Petty Crimes & Head Cases

by Lola Beatlebrox

  “How’s the house renovation going?” I asked.

  Mrs. Alcott’s eyes shot heavenward. “Terrible.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The contractor we found has taken our money and hasn’t shown up.”

  This was not surprising to me. This was the way all contractors worked. They take on jobs when they have other jobs going and then can’t juggle them all.

  “A delay then?” I said.

  “Why can’t these people start when they say they’re going to?”

  “You must be so frustrated.”

  “We’ve paid them enough.”

  “Of course.”

  “If only it weren’t Henrietta’s house, we would fix his wagon.”

  “Who?”

  “Henrietta Sanborn. Our dear friend. That’s where we got his name.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s finishing up there. I suppose we’ll just have to wait.”

  “Will they be done soon?

  “They’re in the last stages of painting.”

  I put my Client Notebook down and examined Mrs. Alcott’s hair. “Your highlights are a little bit thin on the left side and we need to take care of your roots.”

  “Could you make it a bit more honey-colored?”

  I pulled out my color book and showed her the swatches. “Like this one or that?”

  She stroked the hair samples surrounded by pictures of beautiful girls all thirty years younger than she. “Like this.” She picked the hair sample she always picked and I knew that the color formula would be the same that time as it was the last time and the time before that.

  I mixed the color formula as she sipped her tea and finished the article she was reading in Architectural Digest. She turned the pages just as fast as anyone ordinary browsing through People or House Beautiful.

  I ushered her into the back workroom where the kind, warm lighting is designed to make fifty-somethings look thirty-five, even when wrinkles are involved. I draped her and she admired the soft gold cape which enhanced her honey-colored, highlighted hair.

  Of course, when I was done brushing on the dye and weaving in the bleach she looked hideous. Everyone looks awful with tinfoil sprouting from their heads. I escorted her back to my “comfort area” where she could choose to relax with her feet in a pool of warm lavender water or lie on a heated massage table with cucumbers on her eyelids.

  She chose the latter and I patted the cucumbers gently, massaged a bit of spearmint into her wrists for aromatherapy, and wished her a nice rest.

  I went to the sofa where my Notebook lay on the low table with the magazines and the used tea cup and the centerpiece which was a bowl of fake fruit from Bali.

  I don’t know why people like fake fruit from Bali, although it’s colorful and happy. I always thought that real fruit would be better. But customers wouldn’t eat the real fruit I put there, even when I placed a discreet card offering apples, pears, bananas and peaches up for their enjoyment. It seems they prefer bags of chips and bars of chocolate. So I discontinued the fruit and now I offer tea, water, chips and chocolate.

  And fake fruit from Bali.

  My pen was waiting for me. I opened my Client Notebook and wrote down all the clues I had learned from Mrs. Alcott, Mrs. Oscar, Harry and the chief.

  After thirty-five minutes, I re-visited Mrs. Alcott who was dozing under the cucumbers. I gently woke her, took her to the sink and rinsed off the chemicals. Miracle of miracles, she was transformed, once again, into a honey blonde with tasteful highlights. I styled and blow dried her hair. She presented her credit card and made an appointment for next month. I got her coat from the closet, helped her into it, and she left. Just like every other time.

  I don’t get to eat lunch out often. Being a one-woman shop, I risk losing walk-in business. But that first day of detecting I decided go across the street to hear any buzz about the robbery.

  I enjoy this diner. It’s All American, 1950s. Looks just like the pictures my parents used to show me from Life Magazine. Chrome stools like the ones the kids sat on at the lunch counter in 1960 which was way before I was born.

  Shirley came over as soon as I was seated. “Tracy, what can I get for you?”

  “Bacon, lettuce and tomato on white toast, please,” I said, “and a glass of water.”

  “Any fries with that?”

  “No thanks.”

