Killer Hair (11 page)

“Who knows what terrible secrets about the Senate Small Business Committee Marcia may have spread? And to whom?”

“Brooke has a point,” Lacey interjected as Stella’s cleavage puffed up alarmingly. “Marcia is the subject of a congressional investigation.”

“You agree with her? You think Marcia offed Angie?”

“I didn’t say that. I said she has a point.”

“And Marcia had pornographic clips of some of the most unlikely people,” Brooke said. “Nobody even knows the whole list or how many. Maybe your Angela Woods was among them.”

Stella was finally stunned speechless. But she had nerves of steel. Her genius was that she could outwait anyone, just like a cat, and she was waiting for Brooke to leave. A silence descended on the table that Brooke finally broke. Glancing at her watch, she said to Lacey, “Look, I have to take a deposition this afternoon, so I should be going. Call me later. Be careful. There are serious nuts out there.” She looked at Stella. “I’d watch what Lacey tells you, Stella. It could be dangerous.” She was kidding, but Stella didn’t think it was funny. Brooke exited the Mud Hut, her blond braid bouncing as she jogged down the street.

“She could use a haircut,” Stella said.

“What, are you offering?”

“No, I’d give her to Leo.” Stella wore an evil grin. “Okay, now that Snooty Two Shoes is gone, we can talk about your investigation. And Angie was no porno pinup. Trust me. She was pure, in a nice way.”

Lacey had decided to write something about the young stylist and her tragic death. More troubling was Stella’s insistence that she also play gumshoe. As glamorous as it sounded and even with the interesting wardrobe challenges that it might present, the idea was absurd. She was a reporter. In any event, it would mean running down inevitable blind alleys and risking Vic’s derision.
Vic again.
Her mind kept drifting back to him.
I have no idea how I feel about Vic,
she realized. People did not pop in and out of Lacey’s life. When they were out, they stayed out.

“I’ll write a column, Stella, but what have I got to say? That the corpse had a really bad hair day? That a dead hair day means murder?”

Lacey retrieved two Advils from her bag to quell the pounding in her head. It wasn’t fair. She’d had only a couple of beers last night. She hadn’t slept well. She was alternately angry at Vic for being high-handed, showing up on her doorstep and merely assuming she would be home alone on a Friday night; and confused, remembering that long-ago New Year’s Eve kiss.

“Okay, Stella, let’s suppose we play detective. I just want to know one thing. What happened to her hair?”

“The hair? What hair?”

“Angie’s. What happened to the hair?”

“The hair?” A smoky Southern voice with a distinctive cadence interrupted them. “The hair is gone. Long gone. It
was
long, wasn’t it?”

Impressive purple talons scooted a shockingly pink flyer in front of Lacey. She could read PSYCHIC over the large imposing Eye of Horus. It seemed to be her logo.

“Hey, y’all. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I read cards, palms, faces, whatever y’all got. I’m Marie Largesse. Just opened up a little shop around the corner. The Little Shop of Horus. We sell crystals, oils, books on meditation. Tarot.”

“Clever name,” Lacey said. “What did you say about hair?”

“Hair? Oh, it just popped out. I don’t know. I’ve lost it now. Maybe I meant hers,” she said, smiling at Stella. “Gone, right?”

The large woman had sailed into the coffee shop as if she were the Queen Mary, creating invisible waves as she floated by. A black sundress that dipped low in the back exposed her shoulders and her arms, which were as round and white as birch logs. It also revealed a flock of tattoos, including two great eyes, one on each shoulder blade: the Eyes of Horus, the all-seeing, the eye of the mind, from Egyptian mythology. Over one arm, the woman had flung a black shawl with pink and crimson roses embroidered on it. She looked like a plump gypsy matriarch. Bountiful, not fat.

Stella wanted to know more; her own psychic had been falling down on the job. Lacey was polite. She took Marie’s card and gave her one of her own.

“You’re the one. Of course, ‘Crimes of Fashion.’ I read it all the time. I’m thinking about that column on nuances. It had a psychic strain to it, I thought.”

“That’s what I keep telling her,” Stella said. “Nuances.”

“Could be. I’m feeling a lot of vibes in here,” Marie declared. “Y’all feel them too?”

