Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Who’s James?” I asked.

  “Not James. Jaimee. J-A-I-M-E-E. And he happens to be the best hairstylist on Long Island, as far as I’m concerned. He owns Hair Explosion of London.”

  Why a place of business that wasn’t actually in London had London in its name was beyond me. Frankly, it seemed like a good way to confuse the customers.

  But I didn’t push it. I didn’t even comment on the fact that the exterior of Jaimee’s establishment was painted to look like a giant Union Jack. The dazzling red, white, and blue facade was enough of a statement to incite a second revolution.

  I just hoped I didn’t come out of there looking all punky. Or like a character out of an Austin Powers movie.

  I was somewhat reassured by the fact that, inside, Hair Explosions of London looked like an ordinary hair salon. Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same for Jaimee, since he didn’t fall into the ordinary category at all. His hair was yellow. Not blond—yellow. And through the magic of gel or flash-freezing or some other mysterious process, it stuck up in a hundred different directions, kind of like crabgrass. Oddly enough, it complemented his bright turquoise silk shirt, which had full sleeves the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my last pirate movie.

  “So what are we doing today?” Jaimee asked in a lilting, obviously American voice once he’d gotten me into a chair.

  I noticed he was talking to Suzanne, not to me. I hate being ignored. Especially when the future of some of my favorite body parts, like my hair and my fingernails and my eyebrows, is on the line.

  “A cut, definitely,” Suzanne replied thoughtfully. She hovered behind me with her arms folded across her chest, studying my reflection in the mirror. “I think we’ll go with some highlights too.”

  “Honey is very popular right now,” Jaimee cooed. “I think honey highlights would look great on her.”

  “Honey highlights sound perfect,” Suzanne agreed. “And we have to do something about her eyebrows.”

  “Goodness, yes!” Jaimee exclaimed, reacting as if someone had just brought up the topic of global warming or something similarly horrific. “And definitely a facial. I’d suggest an apricot scrub. And what about a lip waxing?”

  “That’s a given.” Suzanne was nodding her head furiously.

  “Wait a minute,” I interjected. “What’s that last thing you mentioned?”

  Jaimee leaned forward so his nose was practically touching mine. “Sweetie, we have got to do something about that mustache.”

  “What mustache?” I demanded. “I don’t have a mustache!”

  “Right,” he muttered. “Neither does Fidel Castro.”

  “Isn’t this getting expensive?” I asked meekly. What I actually wanted to have done to me or not done to me clearly held no sway. So I thought maybe the threat of not being able to pay for all the treatments on Jaimee’s list would give him pause.

  “It’s on me,” Suzanne replied. “My way of saying thank you for getting me off the hook when I was a murder suspect.”

  “You were suspected of murdering someone?” Jaimee asked. From the way his entire face lit up, I could see he had new respect for Suzanne. “I love that. It’s so CSI!”

  “You really don’t have to do all this, Suzanne,” I insisted.

  “Oh, yes,” Jaimee replied seriously, looking me over and pursing his lips. “She does.”

  The next couple of hours were a whirl of activity. Unfortunately, I was at the center of every minute of it. After my hair was streaked with a shade of blond that was a tad lighter than my natural color, it was washed, conditioned, combed out, blow-dried, and cut. My fingernails and toenails were buffed, de-cuticled, and polished. My eyebrows were waxed, an experience so painful that I vowed to shave them off entirely before I let anybody ever do that to me again.

  Suzanne watched the entire process in silence. Then, for some incomprehensible reason, she suddenly got all chatty once Jaimee began smearing my upper lip with a frightening white cream. It smelled like something a janitor would use to clean the men’s room at a gas station.

  “So tell me more about Forrester Sloan,” she insisted. “I hardly know a thing about him aside from the fact he covers a lot of murder cases.”

  “What’s this?” Jaimee cooed. “A new man on the scene?”

