Muttering under her breath about obnoxious salespeople, Marla hurried to her car. She didn't want to be late for her talk with Cookie. It was dark out, and she walked with her keys in hand. The parking lot was fairly full, but no one else was around. A chilly breeze ruffled her skin.
She barely heard the revving engine before twisting her head. A car, headlights off, charged straight at her. With a shriek, she threw herself to the side just as the vehicle whizzed past. Banging against a parked SUV, she experienced a sharp pain in her side, but that was the least of her worries. Screeching tires grazed the pavement, and she saw the car rushing back, aiming to crush her against the sport-utility vehicle.
Heart thumping, Marla ran between cars. She'd parked her Toyota Camry near the end of the row. Gasping for breath, she reached the driver's side and halted. Her mouth dropped open. One of the tires had a flat. Damn.
Wildly, she glanced over her shoulder, confused by the sudden silence. The car's engine had cut off, which might mean one of two things. Either the driver had left the parking area, or he'd cut his ignition and was proceeding on foot. Since she hadn't noticed a vehicle burning rubber to leave the lot, the latter seemed more probable.
With trembling fingers, she fit her key into the lock and twisted it just as a body hurtled out of the darkness. Moonlight gleamed off the jagged edge of a broken bottle aimed at her face. She couldn't identify her assailant, who wore a mask over his head. Dodging the makeshift weapon, she jerked sideways, twirled around, and lashed out with her foot. She was satisfied to hear a grunt of pain when she hit his shinbone.
Using the distraction to her advantage, she threw open her car door and slid inside. Slamming the door and pushing the lock, she started the engine. Her assailant pounded on the window, looming like a ghoul in the night. Curse the flat tire. She'd ruin the wheel if necessary to get out of there!
Lurching into reverse, the car halted while she shifted gears. Her eyes darted to the rearview mirror. Would the man follow in his vehicle? She careened from the parking lot, her pulse racing as she drove to the nearest gas station.
While a service attendant jacked up her wheel, she succumbed to an attack of nerves. Chills racked her body. She'd nearly had her face slashed, or worse! Knowing she should notify the police, Marla hesitated. Vail's disapproving frown surfaced in her mind, and she decided against it. What could anyone prove? That she'd been attacked and was a fool for setting herself up? Thankfully, she hadn't been harmed. Now that she'd been forewarned, she would be extra cautious.
As she steered toward the ice cream parlor where she was overdue to meet Cookie, Marla wondered what she might have done to provoke an assault. Had someone at the health club been angered by one of her conversations? Or did this relate back to the episode between Hank Goodfellow and Wallace Ritiker at the pharmacy? They'd been on Vail's member sign-in list along with the Zelmans. Then again, Sam and Eloise could easily have eavesdropped on her conversation with Cookie outside the dance studio. Keith was in the vicinity as well. Or had it been something she'd said to Slate? He could have grabbed that pair of panty hose in his drawer, yanked it over his head, and run outside to nab her.
If there had been any notions in her mind that Jolene's death was purely an accidental drowning, tonight had dispelled them.
Turning into the parking lot at The Fountains shopping center, Marla was glad to see a crowd hanging out at TCBY. Cookie was smart to have chosen such a public venue for their meeting.
Her knees wobbled when she approached the brightly lit store, where she glimpsed Cookie pacing inside. Drawing a deep breath, she attempted to put a benign expression on her face. It wasn't easy with her heart still beating at a fast rhythm, but she didn't want Cookie to notice her distress.
No such luck. As soon as she spotted Marla, the activist marched over, a determined gleam in her eyes. “You're late. I thought you'd stood me up.” Cookie peered closer. “What happened to you? You're white as a sheet."
"My car had a flat tire."
"Your voice is shaking. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Too much exercise tonight. Guess I need to get in shape."
Cookie gave a snort of disbelief. “Whatever. Do you want to order? I'm going to get a cone."
