Aretha Moon and the Dead Hairdresser: Aretha Moon Book 2 (Aretha Moon Mysteries)

by Linda Ross

  CHAPTER ONE

  I eyed the guy who had just opened the door of the ground floor apartment and wondered if this assignment could get any worse. He looked to be hovering around 300 pounds if he hadn’t already crash landed on that particular number.

  I shouldn’t criticize anyone’s weight since I’m a Size 12 myself. Okay, okay, a 14 if I want to zip my jeans. And maybe a tad more if I don’t want to pop a button.

  He had beautiful long chestnut hair though—better than my graying reddish orange do—but from there on down he was a train wreck.

  Stubble, and not the sexy kind but the I was too hung over to shave kind.

  His pink chiffon robe was open, probably because there wasn’t enough chiffon in Bowling Green, Missouri, to make a robe in his size. His chest was nearly bare, sprinkled liberally with black curly hair and a little gold star adorning each nipple. I’m guessing he earned those stars by cleaning his plate at lunch.

  I didn’t want to let my eyes drift lower, but I couldn’t help myself. And there was an athletic cup. A pink athletic cup. I hurriedly dropped my eyes to the pink socks.

  So this was Avery Turnberry, the trucker who claimed to have been a stripper in a previous life.

  I didn’t want this assignment, and I’d made that clear to Lorenzo Mayo, my boss at The Spyglass, the tabloid newspaper that employs me in Hannibal, Missouri. My name is Aretha Moon, and I’m a reporter of sorts. Mostly the middle-aged, divorced, irritated sort. It was Friday, and all I wanted was to get home early for a nice quiet weekend of TV and junk food.

  But Lorenzo had only laughed, a sound like a malfunctioning washing machine, and said it would give me a chance to get out of Hannibal. Carl, another reporter, had grinned. I had looked over at the new reporter for support, but she only gave me a sympathetic look before she turned back to her computer. Thelma Murphy was our newest addition, hired at the end of summer. She was around sixty-five with coffee-colored skin and sleek black hair pulled back into some kind of chignon thing that looked professional. Her hair was liberally sprinkled with gray.

  So here I was, being ushered into a small apartment by the trucker slash stripper. I was surprised to see a little woman sitting at the kitchen table since I’d assumed Avery lived alone. But it turned out she was the landlady and also the hypnotist who had regressed Avery into his former life as a stripper.

  Her name was Maria Louise Hopper, and she smiled warmly when Avery introduced her. I guessed she was about fifty-five, which would make her five years older than I am. Her gray hair was cut in a curly bob that flattered her face.

  “I could hypnotize you,” she offered immediately. “I bet you were a famous writer in the 1800s. And you died of consumption.”

  “More likely I was the wife of an Iowa pig farmer with gout,” I said. “So, Avery, tell me about how you discovered your past life.”

  Avery sat down and passed around three cups of hot coffee.

  “It’s all because of Maria,” he said. “I was watching wrestling one night, and she brought me down some chocolate chip cookies. I had pork rinds and onion dip out, and I got us a couple of beers, some pretzels and cheese puffs and heated up some pizza rolls.”

  I love food. I live for food. My hobby is food. But I found my inner foodie going Uh-huh, Uh-huh and my eyes glazing over as Avery went through his endless snack list.

  “Another couple of beers and Maria told me about this past lives stuff. I thought it was a bunch of bull.” Avery stopped and gave Maria an apologetic nod of his head.

  “It’s all right, dear,” she said. “Most people don’t believe in it.”

  “But I thought, What the heck?” he went on. “It was a Saturday, and I didn’t have anything better to do.” He shifted in his wooden chair, and I heard a distinct cracking sound. I figured that poor chair was good for maybe another two sittings before it was kindling. From my angle I could see one of Avery’s butt cheeks hanging over the edge like a deflated tire.

  “So why don’t you show me what you did?” I prompted Maria.

  She immediately brightened. “Oh, I’d love to. Why don’t I demonstrate on you?”

  “I really need to take notes,” I said. “Just do Avery again.”