  I leafed through the selections for the old-fashioned juke box. Let’s Twist Again. 1961. Chubby Checker. What was he like? My mother would know. Love Me Tender. 1958. Elvis Presley. Now there was a voice.

  When Shirley brought the BLT, she stood next to the seat opposite me while I took my first bite. “How’s the sandwich?” she asked.

  “Great,” I told her, taking a good look at her face. “What’s eating you?”

  “Boys,” she said.

  As if I didn’t know. “Who this time?”

  “Brian.”

  “What’s wrong with Brian?”

  “Won’t talk, won’t go out, won’t have any fun.” She picked up the salt shaker and wiped it down with a napkin.

  “Sounds depressed.”

  “Money troubles.”

  “A man with money troubles is a dangerous man.” I studied her pretty face hovering over the collar of her fifties-era waitress uniform. She looked like she was cast straight out of a movie. “What kind of money trouble?”

  “He can’t break into the business around here.”

  “What business?”

  “Contracting. It’s a closed system.”

  “How does that work?”

  “The contractors all get together and decide who bids on which contract. If you’re not part of the in-crowd you don’t get to be a player. No bids, no wins.”

  “So he’s shut out.”

  “All the newcomers are shut out. It’s an old boys’ network.”

  “I don’t know if that’s legal.”

  “Legal schmegal—it’s been that way for years.”

  I chewed my sandwich, thinking about what she told me. “I’m glad we hairdressers don’t have that system. To sort out all those heads would be too complicated.”

  “There aren’t that many contracting jobs.”

  “Which one did he want?”

  “A house. Name of Alcott. No dice.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She sighed. “Anything else, Tracy?”

  “Just the check.”

  I paid and crossed the street to my salon. I found Shirley’s name in my Book. Shirley Jones. Brunette. Age 22. Boyfriends: Tom, Dick, Harry. I was glad the problem was not with Harry, my third customer of the day. I added the name “Brian” and wrote down what I’d learned.

  After lunch I had a few appointments before Jeff Stockman walked into my salon with a newspaper in one hand and a briefcase in the other.

  “Jeff, how’ve you been?” I said. When I took the briefcase from him, its weight nearly pulled me to the floor. “What’s in this thing?”

  “Tax advice,” he said.

  “If I open it up, will I know everything?”

  “If all the tax advice in the country were stacked in one place, the pile would be as big as Fort Knox and Dodger Stadium combined. So, no, I’d say you’d know as much as I do. Which is nothing.”

  Jeff is a humble man. He does everyone’s tax returns in town, including mine, and he gets a year’s worth of haircuts in exchange for keeping me on good terms with the IRS. Sometimes I think this man is the only thing standing between me and jail for tax evasion. I’m just as honest as the next small business owner but I don’t want the government to get more than their fair share. It takes a smart man like Jeff to keep us all on the straight and narrow.

  “Would you like some tea?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Water?”

  “No.”

  “Bourbon?”

  “Yes.”

  I looked at my watch. “It must be five o’clock somewhere.” I rooted
behind the peroxide and the hair dyes until I found the fifth of Jim Beam I keep just for my tax accountant.

  Behind me, Jeff readied two tumblers with ice. After I gave each glass a dollop of Beam, I splashed lime juice and ginger beer into mine. I like a Moscow Mule. Jeff doesn’t.

  We clinked and continued to put a dent in the bourbon supply as we caught up on Life, Love, the Universe and Everything. Then the clock interfered.

  “Better get outa here,” he said. “I’m about to have dinner with a really big client and my hair’s too long.”

  I draped him in green, for money of course, and slid a section of hair through two stout fingers, making sure the blond ends protruded just so. “Snip, snip,” the scissors said to me. I giggled.

  “You tipsy again?” Jeff asked.

  “You know I’m a cheap date, Jeff.”

  People often wonder who does Jeff’s hair because it’s never a perfect job. Blame it on the bourbon.

  “Someone told me,” I said, “that the big contractors in this town get together and decide who gets what business. They shut out the little guys who aren’t in the ‘in’ crowd. Is that true?”

