Sweet Murder

by Tegan Maher

  I walked behind the counter to the espresso machine and made myself a large mint mocha latte, one of my specials. I pulled an extra shot of espresso into it because I figured I'd need the energy to keep up with the chatter at the salon. Those women could fill up a hot-air balloon on a regular day; I shuddered to think about the gossip high they were riding since Hank met his maker by face-planting in his coleslaw.

  I dropped a couple ice cubes into my cup of caffeine because my brain was demanding instant gratification, then took a sip and headed toward the door, bumping Rae with my hip as I passed behind her.

  "Gotta run. My appointment's in ten minutes and Belle's probably already counting them down." Belle was the former owner and current resident ghost at the Clip N Curl, and she stood firm on appointments even though she'd been dead for twenty years. She said a lady should be fashionably late for dinner or a ball, but never for a hair appointment.

  Raeann gave me a quick hug and Jake waved before jumping behind the counter to help, and said, "There are still openings in our skydiving group if you decide to live a little."

  I grinned and wiggled my fingers over my shoulder. “I’ve decided to live a lot instead of a little, so skydiving is out for me.” He laughed, and Rae looked at him like the sun rose and set on him. I tossed out a quick wish to the universe for his wellbeing. He seemed to be a good guy, so I didn't want to have to hurt him if he broke Raeann's heart.

  Chapter 8

  W

  hen I reached the Clip N Curl, three women I'd never seen before were filtering out with fresh hairstyles held firmly in place with at least half a can of Aqua Net. I held the door for them, then stepped inside. The owner, Coralee—a willowy bottle-blonde with big ’80s hair—was just finishing up with another woman I'd never seen before. I stifled a cough as I walked through the cloud of hairspray.

  "Hey, sugar!" she said with a bobby pin between her lips. "I'll be right with ya. I see you already have coffee. I made some brownies. They're over there in the corner; help yourself."

  Coralee was known for two things: her magic scissors and her brownies. They're perfectly fudgy on the inside and crispy on the outside, and she adds something that lends a slightly exotic, decadent flavor. I've tried to duplicate them but, even with my magic, haven't been able to come close. When I asked her for the recipe, she simply smiled and said it was an old secret family recipe. The whole I'd-have-to-kill-ya spiel. I bit into one and groaned aloud.

  The rest of the Clip N Curl crew was sitting at the nail tables whispering loudly amongst themselves. They were zeroed in on me like well-coiffed vultures waiting for the road to clear. Perfectly manicured fingers waved excitedly at me. I rolled my eyes. The gossip mill was already churning steadily, just waiting for me to add the morning grist. I briefly considered walking out the door just to see if they'd follow and drag me back in.

  Like any small town, the beauty salon was the place to go if you wanted to know anything about anybody. If I didn't remember what I’d done yesterday, I could just go there. Even if they didn't know for sure, they have enough eyes around town that they could piece together some version of events.

  They were harmless for the most part, though sometimes I wished I had nearly as much fun as they thought I did. To their credit, they quickly set things straight if they got it wrong, but it's usually a whole lot easier to let the cat out of the bag than it is to stuff it back in.

  For instance, they were the reason Jane Ellen Peterson got word that her husband Sam was stepping out on her with some red-headed hussy (their words) at the local pub, the Cheshire Cat. Jane Ellen showed up ten minutes later and almost shot him—she's nothing if not fair; he was, after all, the one doing her wrong—before the poor man could explain that he was meeting with the woman to design a surprise addition to their double-wide for her birthday. She'd been complaining forever that she wanted a mudroom because the three men in her house kept mussing up her kitchen floor.

  She'd quickly dropped her .45 back in her purse and proceeded to cry and kiss him, then scooched into the booth beside the lady and began telling her exactly what she wanted. The ladies at the salon had some egg on their faces, but proclaimed no harm was done. Sam didn't quite see it that way, seeing as how he almost got shot, then ended up paying twice what he would have by the time Jane Ellen finished adding her two cents to the project.

  It was a really nice mudroom, though.

