Petty Crimes & Head Cases

by Lola Beatlebrox

  “Well, I want some too. Only purple.”

  We spent the next ten minutes sifting through color books. There was no purple. There was periwinkle, plum, violet, amethyst, and wine. There was even a tone called violaceous—which Candy picked out right away. I spent the next thirty minutes weaving her hair.

  Candy spent the same thirty minutes talking about the benefits of dietary supplements, deals on dietary supplements, and her sales success with dietary supplements. I tuned everything out. I was just about to turn up the sound system so we couldn’t hear each other when I remembered Fen-phen.

  “Speaking of diet pills,” I said, interrupting her in mid-sentence, “wasn’t there once a diet pill called Fen-phen? What do you know about that?”

  Candy’s expression turned sour. “I would never sell Fen-phen. You can’t even get it anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “It caused heart problems. A malfunction of the heart valve.”

  “Young women died didn’t they?”

  “They had to take it off the market. There are still product liability suits over it.”

  “What about addiction?”

  “Girls I know who used Fen-phen were never addicted. They liked the energy it gave them and the weight loss, but they weren’t addicted.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “You know girls who used it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who?”

  “You wouldn’t know them. They’re gone now. Moved away.” She dismissed them with a flick of her hand.

  “Did you take Fen-phen?” I asked, looking at her in the mirror.

  She gazed back at me. Then she grinned, shrugged her shoulders, and rolled her eyes. “Of course, Tracy. We all did. It was no big deal.”

  The thought flit through my mind that something that can kill you might actually be a big deal. I pressed my point. “What do you use now?”

  “Come on, Tracy. Is this the third degree?” The grin hadn’t left her face, but she shifted in her chair and I could see she was uncomfortable. “I take dietary supplements!”

  Candy Fiber. Miss Motor Mouth. The Energizer Bunny. Never a Dull Moment Candy. Sugar High Girl. Could she be on drugs?

  At two o’clock I placed my “Closed for Special Event” sign on the salon door. I went to the closet where I store my heavy-duty chromium-steel garment-rack, assembled it, and parked it next to the salon desk.

  Roxy Rafael arrived and heaved her professional make-up artist’s case onto the credenza near the plate glass windows. She positioned two upholstered chairs so natural light would fall on my clients’ faces. She opened the top flap of the case and revealed a clear plastic see-through compartment stuffed with brushes of every size and shape. Two pull-out drawers contained powders, shadows, glosses, lipsticks, creams and foundations.

  Annabelle Davina slipped through the front door, her tall, erect body a serene presence as she drifted towards my massage room. The sound of spa music emanated from the open door as she prepared the massage table.

  The ambience was broken when the front door slammed. “I’ve arrived, girls,” a voice announced. “Now Life can Begin!” Cholly Chockworth swished in, dropped his purse on my sofa, and bussed me on the cheek. “Where do you want me, darling?”

  Cholly was multi-talented. He could style hair, paint nails and serve champagne, all in a way that made a girl feel pampered and fussed over as never before. He had perfected a running patter about everyone from movie stars to royalty that made girls giggle hysterically. His favorite topic was Chief Fort Dukes, who can’t get it right about anything in our town, especially his public comments about our gay community.

  “Can you start with the manicures until you’re needed elsewhere?” I asked.

  “Of course, dear. My pleasure.”

  Cholly sashayed into the manicure salon and re-arranged three tables in a semi-circle around a rolling chair. Then he retrieved his large handbag and pulled out a gorgeous selection of red, pink and coral-colored fabrics which he spread over each table. Finally, he arranged several different nail polish choices along with glazed ceramic soaking bowls and charm-clad champagne flutes whose colors also matched the decor. He looked around for the champagne. It was missing.

  I glanced at the clock and realized we had only ten minutes. Where was the champagne?

  Just at that moment, Tony Lazar materialized outside the front door, pushing a hand dolly stacked with a case of champagne and a tub filled with ice. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  We were ready.