  “Okay. Sure.” She cleared her throat and looked into Avery’s face. “Now, Avery,” she said, “I want you to look down at your coffee and see how smooth it looks, just like a lake.” Her voice had softened to slow sing-song, like a mother soothing a child. “Feel how calm the lake is, and look at how deep it is. So deep that you can’t see the bottom.” She went on like that, talking about the lake and how Avery should ignore everything but that lake and how relaxed it was making him.

  I watched his face and saw it go slack. His eyelids drooped, and his mouth was slightly open. I was feeling kind of relaxed myself.

  “Just relax and let your mind float,”Maria told him. “Now you’re ten years old. Remember how you felt and what you did on your birthday.”

  “A bicycle!” Avery said. “I got a blue bicycle! And cake! A big chocolate cake.”

  I guessed that Avery probably ate most of that cake himself. I would have.

  “Now go back further,” Maria said quietly. “You’re a baby. You’re lying in a crib. Feel how relaxed you are and know that everything is all right.” She waited a beat, then said, “Now go back some more. Further, further. What do you see?”

  “It’s all dark,” he said.

  “Keep going. A little further. What do you see?”

  “Bright lights. On me. And lots of men watching me.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking off my dress. It’s shiny and has a zipper in the back. I unzip it, then slip down one shoulder and look at the men. I’m moving my hips to the music.” Avery smiled. “The lights are hot.”

  I don’t know about you, but hearing a 300-pound man talking about taking off a dress in front of a room of other men was creeping me out. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

  “What’s your name?” Maria prompted.

  Avery paused, then said, “Lola. The men are all saying it. ‘Come on, Lola, take it all off.’”

  “Is that your real name, Lola?” Maria asked.

  “Oh, no. My mom would kill me if she knew what I was doing. My name is Agnes. I’m from Kansas, but I ran away to St. Louis.”

  “How old are you, Agnes?”

  “I’m seventeen, but don’t tell anyone. I said I was twenty-one.” Avery frowned. “I’m going to make enough money, and then I’m going to go to Hollywood and be an actress. But I get so tired sometimes.” He sighed heavily.

  “I think that’s enough for now,” Maria said. “Come forward in time, slowly, slowly. Now you’re a baby again and you’re safe and relaxed. And now you’re all grown up, Avery, and you drive a truck. You’re very, very relaxed, and when I say Now you’re going to wake up and feel rested. Now.”

  Avery opened his eyes and looked around, smiling. “I did it, didn’t I? I was Lola again.”

  “Yes, you certainly were,” I said. I made a few notes and looked at Maria. “Is this how it goes every time?”

  “More or less. Sometimes the person can’t get to the old memories, but Avery’s been very successful.”

  “So this is what Lola was wearing in your memory?” I asked, indicating his current attire.

  “Oh, no, I just wear this to relax in,” he said. “Lola had a fabulous wardrobe. I’m still working on that.”

  Okaaaay. I could hear Lorenzo chortling now. And I felt kind of bad that Avery slash
Lola was going to be a laughingstock. I took Avery’s photo, but I tried to shoot above those gold stars.

  “Let me get a little more information,” I said. I was planning on writing the story from the angle that Avery was as surprised as anyone—certainly me—to discover that he had been a stripper in a previous life.

  “You might want to put down that I appear at the Inferno in St. Louis,” he said.

  “The what now?”

  “It’s a nightclub for female impersonators.”

  “You strip there?” I asked dubiously.

  “Not strip,” he said earnestly. “I’m just part of the floor show. The chorus line, so to speak. A bunch of us parade around on stage while someone sings.”

  “That sounds. . . entertaining.”

  “We’re like a family,” he said. “You should come sometime and see the show.”

  “Is there food?” I do have my priorities.

  “Food and alcohol,” he said. He reached into his robe pocket and came up with a business card. The word Inferno was surrounded by red flames with the address underneath.

  I thanked him and stood up to leave.

  “If you ever want to find out who you were in the past,” Maria said, “I’ll be here.”