Marla decided to splurge on a high-calorie dessert and ordered a hot fudge sundae. The sugar dose would help restore her composure. Cookie stuck to a traditional scoop of vanilla. With her short stature, capri pants, and animal-print top with the ends tied at her midriff, she almost blended in with the teen crowd. She'd applied more makeup than usual, as though wanting to impress Marla with her professionalism. You look good when you dress up, pal, Marla admitted silently. With her tousled hairstyle, Cookie could be stunning in the proper wardrobe. The dog hairs on her shirt would have to go, though.
"I'm glad you've decided to let me help you,” Cookie began, seated across from Marla. A dribble of ice cream rolled down her chin, and she dabbed at it with a napkin.
Savoring a mouthful of rich fudge sauce, Marla sought a diplomatic reply. “You've awakened me to the issue of animal testing. I've really never thought about it before."
"Neither have most people. You don't consider how the cosmetics and household products you use are the source of suffering and death for thousands of laboratory animals."
"Aren't those tests necessary to make certain the chemicals are safe on people?"
"Not necessarily. Even when tests show that a product is dangerous, it may not be kept off the market. It'll simply bear a warning label telling you to call a doctor if you ingest the product or if it splashes on your skin."
"I don't see how that relates to the hair care products I use in my salon."
Cookie leaned forward, her gaze intent. “Besides shampoos, your cosmetics, toiletries, and household products involve animal tests at some stage in their development. You clean counters and wash towels at the salon, don't you? Detergents, bleach, and soaps derive from animal experiments. So even if all your hair care products are botanicals, you can't escape culpability."
Marla's shoulders stiffened. “Botanicals can cause problems in people, too. Herbal components may cause sensitivity reactions if customers are allergic. As for other products, surely not all companies use the techniques you mention."
"You have to learn the difference. Firms that label their products as not having been tested on animals may still use ingredients from other suppliers who do these tests. Or they'll contract other laboratories to do the tests, and then they can claim their company doesn't perform animal testing. There's a difference between companies that have made a real commitment to ending such cruelty and those who continue to use ingredients tested by torturing helpless creatures."
"What about medical research?” Marla asked. “Isn't it necessary to perform animal tests to discover new treatments for diseases? How else are scientists to find therapies that are effective and safe on humans?"
Cookie jabbed a finger in the air. “I'm talking about product tests that treat animals as expendable beings with no lives of their own. It subjugates their existence to serve humans merely to produce a new lipstick, shampoo, or toothpaste. Let me tell you about some of the tests."
"Go ahead.” Marla ate a spoonful of ice cream, wondering how she could turn the direction of their conversation to Jolene.
Cookie's sea green eyes glowed with fervor. Turning her ice-cream cone upside down in a dish, she ignored the melting mess.
"In the Draize irritancy test, potentially harmful products are dripped into the eyes of rabbits, who don't produce tears to flush them away. The substances remain on the cornea, causing burning and ulceration, while the animals are restrained.
"Then there's the Lethal Dose Fifty Percent test. The toxicity level of a product is assessed by force-feeding it through a syringe directly into the animal's stomach. A number of animals are treated until fifty percent of them die. Death comes slowly, often after seizures, pain, and loss of balance. Animals left alive at the end may be killed and
autopsied. What does this prove? In many cases, nothing. The animals die because of the volume forced into them."
Cookie's gaze misted, and her voice choked with emotion. “Finally, there's the skin test. A patch of skin is shaved and scratched, then the test substance is applied while the animals are restrained. They receive no pain relief as the substance burns through their skin. These cruel tests don't make the products any safer. If you use compounds derived this way, you're just as guilty as the researchers."
Marla's stomach churned. “What's the alternative?"
"Computer programs can predict toxicity using structural analysis. Cells can be grown in cultures and products tested on them. Other methods are being developed. The point is that these tests can be conducted differently."
"I remember hearing you accuse Jolene's company of conducting animal tests. How do you know so much?"
A pinched look came over Cookie's face. “I have a lot of friends in SETA. Jolene's reports minimized her department's use of animal experiments, but she was getting data from another source and claiming it as her own. Those test results were more favorable, although that lab does animal tests, too."