  “Mm-mm!” I hummed, hoping my utterances did an effective job of communicating the words No way. I was afraid that if I parted my lips, some of that vile cream might seep into my mouth and down my throat, causing a quick yet extremely painful death.

  “He’s a reporter for Newsday,” Suzanne informed Jaimee with pride. “And he’s really cute. Tall, blond, and preppy.”

  “I adore that look!” Jaimee cried. “That whole Abercrombie thing is so sexy.”

  “Hmm um nmm!” I protested, doing my best to communicate, He is not!

  Not that what I had to say—or hum—mattered. Suzanne and Jaimee were acting as if I were the Thanksgiving turkey that he was basting while she looked on, admiring his skill.

  When my ordeal was finally over and all the chemical substances that had been used to improve me had been washed down the drain, Suzanne looked me up and down.

  “Jessie, you look absolutely fabulous,” she concluded with satisfaction.

  When I finally got up the courage to look at a mirror, I had to agree. My hair was shorter, bouncier, and brighter than ever before. My skin positively glowed. Even my eyebrows looked better, now that they were perfectly symmetrical.

  But I didn’t feel fabulous. Not when my first thought was, I can’t wait for Nick to see how I look—and my second thought was, Not gonna happen.

  In fact, as Jaimee and Suzanne high-fived each other over the success of their makeover, I felt strangely empty, sad, and very, very lonely.

  Once I was out of Jolly Olde England, I hoped the worst of this nightmarish episode was over. Compared to being waxed, polished, and highlighted, going out with Forrester was starting to sound like a breeze. But as soon as Suzanne and I got back to the cottage, she dropped another bomb in my lap.

  “When Forrester shows up, I’ll just hang around in the background,” she announced. “That way, I won’t overshadow you.”

  I froze. “Wait a minute. You’re planning on being here when he arrives?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to check this guy out,” Suzanne replied. Casting me a sly smile, she added, “Besides, I want to make sure you behave yourself. Now put the dress on so we can see the whole effect.”

  Great, I thought as I wriggled into my Audrey Hepburn costume for the second time that day. Not only do I have to worry about Prometheus saying something embarrassing, I also have to worry about Suzanne. I could picture her ushering Forrester and me out the door, burbling, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

  I was about to exercise some damage control when there was a knock at the door.

  “Knock, knock,” Betty called cheerfully as she poked her head in. “I noticed Suzanne’s car outside, so I thought I’d stop in to say hello.”

  I instantly felt myself descending into the panic zone. I’d always suspected that Betty was capable of reading minds, especially when I was thinking something I didn’t want her to know I was thinking. And the last thing I wanted was for her to find out about my plans for the evening.

  I decided the safest thing to do was not mention them.

  However, the moment she saw the two of us standing there, me looking like a Barbie doll and Suzanne beaming with pride over her handiwork, she set her bright red mouth into a thin, straight line.

  “What are you two up to?” she demanded.

  “Nothing!” I insisted at the exact same time Suzanne piped up, “Jessie has a date!”

  Unfortunately, Betty zoomed in on Suzanne’s response, not mine.

  “A date?” she repeated. “With whom?”

  “No one,” I tried, this time much less forcefully.

  “Forrester Sloan,” Suzanne chir
ped in unison.

  The corners of Betty’s mouth immediately turned downward. Instead of a straight line, her lips now formed a disapproving frown.

  “You mean that newspaper reporter.” She practically spat out the words.

  I was tempted to explain that the only reason I was in this position was that I’d foolishly negotiated what had turned out to be a very bad deal, all in the name of investigating Simon Wainwright’s murder. And Betty was the one who’d gotten me involved in that in the first place.

  But I suspected she wouldn’t be particularly sympathetic. Not when she was absolutely crazy about Nick and utterly convinced that he and I belonged together like salt and pepper, Romeo and Juliet, and, well, Betty and Winston. She’d also thought from the very start that Forrester Sloan had designs on me. Designs she didn’t approve of.