  There was only one unbreakable rule about gossip in the salon; you never aired the town’s dirty laundry in front of a stranger. That was partly because it looked bad, and partly because Belle wouldn’t have been able to fully participate. That gave me a few minutes to come up with some answers while I pretended to look through a hairstyle book from 1989. I could barely keep from laughing as Belle pestered Coralee about the hairstyle she'd chosen for the woman.

  "It makes her face look fat."

  She wasn’t wrong, but Coralee just pursed her lips and glared at her. It wasn’t like she could answer her since the stranger couldn't see or hear the flamboyant ghost. That's another rule—we have our ghosts, and they mostly choose to show themselves to locals, but never to strangers. Belle and the others could ghost-shame with the best of them in order to keep the newly departed in check. The last thing we needed was Ghost Hunters showing up in town.

  It wasn't long before Coralee finished up with the lady and cashed her out. As soon as the door swung shut, they were on me like white on rice.

  Coralee immediately asked for details. "Is it true he landed in his coleslaw? And I heard you almost gave him CPR.” She slammed her hands on her hips and glared at me. “Noelle Grace Flynn! What were you thinkin'? You know some of the places that mouth's been. How could you even consider such a thing? Besides, why on earth would you even want to resuscitate him?"

  I didn't have much of a defense because I'd wondered the exact same thing as it was happening. In retrospect, I had no idea why I’d even given saving him a passing thought. I pursed my mouth to the side and shrugged, then tried to answer the questions in order as I climbed into the chair. "Yeah, he landed in his slaw. He had sauce dripping down his cheek and off the end of his nose. If he hadn’t been dead, it would have been funny. Well, it kinda still was. As far as why I considered saving him, I don't know. I guess I just thought it was the proper thing to do."

  "Oh, sweetie." She wrapped the cape around me and stuffed the cotton around the edges. "Bless your little heart. You're such a good girl, but you have to remember that the proper thing to do in a situation like that is respect that the Good Lord does things for a reason." The other women nodded, solemn.

  Belle hovered closer. "What did he look like when kicked the bucket? Did he suffer? As mean as he was, I hope he suffered." She was a true southern woman; if she couldn't be the one to deliver somebody's just desserts, she trusted that Karma would.

  Still, this wasn't a question I'd prepared for. I thought of the black mist but decided to keep that part to myself. The rest was common knowledge. "Well, his face was all red and he looked like he was sorta suffocating and choking at the same time, so I guess he suffered a little bit. But it didn't last long." They looked so disappointed that I added, “But I’m sure that wherever he went, he’s getting what’s coming to him.”

  Belle huffed. Apparently that wasn't the answer she was hoping for. She looked so down in the mouth that I almost assured her I witnessed his black soul being dragged under for processing. Almost. Letting on that I saw somebody get their judgment, or whatever it was, was a can of worms I wasn’t going to open.

  "Well," she said, “I guess a little bit of suffering is better than none at all, though I lost the pool by six months.”

  I looked around the group, confused. "Pool?"

  Coralee had the good grace to blush. "Yeah," she mumbled as she made a big deal of making sure my cape was straight. "We sorta had a pool goin' for how long it would take Hank the kick the bucket. You had to choose a method—natural causes or murder—and you had to pick a time
frame."

  Roberta, a rotund woman who headed up the ladies' church auxiliary, piped up. "It's between me and Coralee now, depending on how he died, though we were both off on the date by almost a year. Coralee went with natural causes and I bet on murder. I'm pretty sure I won. From what I hear, that don't sound like no heart attack or stroke I ever heard of."

  Coralee scowled. "You don't know that yet. Official cause of death ain't back yet. I still have a shot."

  I just sat there in stunned silence, then narrowed my eyes at them. "Do y'all have pools on anything else? Like on anything about me?"

  They all shifted uncomfortably, refusing to look me in the eye. Marge, who ran the hardware store with her husband Bob, answered. "Well, yes. But it's nothing bad," she rushed to say. "We have a pool going to see how long it'll take you to catch the eye of that new deputy. The timeline's a lot tighter than it was for Hank. And there's only one choice—how long it'll take for the official first date. We're fairly certain the rest will just fall into place."

