Permed To Death [Bad Hair Day Mystery 1]

by Nancy J. Cohen

  "Okay, who do we know with connections to Bertha who's a light-haired female?” Marla said as they trudged back to her car.

  Tally brushed a hand through her wavy hair. Sweat glistened on her brow, and her face was flushed from the heat. She looked as hot as Marla felt. “You tell me,” Tally said.

  "It's not Wendy. She's a brunette,” Marla replied, unlocking the driver's side. “Someone from Roy Collins's office, perhaps, like a secretary sent on an errand?"

  "But why would Roy send a cake to Carlos? That makes no sense."

  "I could ask Zack when I see him tomorrow. I'm hoping he'll be more talkative than Wendy once I steer the conversation toward Bertha Kravitz. He can probably tell me more about Roy."

  Tally cast a meaningful glance at Marla. “You're overlooking another alternative. The woman could be someone you know more intimately."

  Marla's throat constricted. She'd been denying the other possibilities. “Darlene has blond hair, and she's been nosy lately. But I don't think she's capable of murdering anyone. She has no motive against Bertha.” Unlike me. I wonder what you'd think if you knew the truth.

  "Get real, Marla. You can't trust anyone until this is solved."

  Starting the engine, Marla fell into a glum silence until after she'd steered onto the main road heading west. At least driving gave her a clear view of things. Bertha's murder directed her down less obvious paths. Not trusting her staff was the worst. She'd prided herself on her ability to judge people accurately. Turnover at the salon was at an all-time low, thanks to her careful selection of personnel. But now her confidence had been undermined, and the only person she could truly rely on was herself.

  "How about a woman wearing a wig?” she offered, still unwilling to believe a staff member would betray her.

  Tally raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Sure, Marla. If Vail learns about this, he might believe it was you."

  How right you are. She said nothing more on the subject, lost in her own musings. They stopped for a bite to eat, but Tally was impatient to get home so they didn't linger. Marla could tell her friend's thoughts were deviating because she kept glancing at her watch. Tally was probably wondering if her errant husband had returned yet. She felt a swell of sympathy, wondering what to do to offer comfort.

  Tally still had room in her mind for Marla's troubles. “Keep me informed,” she said, wagging a finger at Marla. “I want to help you solve this mess. We're here for each other, remember?"

  "That goes for me, too.” As they approached Tally's house, her friend's shoulders tensed. Marla spotted Ken's gold Acura sitting in the driveway. “You see, he's home waiting for you,” she said reassuringly. “Maybe the two of you can do something together this afternoon."

  "If I have anything to say about it, we will. This has got to end, Marla."

  "What about that little surprise you're planning?"

  "It's my last resort."

  "I can't believe you're not going to tell me what you have in mind,” Marla said, tapping her chest “You wound me deeply."

  Tally laughed. “You're such a good friend, but this is one secret I won't reveal. You'll learn about it afterward.” Her expression sobered. “I'm hoping such tactics won't be necessary, but I am prepared to carry them through. In the meantime, I'll keep working on him. He's never been this close-mouthed before."

  Thank goodness Tally's spirits had rallied. It was better to confront one's problems straight on. No pain, no gain. The truism applied to relationships as well as sports. Had Marla followed that advice with Stan, she'd have relieved herself of much suffering. But sometimes you learned things the hard way, and they were the lessons that really stuck.

  "Maybe I can entice him to go to the Strip,” Tally commented, her hand on the door latch as Marla pulled alongside the curb. “We haven't seen the new shopping plaza yet, and Ken is one of those rare men who enjoys browsing.” She waved her hand. “Call me tomorrow after your appointment with Zack, and we'll exchange news."

  "Good luck,” Marla cried, as Tally swung from her seat

  She could use some of that luck herself, Marla realized during the drive home. She seemed no closer to learning who Bertha Kravitz's killer was than Detective Vail, although most likely he wasn't telling her everything. Why should he? She was still a suspect. For some reason, Marla felt it was important to win him as an ally. Only when the case was solved could she preserve her reputation and move on. Only then could she absolve herself from the guilt she felt over Bertha's demise. But there was still the matter of that damned envelope. Until she had it safely in her possession, Vail might use it to pound the nail into her coffin. For all she knew, he'd already seen it and was waiting to gather more evidence against her.