  The bride and her entourage arrived at exactly two-thirty. The salon filled with young, beautiful twenty-somethings carrying dress bags, shoe bags and hat boxes. Some had their heads wrapped in scarves with rollers underneath. Others had already done their up-do’s and were there for massage, manicure, and make-up. Madeleine, the bride, had requested an elaborate coiffure—an intricate braided confection swept up and around her head, the back contours interwoven with lustrous seed pearls.

  Wedding Party Prep is my specialty and why so many brides book my salon on their Special Day.

  Cholly began to direct traffic. Before long, all the dresses were hanging from the garment rack and the hat boxes were lined up on my workroom counter. Each bridesmaid had wrapped herself in a silky fuchsia robe and the bride was wearing a white satin wrap with appliqued pink roses. Every girl had a full champagne flute.

  Annabelle beckoned to the Maid of Honor who followed her into the massage room. Roxy invited two bridesmaids for make-up consultation. Cholly commandeered the rest and I took the bride under my wing. When Madeleine and I re-emerged from my workroom an hour later, I was surprised to see Sassy Morgan.

  “Hey, Tracy.”

  “Sassy! I didn’t know you were coming!”

  “I didn’t either.” She winked at Madeleine. “Prepping at the Citrus Salon was the bride’s Big Secret. Madeleine, you look marvelous!”

  The bride glowed.

  “And look who else is here—Orchid Fisher.” Sassy accepted a refill from Orchid who had emerged from the nail salon with a bottle of champagne.

  “Would you two like to be the first bridesmaids to have your headpiece arranged?” I asked.

  Sassy glanced at Orchid. “Sure.”

  We went into my workroom where Sassy took the chair at my station. Orchid set the champagne bottle, a flute, and her purse on the counter.

  I picked up one of the hat boxes and removed a delicate headpiece made of feathers, pearls, and gossamer lace.

  “Enchanting,” said Sassy.

  “Beautiful.” Orchid poured the last of the bottle into her champagne flute and drained it.

  “In a few minutes you’ll both be wearing a headpiece like this,” I said, brushing Sassy’s luxurious waves.

  Orchid excused herself, taking her champagne glass. I noticed she also took her purse. “The powder room is back here on the right,” I said.

  “I don’t need the powder room,” she replied.

  When she disappeared out the door, I brought up our last conversation. “Sassy, have you had a chance to talk to the other book club hostesses?”

  “I’ve been meaning to call you,” Sassy said. “I spoke with three other women and they checked their medicine cabinets. Two were missing pill bottles but neither noticed until I called, and one said her pills were stored in a bedroom drawer not a medicine cabinet.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “That means the person who’s taking the stuff is doing more than a quick search of the bathroom.”

  “She’s searching the place,” Sassy said. “But wouldn’t that take time?” Sassy’s question was tentative. I assumed she was thinking out loud. “We would miss her during the book discussion.”

  “Maybe she comes back on a different day,” I said.

  The significance of this statement dawned on Sassy. “You mean the thief returns and breaks in?”

  “Do your friends lock their doors?”

  Sassy paused for a moment. “They live in fairly secure neighborhoo
ds. They don’t always lock their doors. I don’t either. If I run out the door on an errand, I figure I’ll be back in ten minutes so I often leave my door open.”

  “But that’s a random thing,” I said. “The person would have to know someone’s routine. Like if you went to yoga or Pilates every week or picked up your kid from school.”

  “We all know each other’s routines. We’ve been together for so long. I tell you what, we’ll ask Orchid what she thinks.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she knows everybody too.”

  I stopped working on Sassy’s hair. “Sassy?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, but—”

  Sassy caught my eye in the mirror. She was no fool. “Everybody’s a suspect,” she said.

  “Until we know what’s going on, my husband would be the first to tell you that. Even Orchid. Even the hostesses you talked to. They could be covering something up.” I began brushing Sassy’s hair again. “Especially Orchid.”