  She looked a bit put out. "We had a shipment of goods come in at the store the day they made the pool, so I was the last to choose. All the dates I would have picked were already taken." She glared at the women around her.

  I was still stuck on the bet itself. The details didn't matter. "What? No! He's a jerk, and you're all going to lose. He's been in town for like five minutes and sees me as a murder suspect! Why would you even think of pairing us?"

  None of them looked even remotely embarrassed, so I just huffed. Arguing with these ladies was like talking to a post.

  Coralee said, "He seems like such a nice boy, and you're just beautiful. He may be your soul mate, sugar."

  I couldn't believe I was doing it, but I turned the conversation back to Hank as Coralee tilted me back and laid the towel between my neck and the sink. I groaned aloud when she began to massage the shampoo into my scalp with her acrylic nails after she soaked my head with the sprayer.

  I just enjoyed the pampering while she scrubbed and rinsed, but when she wrapped the towel around my hair and leaned my chair back up, I continued. "So, y'all saw it coming. The way Hank shoveled down donuts and chicken fingers from the 7-Eleven, I can see why you'd think he'd keel over from a heart attack—but I'm curious why you'd think there was a chance he'd be murdered. He made it this long without somebody offin' him."

  As Coralee combed out my hair and started snipping, Belle replied, "Puh-lease! That man was enough to make a saint swear. He put a burr up the butt of half the people in this town. It only stood to reason he'd eventually grab the wrong tiger by the tail."

  Roberta nodded. "It's true. It's why I went with murder. Why, just last month, he was in the hardware store with the inspectors, sayin' he was worried about public safety. He cited Marge and Bob for having axes hangin' on the wall. Said they could fall and kill someone." She snorted. "Them axes been hangin' there since the shop was built."

  I looked to Marge for confirmation and she nodded like a bobble-head doll. "It's true. That was about the fifth violation they found and Bob told Hank if he kept it up, he'd be the one the axe fell on. By the time it was all said and done, we had almost three thousand dollars in fines and—get this—he told Bob he was lucky he wasn't arresting him for threatening a police officer."

  Hank was a shyster for sure, but I couldn't understand why he'd target the hardware store. I asked as much.

  Coralee snorted. "That jackass Butch Davies wants to put a huntin' supply store in there. He's approached Bob a few times, hinting that it's time for them to retire, and that he'd be glad to take the space off their hands. He and Marg turned him down every time, so we figure he asked Hank to give 'em a push."

  Marge, who usually looks like somebody's cheery grandmother, was glowering. "I wanted to give him a push. Off a cliff."

  I raised a brow. I'd heard Marge say plenty of less-than-charitable things about people, but I'd never heard her wish somebody dead, let alone express the desire to do it herself.

  Belle looked at me with an I-told-you-so expression on her face. "See? If he can drive Marge to violence, it's a no-brainer he'd eventually bite off more than he could chew with somebody less ... Christian."

  Her words made me think of the conversation I'd had with Hank right before he died. I'd said those exact words to him, and meant them. Suddenly I understood exactly why murder was in the pool.

  Coralee's scissors flew around my head as she pulled up strands of hair and clipped off the dead ends. "Then there's that sweet man who ran the little cafe next door. Hank didn't like him cuz he batted for our team, if you know what I mean, so he and his stooges made it so uncomfortable for him that he packed up and left town.

  "In the four months he was there, his car was spray-painted twice, his front window was broken, and then the final straw was when the sheriff trumped up the charge that he was using real amaretto in his Irish coffees instead of just the creamers. When the inspectors got there, an empty bottle mysteriously turned up in the dumpster and the poor man was faced with fines out the wazoo for selling liquor without a license. Hank was good enough to offer to set aside the fines if he'd close up shop and leave."