  Frowning, she pulled into her driveway when, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a package tilted against the front door. Her foot faltered on the accelerator but she continued into the garage. Today was Sunday. How could she have gotten a mail delivery?

  Her curiosity mounting, she retrieved the package which was wrapped nondescriptly in brown paper. Odd, there's no return address. Turning it over in her hands, she noticed the lack of a postmark as well.

  A few moments later, she entered the town house. Spooks yipped wildly, wagging his tail and running circles around her. Smiling, she placed the bundle on the kitchen counter and bent to scratch his ear before letting him outside.

  Her skin felt sticky from the humidity. Better to get comfortable before opening that package, she thought, heading into the lavatory. After freshening up, she allowed herself to approach the mysterious box.

  Her examination yielded little information. Shiny sealing tape secured the edges. A white mailing label listed her typed name and address. Otherwise, there was no indication of the sender's identity.

  How peculiar. Throwing caution aside, she withdrew a pair of scissors from a kitchen drawer and sliced through the tape. Nothing momentous happened—like an unexpected explosion—as her fingers separated the edges of the wrapping. Slowly, she released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. When the last vestiges of package wrapping fell away, her eyes widened.

  Marzipans. My favorite!

  Thrusting the brown paper aside, she slid the box open. The fruit-shaped candies looked like the typical confections she bought for herself at Christmastime. But which friend knew how much she loved these treats?

  A slip of paper fell onto the counter when she lifted the box. She snatched it up, hastily scanning the typewritten message: From your Secret Admirer. That's all. No signature or any other indication of who'd sent her a gift.

  Detective Vail? She'd mentioned marzipan to him the first day they'd met, but she hadn't told him her own preference for the sweet. Nor would Tally send her a gift in this manner. It could be someone from the salon, she realized. Her staff knew she turned into a marzipan freak during the holiday season.

  Selecting a rosy apple shape, she sniffed its almond fragrance. Her mouth salivated with anticipation.

  Arnie, of course. The dear man had sent her this gift to cheer her. It couldn't be any of the other guys she dated. Lance brought her electronic gizmos that usually ended up in a drawer. Ralph gave corny gifts but rarely food, and basically, he just remembered her birthday. Nah, it had to be Arnie.

  Her lips poised to take a bite, but then she paused. Now that she thought about it, Arnie wasn't so subtle. He presented his gifts personally, like that bottle of Beau-jolais he'd given her after the wine festival. He'd insisted they share it at an outdoor concert over the weekend. But if not him, then who else?

  The faint aroma of almonds prodded a memory from her mind. No, she thought. It wasn't possible.

  Her blood chilled as she replaced the firm candy in its box. Grabbing her purse, she rummaged inside until her fingers touched the business card belonging to Detective Vail. Within reaching distance of the telephone, she dialed his beeper number with a trembling hand. Probably she was being totally paranoid, but better safe than sorry.

&n
bsp; A thumping noise at the door made her scurry forward to let Spooks inside. She stepped back as he dashed into the kitchen. Standing by her side, he shook his body, flinging moisture onto her clothes. The odors of fresh air and rich humus clung to him.

  "Good move, Spooks,” she said, brushing off her blouse. The phone rang, and she grabbed the receiver off its hook.

  "Hello?” She hardly recognized the breathless voice as her own.

  "Vail here."

  Her stiffened spine relaxed; his gruff voice was oddly comforting. “It's Marla Shore. This may be foolish, but I found a package at my front door. I-I'm not sure who sent it."

  "Have you opened it yet?"

  She could imagine his wolf's eyes narrowing in thought. “Yes, it's a box of candy. My favorite kind, actually. Marzipan."

  A leaden silence followed. “I'll be right over."