  “Where’d you hear that?” A clump of hair fell on Jeff’s nose and he pursed his lips upwards to blow it off.

  “I can’t reveal my sources,” I said, “but what do you think?”

  “There’s about five contractors whose business is very good, and lots more who just eke out a living.”

  “Who are the big five?”

  “I can’t talk about my clients—it’s confidential.”

  “Oh.”

  “But you probably know who they are. You see their trucks around and their signs on the jobs.”

  “Like the one doing Henrietta Sanborn’s house? What’s his name?”

  “Chase.”

  “He a biggie?”

  “$55 million gross revenue.” Hair fell on his lips again. He spat. “I’m not revealing anything that hasn’t been in the paper.”

  “It’s big business, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Very big. With this building boom we’re having—very big indeed.”

  I worked on Jeff’s back layers for a while. He’s a handsome guy with a full head of sandy brown hair that he likes to keep long, but trimmed out in layers.

  Jeff took a long pull on his highball. “The same can be said for painting outfits. Only a handful seem to get all the business. I wouldn’t be surprised if they fixed the field too.”

  “Interesting.” I went after errant hairs on the nape of his neck. “So it would be very hard for some newcomer to break into the painting business here?”

  “I’d say it would be near impossible.”

  I pruned his sideburns and gave him the hand mirror.

  He held the mirror at all angles, inspected the sides, and then the back of his head. “You do good work, Tracy, even when you’re tipsy.”

  I removed the green cape while Jeff sorted through his money. He always leaves me a tip even though his haircuts are free. He knows how much I don’t make.

  “I’ll see you next month,” he said, setting his empty highball on the counter.

  “Looking forward to it.”

  I found the broom and swept the clumps of sandy-colored hair from the floor. Contractors fixing the field, workers having trouble breaking into the game, Spiderman with paint on his shoes. I had learned a lot of stuff that day, and I wasn’t willing to call it gossip.

  But had I learned a lot of nothing? I suspected somebody would think so—a handsome cop who wanted to make detective.

  After I finished sweeping, I checked my schedule—no more appointments. I decided to swing by the thrift store to find a present for Jamie. They always have something good—sports equipment, toys, funny hats. I powered down the computer, snatched up my sweater, and locked up.

  The church thrift store is everyone’s tag sale. The whole town brings stuff in and the whole town takes stuff out. I’ve seen clients as rich as Mrs. Alcott go in there alongside the most desperate drifters coming off the highway.

  “Hello, Tracy,” said the lady at the front desk.

  “Hello, Doris. Long time no see.”

  “You were here last week.”

  “Long time, like I said. Anything new?”

  “An artist dropped off a beautiful set of watercolors. You interested?”

  “Perhaps.” I slipped a shopping basket off the stack by the cash register and headed for the arts and crafts section. There they were. Tubes of them. Cerulean blue, burnt sienna, alizarin crimson. I scooped them up as Sassy Morgan walked into the room.

  “Tracy,” she said. “Just who I wanted to see. Are you coming to book club tomorrow night?”

  “Book club?” I said, easing the watercolors out of sight.

  “Don’t you remember? We’re meeting at my condo on Main Street.”

  My mind groped for a conflict on my calendar.

  “Lots of your friends belong,” she said, “Shelley Prothero would love to see you.”

  I felt a stab of guilt. Shelley’s my best friend from high school and I’d been neglecting her. Between my job and her family life we never seemed to find time to hang out. She’s one of those caregivers caught between generations with five children and two aging parents at home.

  “Candy Samuels has gushed over you. She says if you join us she’s going to give you free samples of her latest formula.”

  My face grew hot. Candy is the local rep for one of those Ponzi-scheme diet-supplement companies. I didn’t want any more of her elixirs.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow night,” Sassy said. “The wine will be on the house—don’t bring a thing. By the way, what have you got in that basket?” Sassy eyed the watercolors as if I’d mined gold nuggets from a mountain stream.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

  “Okay, bye bye.”