  I drove back to Hannibal wondering how a trucker had decided he had been a female stripper. I mean, it had to be a subconscious decision. I didn’t really think that age regression stuff was possible. Maria seemed nice enough, but I’ve written a lot of stories for The Spyglass that involve nice people who were whackadoodles.

  When I got to the office, a nondescript brick building in downtown Hannibal, Lorenzo and Carl popped out of their chairs immediately, anticipatory grins on their faces.

  “So what happened?” Lorenzo demanded, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall as I sat down at my computer. “Did he strip for you?”

  Carl chortled, and I shot him a murderous glare.

  “He’s a very nice man,” I said primly. “He’s just under this delusion.”

  “I’ll say,” Lorenzo said. “He thinks he’s a fricking girl with big boobs.”

  “Well, he has the boobs,” I muttered under my breath. “Now go away so I can write the horoscope.” I made a shooing motion with my hand.

  Lorenzo sighed and straightened. “Your problem, Moon,” he said, “is you feel sorry for every pathetic weirdo you write about.”

  “Yeah, that’s my problem,” I said. I glanced sideways at Lorenzo as he and Carl exited my area. I didn’t have a private office, but my desk and computer were in the middle of the room, clustered with other desks. I instinctively looked at Thelma ’s desk, but it was empty. No doubt Lorenzo had sent her to write about some other pathetic weirdo, maybe another grandmother who’d been counterfeiting money to stretch her social security. I remember that particular story sent Lorenzo into gales of laughter. The man wasn’t going to make any lists for sainthood.

  Lorenzo was actually in a good mood lately since we were coming up on the tenth anniversary of the founding of our little tabloid. He was even throwing a party the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

  I set about doing the horoscope, thinking evil thoughts about Lorenzo. Maybe his facial hair would twine itself around his neck and choke him. I had frequent cause to use the word hirsute once I met Lorenzo. The man grew hair like a true virtuoso of the follicles. I shuddered to think what he would look like without a shirt. Actually, for all I knew, his shirt was made out of his own hair.

  That gave me an idea for the horoscope. Lorenzo had assigned me the weekly horoscope at a time when he was desperate and apparently liked my take on it. He wasn’t after accuracy, just something that would capture the readers’ attention. And I guess I could do that. I was always particularly hard on Aquarius, because my ex-husband, He Who Shall Be Spit Upon, was born (or hatched under some rock) under the sign of Aquarius. I inflicted new miseries on Aquarius every week. Most Aquarians would be dead now if all of my predictions came true. This week it was going to be hair loss. And maybe a good dose of scabies as well. I almost felt sorry for my Aquarian ex, Boyd Moon, but that feeling went away when I thought of how he had shown me the door, then replaced me with Vernita Cassidy, now Vernita Moon. No, Aquarius, mere hair loss and scabies is too good for you. Let’s throw in some salmonella. And maybe the turkey wishbone sticking in one’s throat at Thanksgiving. No, that was probably overkill.

  I wrote up the first paragraph of Avery’s story on my computer and uploaded the most flattering picture of the ones I took. Flattering wasn’t actually the right word, but it would have to do. I typed up my notes so I could finish the story on Monday. Then I headed home to my little house on the bluffs of the Mississippi River and my poodle Nancy, a dog of indeterminate age and weak bladder.

  I fell asleep after a meal of pizza, diet soda and Russell Stover candy, heavy on the Russell part, and I had the last untroubled sleep I would have in a long time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I would have loved to sleep late Saturday, but my sister Eileen called me Friday night and asked if I would take her two daughters to get haircuts in the morning. Eileen had one of her migraines, and she was going to take a pill to sleep.

  Tiffany is sixteen and just got her driver’s license, but Eileen was worried that without adult supervision she would get a wild buzz cut or something else inappropriate. I’m not exactly the responsible party to send on this mission since my own hair doesn’t speak well for me. Actually, it’s a decent cut, but I have no talent for styling my hair. And my hairdresser is a dog groomer. He started out as a hairdresser, and his wife did the dog grooming, but it turned out that they made more money with the dogs. As a favor to me, he still cuts my hair. I take my dog Nancy in with me, and he does Nancy first, then me. She gets a biscuit when she’s done. I get a lecture about conditioner and blow dryers, which literally goes over my head.