  Marla used the intervening time to change clothes. By the time Vail arrived, she was neatly attired in a navy pantsuit with a red shell and dark pumps. Her hair freshly brushed, she'd applied a dab of powder to her tanned complexion. At least she hadn't lost her coloring, she thought, a fresh attack of nerves assaulting her. What if those treats were really poisoned? Her gaze swept to die countertop. No way would she taste one to find out. One thing she knew for a certainty: Vail hadn't sent them.

  Her fears diminished when he arrived. Hearing his sedan pull into the driveway, she dashed to the foyer. Her hand fumbled with the doorknob in her haste. A moment later, she stood in the open doorway, watching him stride toward her.

  Dressed in a plaid shirt tucked into a pair of form-fitting jeans, he looked more like a lumberjack than a clever detective. Her defenses wavered as she surveyed his thick hair, craggy features, and wide shoulders. He looked damn good, and she had a hard time remembering to maintain her cool.

  Clearing her throat, she extended a greeting. “Hello, Dalton.” She used his first name purposefully, more to put herself at ease than him. His piercing gaze affected her more profoundly than she liked to admit. “I'm glad you could come. I wasn't sure if you were working today or not."

  His mouth quirked in an easy smile. “It gave me a reason to leave the office. I'm supposed to be off today, but I was getting caught up on paperwork. I can't say I'm sorry you interrupted. Sometimes I get too carried away."

  So he's a workaholic. What does he do in his spare time? “Please come inside,” she said, her tone formal. She didn't mean for them to get too personal.

  "Where's the package?” he demanded, stalking past her.

  "In the kitchen. Want some coffee?"

  "Okay, thanks."

  He's just here for business, she repeated to herself, recalling the last time he'd been in her kitchen. He had been searching for clues that she was a murderess. What did he believe about her now?

  She showed him the box of candy, then put on a pot of coffee. The hot brewed aroma filtered into the air, making her mouth water. Time for her early afternoon caffeine fix.

  "Where did you find this?” he demanded, his expression serious as he regarded the package.

  "On my front stoop. You saw the note?"

  "Uh-huh. Any idea who might have sent it?"

  "Obviously not you,” she said in a teasing tone.

  "Marla,” he began, a warning gleam in his eye.

  She sobered immediately. “I just want to make sure those candies aren't tainted with ... you know.” Shuddering, she turned away to retrieve a couple of mugs.

  Ceramic mugs. Like the one Bertha Kravitz had been holding when—

  "You're trembling,” Vail observed, coming up behind her. His big hands rested on her shoulders—warm, strong hands that caused a sudden awareness to swamp her senses, especially when a whiff of spice cologne drifted her way.

  She shrugged him off. “I'm fine."

  "No, you're not, but you won't admit it. We'll talk about that later. Got a couple of plastic bags handy?"

  "Right here.” She scrambled in the pantry, moving aside the salad shredder Anita had given her that she'd never used, and the jar of matchbooks collected at various restaurants. She found the Ziploc carton buried behind a pile of aprons.

  Vail gave a low chuckle as he surveyed the chaos. “Your pantry reminds me of my daughter. Her bedroom looks neat but that's because she jumbles everything inside her closet."

  Handing him the plastic bags, Marla sniffed indignantly. “I'm a very organized person. I know exactly where everything is in this kitchen."

  "Naturally.” He bundled up the package wrapping, typed note, and box of marzipans while Marla poured them each mugs of coffee. She noted he was careful not to finger the items himself. A pang of regret forced its way into her mind. Maybe the candy was legit. She could be giving away a perfectly good box of marzipans.

  Then again, maybe not.

  "Care to sit for a few minutes?” she asked, gesturing at the kitchen table.

  "I'd like that, thanks.” Taking his mug, he claimed a seat Marla averted her eyes from his capable hands wrapped around the coffee cup.

  "As far as I see it, we have two possibilities here,” he said, taking a sip of his beverage. “One is that an admirer really did send you a box of candy. The other is that these are contaminated. If so, whose pile of dirt have you stirred up?"

  When he took her seriously, Marla couldn't help offering her insights. Clutching her mug, she mentioned her visit to the boatyard.