Lacey looked at Stella, one hundred and ten pounds of quivering vibrations. “Oh yes, I can feel them,” Lacey said.

“Y’all should really focus on your spiritual plane,” Marie said to Lacey. Stella lifted her eyebrows and nodded.

“I am curious about the Eyes of Horus,” Lacey said.

Marie beamed. “I thought y’all’d never ask.”

“Watching your back, I bet,” Stella said.

“Exactly, sugar. Some psychics receive impressions in their chest or their stomach or the head, in the third eye. With me it’s always been the shoulders. Don’t ask me why. Just vibrations hitting me in the shoulder blades, first the right, then the left. Like someone tapping my shoulder to get my attention. The Eyes of Horus are always watching for incoming pulsations.”

Marie made her way to the counter and ordered a large latte and a gooey chocolate brownie. She was an impressive work in progress on her way to becoming the Illustrated Woman.
A story behind every little picture.

“Maybe she’d be good for a column,” Lacey said.

“You already have something to write about.” Stella swirled the coffee in her cup. “This coffee tastes kind of like a rubber retread that you see on the highway.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I usually get a Coke. You know, ‘Coking and smoking.’ ” That was what stylists called break time, though it sounded sinister and illegal to Lacey.

“You’re trying to quit anyway,” Lacey said.

“Listen, about Angie, I don’t even know where to start. Stella, are you listening to me?”

Stella was ogling a guy who had just ambled in the door. He was Stella’s type all right: long blond curls, five-day beard, motorcycle jacket and helmet, about thirty, on the thin side. A beautiful Cupid gone bad. He had a slow lazy smile that he directed past Lacey to Stella, who sent back a suggestive smile of her own and a wink.

“You’ll think of something, Lacey. You’re basically a good, decent human being,” Stella said. “In spite of yourself.”

Lacey jerked the table and slopped her coffee onto the marble top. “I am not. I need to be left alone.”

“You don’t mean that.” Stella stood. “You want a refill?” She followed the silent mating call of the bad-boy blond to the counter. “I bet he’s got a nice bike.”

“You’re only interested in his pistons.”

“You see right through me, Lacey. You’d make a great detective.”

A few minutes later, Stella came back with a bagel and refills. She announced that she and one Bobby Saratoga, he of the motorcycle, would be meeting the following day to take in a bluegrass concert at Glen Echo Park. Lacey was dumbfounded.
Damn those Pentagon pheromone jammers,
she thought.

“How do you do that? My God.” Lacey could see that Stella, punk goddess that she was, had a kind of elfin charm, the crew cut notwithstanding. And her collection of leather bustiers reeled men in like fish waiting to be hooked.

“Easy, Lacey. I leave my signals on. I don’t turn everything off like you do. You just need a wake-up call. Besides, how often do you see a guy like that up at the Circle?”

Dupont Circle’s large and visible gay population was not the best place for a woman to look for an eligible man. Even Stella could experience the Washington man shortage. But Stella was taking matters into her own hands. Or her cleavage.

Stella poured three packets of sugar into her coffee, tasted it, and put in two more. “So tell me, since we’re talking men, are you going to sleep with that guy? Or have you already?”

“What guy? Who are you talking about?” Lacey’s voice rose and several writers turned around to stare.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about. Mr. Curly-Lashes-and-Cute-Buns at the funeral reception.”

“Not a chance. We drive each other nuts. Besides, I barely know him.”

“That’s not what he said. I gather you two have, like, a history.” Stella clicked her fingernails on the table.

“Don’t be silly, Stella.”

“You
are
going to sleep with him.”

“Shows what you know. What did he say about me?”

“Just that you’re old friends.”

“Don’t believe anything he says. The snake.” The Advil had not yet kicked in. She dropped her aching head to the table. Marie stopped on her way out the door and tapped Lacey on the shoulder. She lifted her head blearily.

“Come see me at The Little Shop of Horus. I’ll give y’all the special introductory offer. And Lacey, about that dark-haired man. He really is attracted to you.”

Lacey spilled her coffee again. “What man?”
Good heavens, is Vic written all over me?

“With the green eyes.” Marie winked and continued to hand out cards to other coffee drinkers on her way out.

Stella sat there like the cat who swallowed the canary, cage and all. “You
are
going to sleep with him! All right!”

