A Body to Dye For

by Grant Michaels

  “Hal, Calvin tried to convince the cops that I was the killer, and I know I’m not. So it’s tit for tat now. I’m going to convince them it’s Calvin. Even if I’m wrong, I may find the real killer while trying to prove Calvin guilty.” I shrugged. “Nothing lost.” I got up to leave. I extended my hand for a shake, and he took it. Then he yanked me toward him and hugged me hard—too hard. He was trying to impress me with his strength.

  He spoke low into my ear. “The offer is open,” he said. “I’d like to show you that other room sometime. I think you might like it.”

  I laughed nervously. “I’m afraid I might.”

  “You know where to find me.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and left his place more troubled than before.

  It was after midnight when I finally got home. There was one consolation awaiting me: Sugar Baby had not destroyed the apartment or the stereo speakers as I had imagined. Instead, with microtome exactness, she had severed but one plump linen nub from the grille cloth of a speaker. I picked her up and hugged her. She purred vigorously, which I hoped was an expression of joy at seeing me home safe at last, but which I knew was simply the happy anticipation of her late supper. I danced around the kitchen holding on to her, singing to her as I prepared her meal. (Hers before mine, of course.) Then while she ate, I popped some frozen lasagna into the microwave oven, mixed myself a martini, and called Nicole.

  She answered the phone with throaty brusqueness. “At this hour, it better be good.”

  My voice faltered. “N-N-Nikki?”

  “Stani? Baby, what’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Nikki …” Then I broke down and sobbed and told her the whole night’s story.

  4

  DIAMONDS, FURS, AND RUBY RINGS

  NEXT MORNING I WAS IN THE SHOP working as usual, though the events of last night persisted in my mind. Had it all really happened? Had I really met my cowboy fantasy man, then found him dead a few hours later?

  But the world turns, and no matter the horrors or sadness of my personal life, my clients expect technical perfection and emotional nurturance from me. So temporarily, I dismissed my own troubles while I tried to salvage what was left of a young woman’s hair.

  Someone—and I happened to recognize his work—had been abusing her hair shafts with careless perm technique. It was was the wrong approach for her wispy type of hair. Consequently, last time he’d literally dissolved and rinsed almost a fourth of her silky blond tresses down the drain, what we call in the trade a “chemical cut.”

  The twenty-year-old looked desperate. “Can you fix it?” she asked, close to tears.

  I was standing behind her. I held both her shoulders firmly, put my face next to hers, and looked warmly at the reflection of her sad eyes in the mirror. “Its going to be all right,” I murmured softly into her ear. “We’ll do an asymmetric cut and you’ll look divine.” She couldn’t see my physical and mental exhaustion from last night’s turmoil, nor the restless, fitful sleep I’d endured. To my clients I am always lighthearted, concerned only with their beauty.

  “Will my hair ever grow back?” she asked.

  “It will. But until then, no color, no perms, no blow-drying, nothing in your hair except the shampoo and moisturizer I give you today.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her the whole truth: Her hair might never be the same as before. Like the name of the process that can cause it, chemical damage can be permanent.

  Forty minutes later I finished the emergency work on the young woman. She looked pretty good, considering what I had to work with. I cleaned up my station and headed toward the front door. Nicole stopped me. “And just where the flying hell do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m off to Neiman’s.”

  “How can you go shopping after what happened last night!”

  “Doll, this is official police business.”

  “Stanley, please don’t lie. If you must shop to get your mind off your problems, then go ahead. But don’t lie.”

  “I’m not lying!” She wasn’t convinced. “Nikki, I expect the cops to mistrust me, but not you.”

  “Oh, I trust you, Stanley. I just don’t believe you. And what about your photo session this afternoon?” She was referring to my contract to style the models for a magazine shoot at a new hotel opening on the waterfront.

  “It’s only eleven now, and I don’t have to be there until one. I’ve got plenty of time, Nikki.”

  She smirked in disapproval. “Then as payola for running out on me, you can bring back two truffles from Neiman’s Epicure Shop.”

  “Sure, doll. You want the Perigord or the Belgian variety?”

  “What?”

  “The Perigord truffles are the ones the pigs sniff out from the ground. The ones from Belgium are chocolate.”

  Nicole’s eyes glittered impatiently. “The chocolate kind, of course! What would I do with a pig’s truffle?”

  “For starters, braise it in cognac and chop some into an omelette.”

  Nicole winced. “I’ll take my cognac in a snifter, thank you.”

  “Or a Styrofoam cup.”

  “Will you just leave and get me the damn chocolate!”

  “I’m going, I’m going. One Grand Marnier and one Bitter Midnight, right?”

  Nicole answered in her broadest, breathiest, fake Brit accent. “Thank you, dearest darling!”

  I walked to Neiman-Marcus, known to some as Needless-Markup. The store was only a few blocks uptown from Snips, on the other side of Copley Square. The air was cooler than yesterday but still clean and breezy. It felt good on my face, like a moment in a country meadow. As I crossed Boylston Street, Bostons great east-to-west dividing line, I smelled rubrum lilies. I saw them swaying gently in cream and coral glory at an outdoor flower vendor on the corner. Their sweet bouquet, usually a cue for romance, only encouraged a heavy sadness now.

  I began my little field trip in men’s accessories, which is where my friend Eduardo works. Eduardo is from Costa Rica and a family of laborers. Here in the U.S., though, he portrays the deposed aristocracy. His skin is smooth and the color of hazelnuts. His face is set with a square jaw, hollowed cheeks, and dark brooding eyes that gaze from under a deep brow. He looks the model of Latin machismo, but he is, at heart, a principessa.