  “I try not to think of myself as old-fashioned,” she continued, her words strained and her demeanor icy, “but could someone please tell me when it became the custom for engaged women to date men other than their fiancé?”

  “But Jessie’s not engaged anymore,” Suzanne replied, sounding surprised that I hadn’t shared this little tidbit with my landlady and confidante.

  “Oh, yes, she is,” Betty insisted.

  Suzanne glanced over at me, confused. “But Nick broke it off.”

  “Nothing but a silly little lovers’ quarrel,” Betty insisted. “Happens all the time. In fact, it would be strange if it didn’t.

  “Speaking of which,” she added, her bright blue eyes darting around the room, “where is Nick?”

  “He’s been making himself scarce,” I replied. I couldn’t resist adding, “Ever since he decided he didn’t want to be engaged to me anymore.”

  “Jessica, you know he didn’t mean that,” Betty said indignantly. “I don’t know why you insist on being so—”

  “This really isn’t the best time to discuss the trials and tribulations of my love life,” I said pleadingly. “Can we talk about it later?”

  Especially since Forrester is due in an alarmingly short time, I thought, and it’s bad enough that he’s going to find Suzanne here, much less an entire committee of well-meaning friends and associates.

  “Oh, yes,” she assured me, practically spewing forth icicles. “I can assure you that we will.” She stalked toward the door, then stopped when she reached it. “Have a nice time, Jessica,” she said over her shoulder. “But not too nice.”

  How do I get myself into these situations? I wondered.

  But I didn’t have an opportunity to contemplate that cosmic question, since Suzanne checked her watch again and declared that it was time for makeup. Her timing was excellent. She’d barely finished what turned out to be an amazingly lengthy process when there was another knock at the door.

  “It’s him!” Suzanne squealed.

  By that point, all I wanted was to get the evening over with.

  I opened the door and found an unusually spiffed-up, unusually nice-smelling version of Forrester. In one hand he held a single red rose.

  But strangely enough, he was the one who looked impressed.

  “Wow!” he said breathlessly as he presented me with the rose. “You look great!”

  “Thanks,” I said halfheartedly.

  I felt something sharp dig into my side. I immediately identified it as Suzanne’s elbow.

  “I mean, thank you, Forrester!” I said, hoping I sounded enthusiastic enough to avoid additional bodily injury. Just to be sure, I added, “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

  By that point, Max and Lou had come charging over. As usual, they couldn’t contain their excitement over the arrival of a potential playmate. Max grabbed the pink poodle I’d bought to replace the purloined one and used it to slime the leg of Forrester’s pants. Lou, as usual, acted as if it he was completely starved for attention. He planted himself in front of our house-guest and pressed his head against Forrester’s hand.

  Even the cats wandered over to check out the interloper. And Prometheus predictably burst into wild chatter, although this particular monologue happened to be a string of unrelated phrases that made no sense at all.

  “Sorry about all this,” I apologized. I reached for Max, planning to scoop him up, but Suzanne stepped between us.

  “Let me get the dogs,” she suggested. “After all, we wouldn’t want any harm to come to that lovely Calvin Klein dress of yours, would we?”

  Once she had Max in her arms and Lou by the collar, she looked Forrester up and down.

  “I’m Jessie’s friend Suzanne,” she said brightly. “I’m sure you remember me from that horrible incident on the North Fork.”

  “Sure, I remember you,” Forrester said. A moment of awkwardness followed, probably because what he knew her from was covering a murder case in which she was the cops’ number one suspect. “And, listen, I’m really glad everything turned out so well.”

  “Yes, thanks to Jessie,” Suzanne replied. “She’s the absolute best, and I’ll never be able to pay her back. But I can start by getting out of your hair.”

  She gave me a big, obvious wink, then settled Max on the floor next to Lou. And then she grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

  “Have fun, you two!” she called over her shoulder. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

  “I think she liked me,” Forrester observed with a grin after she was gone.