  “You’re not serious.” Sassy turned in her chair and looked at me. “Why?”

  “Because prescription drug abuse is very common among teens and young adults.”

  “You mean people my age?”

  “Twenty-somethings.”

  “I don’t like this,” Sassy said. “I don’t like being suspicious of a friend.”

  “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How much do you know about Orchid?” I asked, weaving the headpiece into Sassy’s hair.

  “She moved here after college to ski. Couldn’t get a job in the fancy ski town next door so she got a job here. She’s a teacher’s aide in an elementary school.”

  “I know. Sunshine Elementary. That’s where Jamie goes.” I remembered Jamie’s opinion of Orchid. Miss Fisher’s mean, he had said. “What about boyfriends?”

  “She’s a loner. Not many friends. She dates, but there’s no one special.”

  Orchid reappeared at the workshop door with a fresh champagne bottle. Her face was flushed with laughter. “Cholly‘s a riot!”

  Orchid looked more animated than when she left the room. She placed her purse back on the counter along with the champagne bottle.

  “There,” I said, stepping back from the chair.

  Sassy picked up the hand mirror and surveyed the back of her head. “Exquisite.”

  I turned to Orchid. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Orchid gave me a giddy grin. “Righty-o.”

  My nose itched to take a look inside that purse, but I didn’t dare.

  Time passed quickly after that. A parade of girls came through for their headpieces. Madeleine’s wedding photographer arrived and monopolized the activities with candids and poses. Then dressing began. When they were all assembled for their final Citrus Salon photograph, I felt this was one of the prettiest wedding entourages I’d ever prepped.

  Absolutely gorgeous girls.

  The bride looked radiant and Sassy looked sensational, but Orchid’s pupils were dilated and her attention was hard to get. As they flowed out to the waiting limousines, I pulled Sassy aside. “Call me next week.”

  I watched them drive off with a huge smile on my face. The salon was a wreck but there was a twelve hundred dollar check in my pocket and my heart was full: another bride successfully launched by The Citrus Salon.

  Monday when Jamie came home from school I announced we were going to the recycling center because my car was full of plastic champagne flutes and glass bottles.

  “Awesome!” Jamie said.

  Kids love to go to the recycling center in our town. Not only is there a warehouse full of used toys, but the candy jar in the office is always full of fireballs and gummy bears. Jamie darted around the house, collecting recyclables. I sorted through the bins in the garage, making sure cans were in the metal bin, paper in the paper bin, and plastic in the plastic bin.

  Our recycling center is the biggest meet-and-greet place in the city aside from The Watering Hole on Center Street. As we slid into a parking spot, I waved to Don Westcott who was backing out. I nodded to Martha Farquhar as she barged by with a box of cardboard, but Martha ignored me as usual.

  My son began to unload our stuff right away.

  “Jamie!” cried a familiar voice.

  Tinker Bell, wearing a T-shirt with big letters saying STAFF, grabbed a full bin from Jamie’s hands. Tinker was no taller than Jamie and they seemed to be equals in the sophistication department. They ran to the plastics sorting tent, giggling all the way; then disappeared into the office, heading, I presumed, for the candy jar.

  I caught sight of Shannon, who managed the center’s operations, and asked him if there were any Styrofoam peanuts I could use to ship a package.

  “Sure,” he said, leading me to the back of the warehouse. Our recycling center is big on re-use—they keep stuff around that people could buy for very little money—plywood, two by fours, lighting fixtures, kitchen cabinets, toilets, sinks, and packing materials.

  Shannon scooped some peanuts out of a bin and poured them into a plastic bag. “Need any moving boxes?”

  Stacks of flattened U-Haul boxes towered over us; everyone appeared to be moving into our fair city, not out.

  “Check out all those computer batteries,” said Shannon. “We’ve had a run on them lately.”

  “I thought you didn’t take hazardous material,” I said.

  “We don’t. Someone left these while we were closed.” The pile was a mile high.