"So you're saying Jolene falsified her documents to reflect this other material. Where did she get it?"
"I suspect from someone over at Listwood Pharmaceuticals,” Cookie said. “They're the only other chemical plant in town."
"I see why you were upset with Jolene about the animal testing, but this other place conducts experiments, too. So why did you target just her?"
Cookie's fists clenched. “Jolene destroyed my life."
Understanding dawned. “You used animal rights as a smoke screen. Your vendetta against Jolene was personal. Tell me, why did you hate her so much?” Did you hate her enough to kill her, pal?
In a rare show of vulnerability, Cookie's lower lip trembled. “My husband worked at Stockhart Industries until Jolene fired him. We ended up getting a divorce. Now I'll never have a family, and it's her fault."
No wonder Cookie rambled on sounding so scientific. She'd learned the lingo from her ex-spouse. “You might still meet someone worthwhile,” Marla said gently, taking a sip of water from a plastic cup. The noise level in the ice cream parlor dropped as patrons began to leave. Uneasy about driving home on her spare tire, she didn't want to leave too late.
"I'm not sorry about Jolene's accident."
Cookie's comment jolted her. “Oh?"
"She was immoral. Do you know I saw her meet Sam Zelman a few times on the sly? I wonder what they had going."
"Jolene wasn't involved with your husband, was she?"
Cookie's expression darkened. “If she had been, she'd have been dead a lot sooner."
"Detective Vail suspects there may be more to her death than an accidental drowning. Do you remember those gelatin capsules she took in the locker room?"
"Yes, I do. I warned her about them."
Marla sat up straighter. “Meaning?"
"Almost all capsules are made from animal sources. She just insisted on abusing those poor creatures any way she could. And her foolish practice of taking gelatin to harden her nails! I told Jolene that gelatin is an animal protein. It's extracted from beef and pork skin and bones."
Marla wrinkled her nose. Gelatin was widely used in the food industry. Already she was learning more about animal products and testing than she'd ever wanted to know. She bit her lower lip, focusing her thoughts. “If someone wanted to do Jolene harm, who would be the first person you'd suspect?"
"Other than me?” Cookie snickered. “There are too many candidates. Maybe whoever had been selling her the better test results got spooked they'd be discovered. Or Eloise found out Sam was fooling around with Jolene. Amy at the club was angry at her for taking Slate's attention away. Even Gloria complained about her. As I said, Jolene got what she deserved."
Chapter Eight
"Will you let me know if you learn anything more about Jolene's affairs, business or otherwise?” Marla asked Cookie.
"Why should I?” Rising, Cookie tossed her sticky dish into a trash can.
Marla discarded her sundae cup. “If you keep me informed, I'll check my inventory at the salon to see if our products comply with SETA's recommendations."
Cookie gave her a considering look. “I didn't realize Jolene was such a close friend.” Her tone implied the woman couldn't possibly have had anyone who cared so much about her.
"I don't believe she drowned accidentally. Jolene was a mensch, you know what I mean? She had a good head on her shoulders. Jolene wouldn't have taken something that made her sleepy when she still had to drive home."
Cookie's eyes narrowed. “Cough it up, Marla.” Marla sighed. “Jolene had sedatives in her blood. She ingested a drug about an hour before she died."
Cookie didn't answer immediately. “I'll call you,” she promised quietly, making Marla believe Cookie might have some redeeming qualities after all.
Her next action refuted that thought. Reaching forward, Cookie grabbed the glass sugar container from their table and loosened the metal lid. “The next person who puts sugar in his coffee will get a surprise,” Cookie said, a mischievous grin on her face. “Something I learned in high school. Refined sugar is bad for you anyway."
* * * *
Marla was unable to follow up on any of the loose ends nagging at her until later in the week. Work and chores kept her occupied, including buying a new tire for the Camry.