  With Sassy gone, I headed for the kids’ section. Ice skates—not good for June. Trucks—Jamie had plenty already. Wooden blocks—too old-fashioned. A Spiderman mask. I sprinted back to Doris and handed her the watercolor tubes. “I’ll take all these and could I have a bag, please?”

  Doris gave me a thrift store bag with the inscription, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

  “Thanks. One sec,” I said.

  I scuttled back to the kids’ stuff, took a pen out from my purse, balanced the Spiderman mask on my pen so I wouldn’t touch it with my fingers, and dumped it in the bag. I saw this technique on TV. Then I returned to checkout.

  “I have a Spiderman mask here, too,” I told Doris.

  “That came in today as well.”

  “Do you know who brought it?”

  “Can’t say I do. They’re a dime a dozen, you know.”

  “Well, how much is this one?”

  “Fifty cents.”

  I took my spoils and drove home. As I turned into the driveway, I realized I’d forgotten a present for Jamie.

  Drat, drat, and double drat.

  After dinner, I cleaned the kitchen while Jamie did his homework with Carl. Dishwashing is my Zen time when I try to focus on what I’m doing and forget about work. You might think the life of a hairdresser is as simple as a deep fry operator’s. You might believe there’s nothing to worry about when all the clients go home, but there’s always something. My china plate disappeared under the soap bubbles. They were soft and white. Silver water cascaded down as I pulled it out and watched my hand gliding to the dishwasher rack. The plate stood up like a soldier in line.

  It’s so hard to be a one-woman shop. Should I try to rent my second stylist’s chair again? The last girl didn’t work out. What a pothead! Why can’t I seem to find a good junior stylist? Maybe I advertised in the wrong place.

  I banished these thoughts as my casserole dish swam into focus. I rubbed macaroni and cheese off with my plastic scraper. The crust parted easily from the glass. I flipped the switch of my disposal and the garbage swirled down the dr
ain. My Pyrex sparkled. It had held comfort food and my family had eaten it—the Cycle of Life completed once more. Then Jamie’s Spiderman cup bobbed to the surface.

  The Spiderman mask. Was it the actual Spiderman mask? Is the theory I’ve been working on all day true? Who would rob Maverik and leave April unconscious in the beer cooler? A desperate man, that’s who—a guy who’s down and out, a drifter, a newcomer—someone trying to make it in this town and not succeeding. Like a contractor or a painter—especially a painter. Brian said there were paint spots on the man’s shoes. What would Carl think about this theory of mine—that a painter took all the cash and put April in the beer cooler?

  Carl needs a good case. He needs a break that will make his career. He’s been on the force for three years now and he wants to move up from patrol. Chief Fort Dukes is a stubborn old bastard. My man deserves that job. Maybe the Spiderman mask has prints and Carl will be able run them.

  After tucking Jamie into bed and turning in for the night, I cuddled up to Carl. “Guess what I found at the thrift store today,” I said. The paper bag crinkled.

  “What?” Carl asked.

  “A Spiderman mask.”

  “So?”

  I waved the mask in his face. “It’s a clue.”

  “To what?”

  “To the Spiderman robbery at Maverik.”

  He laughed. “Spiderman masks are a dime a dozen.”

  “But can’t you test it for fingerprints?”

  “On cloth?” He rolled his eyes.

  I pressed on. “There’s a label. It’s plastic. What if the robber touched the label?”

  “Highly unlikely.”

  “All right then, be that way.” I scooted away from him. The one thing that gets a man’s attention is withholding the evidence, so to speak.

  Carl turned his body toward me. “Okay, it might be a clue. What else have you got?”

  “Did you know that the Spiderman robber had paint spots on his shoes?”

  “Yeah, April told me that.”

  “She did?”

  “When I interviewed her in the hospital.”