Killer Hair (12 page)

“You don’t care about fashion when you’re dead. Unless you’re an ancient Egyptian.”

“So I decided when I die, I got a special outfit in mind.”

“Please, Stella. I can’t handle a last-wardrobe request right now.”

“Leather, Lacey. Just remember: Leather is forever. There’s no one else I’d trust to take care of it.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I’m scared, Lacey.”

“You’re certainly not going to die and leave me to clean up the mess.”

“Just so we understand each other. Leather. Red maybe, or black. No. Red is more cheerful. And a bustier. A timeless look. What do you think?”

“I think you’re awfully proud of that body.”

“It’s a temple.”

The Mini screeched to a halt in front of a small redbrick apartment building in Del Ray, a once-depressed neighborhood in Alexandria that was rapidly rising in price and upward mobility. As Lacey exited the tiny vehicle, she informed Stella she would drive next time.

“Ha! You really plan on seeing that Z-car again? I figure your bloodsucking mechanic is just selling you a new one piece by piece.”

“His name is Paul. He’s very nice.”

“First-name basis with your mechanic. What does that tell you?” Stella locked the Club on the Mini’s steering wheel. “You’re never gonna get that car back. Face it. Paul probably had it towed to a hospice. Maybe it could be an organ donor. So that other Zs may live.”

“Very funny, Stel.”

“The paper must be paying you enough money. Why don’t you just buy a new car? I got a great deal on this little baby. Although the flag cost extra.”

“Look, most people treat their cars like appliances. Like refrigerators or toasters. You plug it in, it makes toast. One day you wake up, it doesn’t make toast, you pull the plug and buy another toaster. My Z is not a toaster, Stella. It’s got style. It’s got personality. Nobody understands about my car. And besides, I don’t have any payments.”

Stella looked disgusted. “Ha! Sure you do—unless your mechanic works for free. My car’s got lots of personality and it’s a great little toaster too. You ought to take that car of yours to the Kevorkian Motor Works. You got to learn to let go.”

Lacey didn’t care. She wanted her Z back.

Angie’s efficiency apartment was at the top of three flights of stairs. Stella opened the door and flipped on the light. The tiny foyer looked inviting. The afternoon sun streaming through the large window lit dust motes floating in the air. Angie had painted the walls a soft rose color and the trim white. “I told you she liked pink.”

Beyond the pink foyer was a disaster. The small kitchenette was dusted with broken crockery. In the main room, large and square, the bed was overturned and bookshelves were toppled. From the walk-in closet, clothes had been ripped off hangers and strewn everywhere. A television was turned upside down and a VCR lay beside it. The entire floor was covered with Angie’s possessions. Lacey gasped. For a moment, Stella was speechless.

“Oh my God, Lacey. I didn’t leave it like this, I swear.” Stella had selected Angie’s funeral outfit on Tuesday. It was the only time she’d been in the apartment, the only time she’d visited the tidy little neighborhood with small apartment buildings and neatly painted frame houses with front porches. “I locked the door and everything was in its place. Honest to God.”

Stella remembered that Angie’s clothes were arranged in the closet by season and color, which greatly impressed her; she always wanted to be that organized. “Maybe we got the wrong apartment by mistake.”

“Stella, the key fit. That’s how we know we’re in the right place,” Lacey reasoned. “We have to call the police.”

“The police? Again? What, are you crazy?”

“Stella?” Lacey had never seen Stella on the verge of tears so often. She had been completely in control at the funeral.
More or less.

“I don’t do well around cops. I mean, I’m really getting tired of this whole cops thing. They make me kind of anxious. I just don’t do so good . . .” Tears overflowed their mascara borders. Lacey was so dumbfounded she actually put her arm around Stella’s shoulder. Stella sobbed. Lacey handed her a handkerchief. She couldn’t bear to see the brave petite punkette fall apart.

“Maybe we should call her family and see if someone can come over and decide what to do. After all, Stella, we can’t even be sure of what might be missing.” Stella wiped her tears.

Lacey borrowed Stella’s cell phone and made the call to Mrs. Woods, who said she would send her older daughter over. Stella locked the apartment, sat with Lacey on the steps outside, and waited. Stella managed to pull herself together before Lacey joined in the crying jag. Half an hour later, seventeen-year-old Abigail Woods drove up in a rental car.