“Shut up, Stella.”

A familiar gleam lit Stella’s narrowed eyes. “You know, Lacey. You’re pretty particular about that hair of yours. Where do you think you could ever find another stylist who can make it do every perfect little thing that you want?”

“Blackmail will not work on me, Stella.”

“It’s not blackmail; it’s hairmail. It always works.” Stella dangled a key ring in front of Lacey. “And I know where you can start on Angie. At her apartment. I told her mom I’d go over.”

“Her apartment?” Lacey softened. “You can’t face it by yourself, can you?”

“It’s really hard. Kind of spooky, you know. Now that she’s dead and all.” Stella’s eyes suddenly glittered with tears.

Please don’t cry. If you cry, I’ll cry.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to go alone.” Lacey grabbed Angie’s keys. “Lead the way, oh Leather Lass.”

Chapter 8

Adrienne Woods could not face the prospect of going to her dead daughter’s apartment and rummaging through her possessions. She had asked Stella to collect a few personal items and give the rest to charity. Stella was presented with a modest list of things to retrieve: some jewelry, letters, photographs, a stuffed teddy bear, a decorative teapot, and a few other odds and ends. And of course, it was another chance for Lacey to find the crucial fashion clue and wrap up the case, just like that, according to the stylist-who-knew-everything.

“Another ride in the Barbie mobile?” Lacey asked, eyeing Stella’s little red racer.

“Everyone knows Barbie drives a pink Corvette. I should be so lucky. You should be so lucky. I, at least, have wheels. Cute little wheels, too.” Stella had her there.

In Stella’s new Barbie toy of a car, Lacey secured the shoulder harness tightly and prayed. The prospect of another speed-of-light trip in the Mini Cooper made Lacey long for her 280ZX. It was supposed to be ready on Monday and would only set her back another three hundred dollars. Something about the fuel injectors.

After a few moments of quiet that she wasn’t sure she wanted to break, Lacey asked, “I still want to know one thing, Stella. What happened to the hair? There must have been two feet of thick blond hair. Where did it all go?” The question kept nagging at her. “Did it fall on the floor? Was it swept up into the trash? It would have made a huge pile at the base of the chair. Unless it was cut in one long ponytail or braid and saved. Could it be hidden away in a drawer?”

“I don’t know. Last time I saw her alive, she wore her hair French braided with a blue ribbon wound through it.” Stella swerved to miss a white Honda that had the audacity to slow down in front of her.

“You found the body. Don’t you remember?”

“God, Lacey, I don’t want to remember that. I mean, all I see is red. Only it wasn’t red. It was horrible-dried-blood color; dark, ugly brown.” She sucked in a deep breath and stared straight ahead. “Okay. I’m thinking. The hair. I just see her head, that butcher job. I don’t see the hair. You think it’s important?” The Mini was lurching to a stop behind a huge gray Mercedes. Lacey closed her eyes and jammed her feet into the floor to supply additional braking power.

“It has to be. If she didn’t cut it herself, someone else did. So what did they do with it? Take it with them? What?”

“I’m trying, Lacey. I can see what she wore. Her smock. The pink one. Nobody liked the pink ones but Angie. The bloody razor on the counter, the mirror, the blood. I don’t see the hair.”

“Someone has to know. And where’s the razor?”

“The cops took it, I guess. It’s not there now.”

Someone had to take the hair. If the hair is really gone, it has to be murder. Was it some pervert? Or someone who wanted it to look like a pervert did it?

“Do you have the name and number of the company that cleaned up the crime scene?”

“Crime scene? Sure. I can get it for you,” Stella said. “Yeah, the crime scene. Damn right, the crime scene!”

“I just want to know if they saw the hair. They could have cleaned it up. That would explain it. That’s all.”

A stillness descended on the car, each woman lost in her thoughts. Stella broke the silence. “You know what’s spooky? Picking out clothes for a dead woman. That’s what. I had to go over to her place before the funeral ’cause there wasn’t anyone else to do it. Her mother asked me to take care of it and I have no idea why I said yes. It’s a huge responsibility. I mean this is it—forever. Her last outfit. I thought the clothes should be pretty ’cause Angie liked pretty things, and sort of comfortable, not too tight, but special, you know?”