Friday after work, she put aside time to accomplish one task. Fortunately, she remembered the address for Tesla, the massage therapist, thanks to Vail, who had shown her the list of sports club staff members in his office. Now she could at least check this trail to see if it led to Jolene. Vail might have already investigated this angle, but she had an advantage over him. A woman was more likely to confide in a hairdresser than in a cop.
Her car's clock read six-thirty, meaning she had less than an hour before Eddie, Nicole's boyfriend, started barbecuing jerk chicken for a get-together at his house. Hopefully, Tess would be home if she hadn't yet gone out for the weekend.
Driving through an older section of Plantation near Fig Tree Lane, Marla admired the spreading banyan trees that shaded the streets. The lots extended well away from the road. From the house numbers, she surmised Tesla's place was the lemon yellow cottage with white shutters just ahead. She'd pulled along the curb and put her hand on the gear shift when a movement caught her attention. Someone was leaving the yellow house. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a vibrantly colored kerchief dress, the lady wobbled on high heels toward a dark-green Buick parked in the short driveway. Squinting, Marla tried to get a better view in the encroaching darkness.
Two choices confronted her. She could approach the house and knock on the door. If Tess was inside, her patience would be rewarded. But if this person leaving was Tess, maybe Marla should follow her.
Have some saichel, she told herself. Good sense mandated that she continue with her original plan. Waiting until the visitor left, Marla studied the house. Weeds had overgrown the front lawn. A sodden newspaper in a plastic bag lay on the swale, victim of an early-morning sprinkler shower.
As she got out of the car and walked along the cracked sidewalk, her nostrils inhaled a sweet, fruity scent. Old Florida, she thought fondly, veering around a spreading bird of paradise plant.
The front door swung open, and a thin woman wearing rollers and a housecoat confronted Marla. “Do I know you?"
Marla mustered a smile. It was difficult to ignore the woman's red-rimmed eyes and trembling lower lip, but she managed a cheerful demeanor. “I'm looking for Tesla Parr. My name is Marla Shore."
"You just missed her. She left a few minutes ago."
"Oh. Isn't this her place?"
The woman gave a harsh laugh. “Hell, no. Who are you and where did you get that information?"
"From the sports club where she works. I'm a member there, and I wanted to know if she gave private appointments. As a haird
resser, I'm on my feet all day. I really need someone to come to my house and give me a massage after work. I can afford whatever fee Tess charges."
"Oh, yeah?” The woman's blue eyes glinted with avarice. “Wait just a minute, honey. I'll write down an address where you can find her."
"Are you her friend?"
"Sorry, I'm Betsy. We're ... more than friends."
Betsy grinned, showing surprisingly even teeth. With a smile, her expression lost its haunted look and transformed her features. She was a pretty woman, Marla thought, when she wasn't crying. Now what did she mean by that remark? Were she and Tess on intimate terms?
Clutching the piece of paper in her hand, Marla returned to her car. Temperatures ranged in the seventies, and humidity was low, making it a delightful evening for a barbecue. Her rumbling stomach heralded dinnertime. One more stop, then she'd proceed to Eddie's house, where the rest of her staff had probably finished their first round of drinks.
Traffic was heavy with rush-hour commuters, soit took her longer than normal to travel to Davie, the nearest town to the south. The directions took her to a community with speed bumps, which she cursed each time the Camry jolted over one. Whoever voted them into the development should grow like an onion, with his head in the ground. All they did was ruin the tires.
Hungry and annoyed, she wasn't in a good mood when she rapped on the door at 501 Fairlawn Court. It hadn't escaped her notice that the dark-green Buick she'd seen Tess leave in earlier now sat in this driveway. Expecting the woman to open the door to her house, she received an unexpected shock when a man responded to her summons.
"Slate! What are you doing here?” she asked as soon as she could speak. From his matted dark hair, freshly scrubbed face, and bare chest, she surmised Slate wasn't prepared for visitors. His exposed feet bore strange marks and looked swollen.
"I'm going to ask you this same thing,” he snapped, eyes flashing dangerously.
"I was looking for Tess."
Nancy J. Cohen - Bad Hair Day 03 - Murder By Manicure Page 8