  “Suzanne isn’t exactly known for her great taste in men,” I commented.

  It wasn’t until I’d made the statement that I realized how bad it sounded. I was actually thinking about her latest boyfriend, Marcus Scruggs, who happened to have a primo spot on my list of least favorite people.

  Fortunately, Forrester didn’t seem to have noticed. He was too busy devouring me with his eyes.

  “Shall we got to the restaurant?” I suggested, hoping to focus his appetites on something more appropriate.

  “Actually, I thought you might offer me a drink. To give us a chance to talk and, well, get to know each other a little.”

  “I don’t have anything to drink.” I hoped he wouldn’t check the refrigerator and discover the open bottle of merlot that was right next to a carton of orange juice, a bottle of ginger ale, and half a dozen other liquids that definitely fell into the drink category. “Sorry. Maybe we can get something at the restaurant.”

  He looked startled. “Sure,” he finally said. If he’d figured out that I was plotting to keep us from spending time alone together, he was too polite to mention it.

  The restaurant he’d chosen was one of the trendiest in Norfolk County, so popular that even I’d heard of it. It was called Blue Fish, and, true to its name, it specialized in both seafood and the color blue. The walls were powder blue, the tablecloths were navy blue, and the dishes were white but edged in cobalt blue. The music playing in the background was—you guessed it—the blues.

  Since it was Saturday night, the place was packed. The women were dressed to the nines, many of them in outfits that made the selections from Suzanne’s closet look positively plain. I was actually glad that I’d let her transform me. At least I would blend in.

  Between the loud music and the crowd, the noise level made communication difficult. I considered that a plus.

  “Want to sit at the bar?” Forrester screamed.

  “Sure!” I yelled back.

  Actually, it was too crowded to sit. With people huddled three deep along the edge, we ended up standing a good distance away, trying to hang on to our drinks without spilling them. Within seconds, a man in a dark business suit came over and slapped Forrester on the back.

  “Hey, Forrester!” he boomed, shaking his hand energetically. “How’s it going over at Newsday?”

  “Great,” he returned. “Ernie Wilson, this is Jessica Popper. I did a piece on Ernie’s company a few weeks ago. They recently started providing their employees with shuttle service to the train station. The idea is to cut down on traffic and car pollution.”

 
“Pleased to meet you,” I said politely.

  “Jessica Popper,” Ernie repeated, squinting. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

  “I’m a veterinarian,” I replied. “I may have treated one of your pets.”

  “Naw, I don’t have any. No time. No patience either.”

  “Maybe you’ve seen her on TV,” Forrester interjected. “Pet People? On Channel Fourteen?”

  “That’s right!” Ernie exclaimed. “That vet show, where all those crazy people call in.”

  As soon as he left, Forrester turned to me and grinned. “See that? You’re famous.”

  “Right,” I replied dryly. “People recognize me as soon as you explain to them in explicit detail who I am.”

  He’d just begun to protest when a petite dark-haired woman tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Forrester!” she cried. “What a lovely surprise!”

  “Hi, Jean,” he greeted her.

  “Did I ever thank you for the fabulous piece you did on the Long Island Food Bank?” she asked, beaming.

  He just smiled modestly. “Glad it worked out.”

  “Call me!” And then, much to my amazement, she departed with the words, “We’ll do lunch!”

  “She certainly seems to like you,” I observed. “So does everybody else. In fact, is there anybody here who doesn’t know you?”

  Forrester grinned apologetically. “Maybe this restaurant wasn’t the best choice. Next time we’ll go someplace where we can be alone, without being interrupted every thirty seconds.”

  I opened my mouth to comment on the part about “next time.” But the hostess had just called Forrester’s name. I was relieved that she led us to a table way in back.

  It was actually quiet for a few minutes as Forrester and I scanned our menus.

  “I’ve had the scallops here and they’re amazing,” he commented. “In fact, their recipe was featured in Gourmet magazine.”