an exhibit table for a hairbrush display. Rubbing her hip, she was glad to spot Amy Jeanne Wiggs unpacking cartons at a large block of counters up ahead. A makeshift stage had been constructed beside the sales area, where folding chairs were stacked ready for placement. They had a good position, right at the intersection of two important junctions.

“Thank the Lord,” Sampson cried, raising his arms as he rushed ahead. But then he stopped short, surveying the mess that needed organizing. “Incredible. How will we ever put this together in time?”

“Hi, guys.” Amy Jeanne regarded them with sorrowful brown eyes. “I guess you heard about Christine.”

“Yeah,” Georgia answered, and the women hugged each other. “I can’t believe she won’t be here today.”

“I’ve been trying to unpack stuff, but my heart isn’t in it. Chris usually tells us where to put things.” Amy cracked her gum, her mouth constantly in motion.

“How’s the space behind the stage?” Sampson asked, standing tall. “Will we have room to put a chair there?”

“Go look for yourself,” Ron snapped, emerging from behind the draped backdrop. “Has anyone seen my extra blow-dryer? I thought I’d put it in with the styling implements.”

“Someone needs to get the posters up,” Amy Jeanne said. “Where’s the rest of the gang, bro?”

“I’m right here,
querida
,” Miguel hailed them as he danced a few salsa steps in their direction. The sales rep wore an embroidered Guayabera shirt and khaki shorts, in addition to a set of earbuds wired to his pocket-sized music device.

“Now what?” Georgia asked, spreading her arms. “We can unpack these boxes, but where do we put the stuff? Jan should be here to direct us.”

“She’s doing her workout routine,” Ron remarked, yanking a hand mirror from a carton and holding it up while he ruffled his hair. “Speaking to the cops upset her, so she wanted to work off her energy. If she works off any more, she’ll disappear.”