  Vail's brow furrowed in anger. “What the hell did you go there for? Don't you think I'm doing my job?"

  "I'm sure you are, but I felt a woman might get more information. I'm not as intimidating as you."

  "Intimidating?” he growled.

  "You do come across as rather authoritarian. People are more apt to confide in a woman. Less threatening, you know."

  He appeared thoughtful. “Even so, your visit there wouldn't have given anyone enough time to get a package over here by this afternoon. So if these candies are tainted, someone you'd met previously would be responsible."

  "Right.” His logic made sense. “I did find out that a light-haired woman saw Carlos the day before he vanished. She gave him a pink-frosted cake."

  "A cake. How odd."

  "Don't you see? She might have been giving him a payoff. Maybe she baked his money into the cake so no one would see the exchange."

  "And presumably, she's the one who entered the unlocked back door at your salon to put poison in the creamer jar?” He leaned forward. “Just who do you think she is, Marla?"

  "I haven't a clue.” Her fingers tightened on the mug. He was regarding her closely, as though suspecting any moment she'd confess to having contaminated the candy box herself. It would be a clever ruse to throw off his suspicion.

  "That woman who works at your salon—Darlene?—she's got blond hair,” he continued, making her feel a rush of relief that he wasn't targeting her. “I checked out her address. You might be interested in knowing where she lives ... or rather, with whom."

  "Darlene has her own apartment"

  "That's what she told you?"

  "Sure. She dates different guys she picks up on the beach. That's how she gets her kicks on the weekends. She's always bragging about her conquests."

  He shook his head. “She's painted a false picture for you. That tells me she's got something to hide."

  "What do you mean?” Marla shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She wasn't certain she wanted to hear his report

  Vail watched her carefully. “Darlene is shacked up with Roy Collins."

  "What?” she cried, bolting from her chair. “Darlene ... and Collins? But she just met him at Bertha's funeral."

  "Apparently not. They've been together for a while."

  "Well, bless my bones.” Obviously, Darlene didn't want anyone at the salon to know about her connection with Roy, but why not? Did it have something to do with Bertha Kravitz? “Do you think Darlene paid Carlos to leave the back door unlocked so Roy could enter the salon?” she asked, resuming her seat

/>   Vail ruffled a hand through his hair. “We didn't match any prints to Collins, but that doesn't mean he wasn't there. As Bertha's business partner, he stands to gain her half of their publishing company by right of survivorship."

  "That doesn't prove anything. Wendy inherits her aunt's fortune.” She paused. “Actually, why wouldn't Bertha leave everything to Wendy?"

  "Bertha's husband helped to fund the business when he was alive. He brought Roy in as a partner. He may not have regarded Wendy with as much favor as his wife."

  "Well, I'll talk to Darlene. She might know more."

  "Marla, this isn't your case,” he reminded her gentry. “I'll handle things from now on, okay? You've already received two warnings, assuming this package isn't what it seems. We won't know until the lab report comes in, but I have a bad feeling about it. You were smart to call me."

  She studied him for a long moment. “I'm not used to depending on anyone else, Dalton. I like to do my own footwork."

  "So I've noticed. But you could end up like the proverbial cat who was too curious."

  She smiled. “How did you become interested in being a police detective? Was it because you like to be the one in charge? Or do you just like to tell helpful citizens like me to buzz off?"

  "I guess you could say I like puzzles.” He lounged back in his chair, seemingly content to linger. “It's the challenge, you see. The intellectual part is what stimulates me."

  "Really?” He'd surprised her. “Don't tell me you're the type of guy who works the New York Times crossword each Sunday?"

  "You got it. Now tell me why you became a stylist."

  "That's easy. I love doing people's hair. Besides, I get to schmooze and make women look attractive and experiment with different styles. It satisfies a need within me, you know? I have to do it, like an artist who's driven to paint"

  "So you consider yourself to be a creative person."

  She nodded. “A lot of stylists have an artistic side."

  "But you also must like being around people. You work with women all day who treat you as their personal confidante."