  Hair Affair was located on a side street near the old hospital, surrounded by brick houses and across the street from a bait and tackle shop. The top floor of the house looked to be empty, and the shop itself was located on the first floor. There was a park bench sitting outside, presumably for bored husbands who brought their wives to their appointments. If husbands ever did that.

  It was dark inside the building when we pulled up in my PT Cruiser. No one was around except a young guy with close-cropped hair and a large gap between his front teeth. He was standing near the bench with his hands in his jacket pockets. When our car stopped he turned and walked away. The girls had picked on my car the entire way. “Aunt Ree, why can’t you get a real car?” This was Tiffany. “Like a Mini Cooper. Wouldn’t that be neat? And you’d let me drive it, wouldn’t you?”

  “I could drive it too,” Desi insisted. “But just in the driveway until I get my license.”

  I was beginning to see the source of my sister Eileen’s migraines.

  “Actually, I was planning on letting Nancy drive it,” I said casually.

  “Your dog?” Tiffany’s indignation stretched the word into three syllables.

  “She’s just kidding, aren’t you, Aunt Ree?” Desi asked, sounding hesitant.

  “If you say so.” I looked at the car clock and realized we were about ten minutes early for the appointment. I preferred to wait inside and look at gossip magazines rather than listen to the girls try to convince me to buy a new car. “Come on,” I said. I got out of the car and headed for the door.

  I heard a car door close, and an auburn-haired woman scurried from a Kia parked two cars in front of us. She was so small she looked to be about a size zero. Another door closed, and a thin woman with chin-length blond hair strode from the car behind us, a black Audi. I was hoping one of the two was Kara, the hairdresser, but neither matched Tiffany’s enthusiastic description. Black spiky hair with a purple streak and lots of piercings. I could see why Eileen wanted the girls chaperoned.

  There was an old-fashioned doorknob, some kind of weathered metal that wobbled but turned when I grabbed it.

>   I saw the body as soon as the door opened. She was lying face up on the floor by the second of two swivel chairs in front of identical mirrors. There was enough light from the window that I could see the blood as well. It was dark and coagulated, and it was splattered around her head and upper torso. At least what was left of her head and torso. She had been beaten to a pulp. There was shattered bone and bits of brain where once there had been a face. Around what was left of her face was short, spiked black hair with a streak of purple.

  Tiffany and Desi were pushing me from behind. “Come on, Aunt Ree. Stop blocking the door.”

  “Go to the car,” I told them, turning around quickly. “Right now.” Something in my voice must have warned them, because the pushing stopped. I was making an effort not to throw up.

  “I’m so sorry,” the tiny woman said as she approached. “Kara must have just gotten here. She was scheduled to open this morning.” Obviously she hadn’t seen around me to the body yet, and I held up my hands.

  “You need to call the police,” I said quietly. “Now.” She gave me a questioning glance and then leaned to the side to look around me. I saw her face blanch.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed. “Oh, my God.”

  “Call the police,” I said again, putting my hand on her shoulder. “Go sit on the bench and call them.” She nodded slowly and moved away, fumbling in her purse for her cell phone.

  I had forgotten about the blond woman, but she moved up beside me and peered inside. The scream she let out was blood curdling, and I flinched. Tiffany and Desi jumped out of the car, but one look from me and they got back in.

  “It’s Kara!” the woman wailed. “No! No!”

  I put my arm around her shoulder and gently moved her away from the door. “Maybe you should go sit down in your car until the police get here,” I said. She nodded, her face buried in her hands. She went back to her car, making sloppy sobbing sounds the entire way.

  I kept my back turned to the open door, not wanting to look at the gruesome sight inside. But my imagination was working overtime. Who would want to kill a hairdresser and in such a brutal way?