  Roberta stared into space, wistful. "He made the best fried baloney sandwiches. He used extra meat and put those kosher dill slices on it, along with his own thick-cut homemade chips. They were so crisp that they didn't get soggy from the grease in the meat, and his honey-mustard sauce was to die for."

  Belle crossed her arms and hmphed. "All that fluffy, free-love stuff was after my time, but I figure if a man can cook a decent fried baloney sandwich, what he does in his own house behind closed doors is none of my business."

  I agreed, then relayed what Hank had said to me right before he died.

  Coralee shook her head and squirted a baseball-sized glob of mousse in her hand. She worked it through my hair, scrunching as she went. "That’s just a start. Imagine all the wives he hit on and the men he threatened. And that's not even considering poor Anna Mae. Why, nobody would have blamed her a bit if she stepped up and put one through his heart, the way he ran around on her with that trashy Cheri Lynn Hall."

  As she finished blow-drying my hair, the conversation turned to what dish everybody was going to take over to Anna Mae's that night. The funeral hadn't been scheduled yet, but since she was all alone, the girls were holding a little get-together to help get her through it.

  Personally, I thought they should be planning her a party rather than cooking up tuna casserole.

  Chapter 9

  O

  nce I paid Coralee and left the shop, I checked my phone. No missed calls or texts. It was only ten. I didn't have to be to work until one, and I didn't feel like going home but I really didn't have anything else to do. I tossed my empty coffee cup and decided that after being run through the wringer at the salon, I could do with some more caffeine.

  The cheery little bell above the door at Brew4U chimed when I walked in. The place was almost empty after the morning rush, and Raeann was wiping down the tables getting ready for the lunch crowd. I was shocked to see that in the hour and a half I'd been gone, nearly half the pastries I'd brought had sold.

  "Holy cow!" I exclaimed, pointing at the case. "I'm glad I made extra!"

  Raeann finished the last table and headed toward the counter. "I know, right? When you brought all those in, I figured for sure we'd end up taking half of them over to donate to the Little League, but now I'm afraid we'll run out."

  "I froze a few batches of blueberry and raspberry popovers and bear claws a couple of days ago as backup. I'll run up to the house and get them. Do you need anything else while I'm out?"

  "No, I'm good, but it's a good thing you have those. I ordered double the espresso I usually do, just in case, and we're gonna need it. We've made some serious cash today, and it's only ten!"

  I thought back to what Hank had told me about the property taxes and was grateful that it was going to be a good weekend. I was going to need every penny I could ma
ke. Even though he was dead, I had no doubt the debt would linger. "Okay. I'll just wait to get another coffee when I get back," I told her.

  She dug into her purse and pulled out her keys. "Take my car. The AC works and you can just pop the stuff in the trunk."

  Not that I didn't love my truck, but the thought of riding in a cool car I knew was going to get me there and back was appealing. I caught the keys she tossed to me, and headed out the door.

  I was fastening my seatbelt when I looked across the street. My sister was standing on the sidewalk laughing with a boy who was sitting on some sort of motorcycle that looked crazy fast. I smiled; it was good to see her laughing with a boy who appeared to be a vast improvement over her most recent choices.

  Then she pulled a helmet onto her head and swung her leg over the bike.

  So much for the smiley, warm feelings I'd just had. Before I could even get out of the car to yell at her, she'd wrapped her arms around him and they pulled away from the curb. I yelled at her telepathically but got no response. Either she didn’t hear me or was ignoring me. Even though I knew she wouldn't get it until she—hopefully—arrived in one piece wherever they were going, I pulled my phone from my purse and texted her.

  Nice motorcycle. I'm going to kill you if you live through it.

  I stabbed send and tossed my phone back on the seat, ready to do murder. I briefly considered chasing them down, but the last thing I wanted was to distract the kid, or worse yet, make him go faster to get away from me. No, I'd wait until both of her feet were safely planted on firm ground before I strangled her.

  It only took thirty minutes to get to the house, grab the pastries, and get back to the shop, but my blood was boiling. Just as I pulled back into Rae's spot by the shop, my phone chimed.