  “Do they work?”

  “The lithium’s been removed.”

  We walked out of the warehouse and I heard Tinker talking to Jamie in her funny voice. “Put your paper in the paper bin, Jamie.”

  The paper bin was as big as the back of a semi-truck. As Jamie attempted to hurl the bag into the open window, Shannon gave it a boost but paper still fell out. He stooped and picked up a canceled check.

  “Tracy, don’t be so trusting,” he said, tearing up the check. “Stuff like this shouldn’t go in a recycle bin. That’s why we have a shredder.”

  “Do you worry much about mail theft here?”

  “We have security now.” Shannon pointed to a camera perched up on the corner of the warehouse.

  “That’s impressive.”

  Shannon laughed. “It’s not hooked up or anything, but it looks official. Somebody dropped the camera off, so we decided to put it up as a deterrent.”

  I looked around for Jamie. “Time to go!”

  He waved bye-bye to Tinker Bell.

  “So long, Tracy,” said Shannon. “I just might come in next week for a haircut.”

  “Please do,” I said, knowing full well that Shannon wasn’t about to visit my salon. He had a thing going with my major competitor. She was blonde, single, and a 38D.

  When we arrived home, Jamie helped me return the bins to the garage; then scooted inside and rummaged around in the refrigerator for a snack.

  “Don’t spoil your dinner,” I said, as he drew out the layer cake I’d made for Sunday’s dessert.

  “Aw, Mom.”

  “Carrots and celery.”

  “Those are for guinea pigs.”

  “Cucumber sandwiches.”

  He screwed up his face.

  “Peanut butter and crackers.”

  Jamie returned the cake to its spot in the fridge and headed for the pantry.

  The doorbell rang. Jamie hurtled towards the back door with a knife covered in peanut butter.

  “Can Jamie come play in my tree fort?” called a voice from the back deck.

  I rescued the knife before the peanut butter separated from the blade and embedded itself in the door sill.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Jamie ran off with his friend, loaded with enough peanut butter crackers for a small army.

  I dressed a pork roast with olive oil and rosemary and popped it in the oven; then settled down in front of my computer screen and typed “foster care” into the s
earch field.

  The words called up several choices:

  “Make a Difference and Become a Foster Parent Today”

  “Family of Infant Who Died in Foster Care Files Claim Against County”

  “Opioid Crisis Straining Nation’s Foster Care System”

  I clicked on the last one and discovered several worrisome statistics: Foster care needs around the country had skyrocketed by almost one-third because the parents were addicted to pain pills. Babies were addicted because of the birth mother’s addiction. There weren’t enough foster parents to care for the 5,000 children who needed foster care in our state.

  I clicked on “Become a Foster Parent” and was treated to all sorts of exhortations:

  “Share your strength and your home . . . “

  “Make a commitment to help and heal . . .”

  “Enrich the lives of abused and neglected children . . .”

  The same rosy thoughts had been dancing in my mind ever since I learned about Charlotte. Carl and I were in a position to foster a child. We had a comfortable income, a nice home, good health, and would pass a criminal background check. I thought Jamie would enjoy having a sister, although I planned to consult a pediatrician about that assumption. Carl had said “Leave it to the professionals,” but I didn’t want to be discouraged from looking into it.

  I clicked on “Avenues for Adoption.” There appeared to be two choices: Fostering a number of children including a “specific child” (Charlotte) before adoption, or going through months of training before being allowed to adopt the “specific child,” who would be available for other families to adopt while we were going through training.

  The first option meant we would need to incorporate many more children into our lives than I had anticipated and the second option meant we might be disappointed if Charlotte were chosen by another family before we finished our training.

  Either way, Charlotte would be placed in foster care with perfect strangers for a number of months. That made no sense to me if a family was willing to take care of her right away.

  The back door slammed.

  I left the computer and found Carl in the kitchen pulling the layer cake out of the refrigerator.

  “That’s for dessert,” I said.