Lacey opened the door this time. Abigail took one look at the chaos inside and burst into tears. Stella provided an encore performance. There were too many volatile emotions for Lacey and she was running out of handkerchiefs. “Okay, ladies, I’m calling the police. But it will be all right. I promise.”

The young Alexandria police officer with sandy hair and pale eyes took pity on Abigail. “It’s my sister’s apartment, Officer.” Abigail tried hard to be brave, but her voice was shaky. He seemed less taken with Lacey and Stella, though he obviously enjoyed the view down Stella’s leather-laced bodice. However, with Abigail’s assurance, he accepted that they were there at the family’s request.

Officer Mark Lincoln conscientiously conducted a search of the apartment and tried to establish from the women what, if anything, was taken. All Stella could do was go through her list and see if the items were there. Although the jewelry was scattered across the floor near a broken jewelry box, Abigail found all the baubles on her mother’s list: a pearl necklace, a gold chain with a heart, an opal ring, and a few pairs of earrings. It seemed to Lacey that they were simple pieces but real, not junk, and well worth stealing. The teddy bear lay forlornly on the floor, and the teapot was smashed. A broken videotape:
Legally Blonde
. Nothing on Adrienne’s list was missing.

Still hung up on the “where is the hair?” question, Lacey looked for signs that Angie’s haircut could have taken place in the apartment before she returned to the salon. But there were no telltale long locks or short snippets of freshly cut hair, though there was something lacking about the bathroom.

Wouldn’t someone with waist-length hair need a comb or a brush?
All the blow-dryers, combs, brushes, and curling implements Lacey had bought over the years lay in a small grave-yard of accessories in the hall closet by her bathroom door.

“Stella, isn’t something missing in here? Combs, brushes? Styling paraphernalia?”

“God, it didn’t even hit me. You’re right, Lacey.” Stella nodded approvingly. “Nuances. Style clues. See, you are good at this stuff.”

Officer Lincoln gazed at the bathroom. He looked puzzled. “Ma’am? If you ladies could be more specific—”

“It’s what you don’t see,” Lacey said.

Soft-spoken Abigail explained in her honeysuckle tones. “My sister Angela kept that cork bulletin board decorated with all her little treasures. They weren’t much, but they meant something to her: brocaded ribbons, small jeweled butterfly clips, beaded headbands, and combs. Everything she used for her hair. Such beautiful hair, Officer Lincoln.”

The board now hung empty, caught diagonally on a single nail, the other nail ripped from the wall. “And a small white wicker basket full of pretty hair sticks, maybe a dozen or so. To tie up her hair.” The basket and contents were missing. “They always looked real elegant.” Abigail sighed and leaned against the wall.

“Angie’s a hairstylist, like me,” Stella jumped in. “Stylists have tons of that stuff. We get free samples all the time: brushes, scrunchies, you name it. And we get a discount on blow-dryers and scissors and things.”

For someone who was distrustful of cops, Stella was singing like the proverbial canary, Lacey thought. Officer Lincoln looked up from his notebook to surreptitiously stare at Stella’s bosom.

Abigail gazed around the bathroom. “There isn’t anything left.” She was at a loss for an explanation.

Lacey kept her thoughts to herself. Without a doubt, Angie had been murdered and the dirty creep had taken not only the missing hair, but all the ornaments she used to gild the lily.
But there must be something else he was after,
Lacey thought.
Something pretty valuable.

Stella seemed perplexed. “You see, Angie and me, we worked together,” she continued. “I’m the manager of Stylettos’ Dupont Circle salon and I found the body. But I don’t see much stylist stuff here. Look—one blow-dryer, one curling iron. But the brushes and combs are missing. Jeez, who’d break in to steal a comb?”

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Back up to ‘found the body,’ would you please, ma’am?” Officer Lincoln was getting that distrustful look again. He had been under the impression that the apartment’s resident was on vacation or something, and her friends and family were just looking after it. Abigail burst into tears once more and Officer Lincoln thought about calling for backup.

“Oh, jeez, you didn’t know. Angie . . .” Stella teared up and didn’t know what to say. Lacey explained to the policeman that in the previous week, Angela Woods had died in a Washington hair salon, Stella had found the body, and the D.C. police had determined that the young woman committed suicide in the salon.

“And now look, someone’s tossed her place,” Stella said. Stella liked the sound of “tossed.” It seemed more knowing than “burglarized.”

Officer Lincoln took a deep breath and looked at Abigail. She was gazing at him with a look of complete trust through eyes shining with tears. “I’m sorry for your loss, miss. Sometimes burglars read obituaries and break in during the funeral,” he said by way of explanation.

“But the TV and VCR are still here,” Lacey said.

“I’m taking that into account, ma’am.”

She wished he wouldn’t call her ma’am. Officer Lincoln dutifully wrote down that the missing items included “hair sticks.” The value was low. They weren’t the kinds of things that detectives would comb through pawnshops for. The officer informed the women there would be a neighborhood canvass, but because it was impossible to pinpoint or even narrow the time of the burglary within the last three days, it didn’t look good.

He addressed Abigail. “I know this is hard for you, miss, but I have to ask: Was your sister into drugs? Could someone be looking for her stash?” The young woman was so shocked she couldn’t speak, but that didn’t stop Stella.

“She never even drank. She was the last person on earth who’d be into drugs!” Stella looked like she might be an expert on the subject.

Officer Lincoln put away his pen. He also offered his insight that the door did not look forced and that whoever got in must have had a key, or that someone had left the door open. “Be sure to lock up when you leave.”

“I locked up before!” Stella said.

Lacey held Stella back from going after Officer Lincoln and setting him straight. “It’s okay, Stella. No one is blaming you.”

No one said anything. They listened to his footsteps echo down the stairs and out the door. A car door opened, an engine turned over, and they heard the car drive away. Within a minute, the landlord came by to see what the police wanted. He was a young guy with a beer belly covered by a stretched-out T-shirt.

Angie had rented the apartment furnished, which meant it contained one double bed, a pine dresser, a set of cheap bookshelves, and a small kitchen table with two chairs. She had added a few pictures and an inexpensive red Oriental carpet on the scarred wood parquet floor.

The landlord figured he could file an insurance claim for the old broken furniture. He showed no emotion, but he told Abigail there were a couple of weeks remaining on the rent, so she could take her time getting things out. He belched, rubbed his stomach, and rubbed his hands through his hair as he surveyed the premises. “Be sure and lock up when you leave. Can’t be too careful, you know.” Stella glared at his retreating figure.

The Woods family was returning to Atlanta the following day, so the extra couple of weeks didn’t help. Abigail collected personal items. Lacey and Stella folded clothes to donate to a battered-women’s shelter. They sorted things into three piles, yes, no, maybe, with Abigail as final arbiter. It was depressing business.

It’s a good thing I’m not a detective,
Lacey thought.
I’d be destroying evidence right now. But if the real evidence is missing, who knows what I’m doing?

Stella ordered pizza to keep their strength up. They depleted the refrigerator of all its diet soda and tossed the rest of the contents. They rolled up the Oriental rug. Abigail insisted that Stella take it; it filled the back of the red Mini. By the end of the day the three women were sweat stained and filthy. They moved bags to the cars and the trash and Abigail hugged them both good-bye. Stella drove Lacey home. This time she was grateful for a ride in the Mini.

“Thanks, Lacey,” Stella said. Her face bore streaks of dirt and tears. The makeup she had carefully applied that morning had lost the battle. Lacey assumed she looked about the same.

“I didn’t have anything better going on.” Lacey thought of a dozen things she could have done. Saturday was shot.

“Yeah, me neither,” Stella said.

“Whoever got into that apartment wanted something desperately. More than ribbons and brushes and pretty long hair.” Irrationally, she thought of Sherri Gold. But she figured that the woman was merely unpleasant. There was no reason to convict her of murder—although she may have been the last person to see Angie alive.

“What? Like drugs? You mean some drug-crazed thief must’ve thought she had something? It’d have to be some crackhead to think that.”

“Who’s stealing products at Stylettos?”

“Who isn’t? You think there’s a connection?”