  Eduardo strutted the floor as though he owned Neiman’s, as though he were overseeing his private atelier. In truth, his wealthy older “patron” could probably have bought the store for him. But instead, he furnished Eduardo with a South End duplex condominium, a German convertible, and a robust portfolio of securities. “Is all in my name,” Eduardo had told me one well-sodden night when I’d asked where Daddy was. (We’d just finished our second round under the sheets.) “But I can never live with him. We will kill each other.” Nowadays I styled Eduardo’s wavy black hair and he continued to flirt with me.

  His burnished bronze face shone within the crowd of fashion conscious men milling around the counters of ties, jewelry, cologne, and leather accessories. He saw me and called out, “Astan!”

  “Querida!” I wailed.

  Eduardo left his other customers and came to me.

  “What you doing here?” he asked with a welcoming smile. He wore an Italian suit of navy blue worsted wool, a white shirt, and a silk necktie of slate, purple, and silver stripes.

  “I need your help, bebe.”

  Eduardo gave me a ladylike tap on the shoulder. “Oh you, Astan! You such a bad boy! Why I love you so much?”

  “Because we think the same, always about sex.”

  “No! I never tink about asex!” But then we both broke up laughing.

  “Eduardo, I’m looking for a certain cologne. I don’t know the name. All I know is the smell.”

  “We have everyting you can buy in dis country. What it smell like?”

  I winked back and said, “Like you. Mysterious and spicy.”

  He grinned, then fluttered his fingers over the display of bottles. A solid gold ring adorned one finger of each hand. One
was set with a large marquis onyx and the other with an oval lapis lazuli. Finally his slender hands lighted on a bottle. “Maybe you like this? Is the most espensive one.” He handed me the bottle, a triangular prism of frosted gray glass. The word Orynx had been etched into the glass in small Roman script. I whiffed it and felt its vapors go directly to the back of my neck.

  “That would give me a hangover.”

  Eduardo wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Smell like apoppers. How deese stupid people can buy dis ting?”

  I could tell this technique for finding the cologne I’d smelled in Calvin’s apartment would cause serious side effects on my sinuses. So instead of continuing, I leaned close to the counter and whispered, “Baby, I need some information.”

  “What you need, honey?” He rolled his shoulders and swayed his hips slightly. “You know La Marquesa can help.”

  “There’s a guy named Aaron who works here.”

  Eduardo suddenly reared back and slapped me on the arm. “Oh, you bad boy! You cheating on me! That bitch is no good. You keep away!”

  “Just tell me where he works.”

  “Why you want Aaron? He’s mean.”

  “Querida, I just want to talk to him. Its about his lover. Its serious.”

  “Promise?”

  “Eduardo, I don’t even know him!”

  His eyes shifted left and right as he decided whether to believe me. Then he said, “Hokay. I tell you. I tell you because I love you, Astan. He work upastairs in men furs.” He pointed up to the mezzanine level, and as he lifted his right hand, a small gold watch with a lizard band peeked from under his monogrammed shirt cuff.

  “Thanks, bambino,” I said, and kissed him on the cheek.

  “You such a nasty boy, Astan.”

  I headed toward the escalator. In my haste, I’d neglected to ask him what Aaron looked like. All I had to go on was Hal’s description from last night. But it turned out real easy. I got up to men’s furs and there were only two salespeople. One was a blond youth, eager to help me. He was pretty enough, but in my mind too young to be selling coats that started at five thousand dollars. And the other, the one assisting a customer into a full-length blue fox overcoat, was Aaron.

  He was slender, around five-ten in height, but his long, lean legs made him appear taller. The hair on his small, finely sculpted head was cut close. He wore a dark gray pinstriped suit, hand-tailored and double-breasted, with a white shirt and bow tie. The bow tie was navy with bright red dots. It was knotted neat and tight. His eyes met mine, and even from fifteen feet away I could tell they were pale blue.

  There was a knowing look, that moment when you recognize someone even though you’ve never met before. And then it happened. Aaron dropped the fur coat he was holding and bolted. I sprang to action on my Slavic locomotives and followed him, running and crashing through racks of furry jackets and coats. He ran through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and I was right behind him. But once through, I faced a narrow hallway with four other doorways and no Aaron. He’d vanished.

  I thought quickly. He’d have to have taken the nearest door to disappear that quickly. But that door opened onto a roomful of empty hangers and racks and office supplies, one desk, one chair, and no person. I tried the next door and it was locked. The third one was a stairway, which I took to so quickly that I almost tumbled down. I caught myself on the railing, then I smelled it, the familiar spicy scent from Calvin’s bedroom closet. Immediately I recalled the image of Roger lying dead on Calvin’s bed. That’s the one, I thought.

  The stairway led me back onto the main floor of the store, where Aaron could easily disappear, since he knew his way around. Eduardo saw me come out from the stairwell. He pointed frantically the direction Aaron had taken. I ran out of the store, but it was too late. I’d lost him.

  Defeated, I went back to see Eduardo. He said, “I see him running out. So, you scare him good, eh?” He laughed and seemed pleased.

  I was breathing hard. “At least now I know he’s hiding something. And somehow he recognized me.”

  “And now I know what you looking for before.” He thrust a bottle toward me that was as close to a large brown phallus as poor taste in marketing would allow. “Is call Adam Brun.”

  I smelled it. “That’s the one.”

  Eduardo said, “Wait here, Astan. I find something for you.” He dialed a number on the store telephone and spoke. “Hello, Gloria? Is me, Eduardo.” He reminded me of a cat charming a mouse directly into its paws. “I know,” he continued, “I just checking up on you, baby. Ha-ha-ha.” Eduardo winked and nodded to me as he spoke into the phone. “Listen, honey, I need address for some person in the store. Can you do dat for me?” He covered the phone and whispered to me, “Gloria gonna help you. She tell me everyting in the store.” Then he returned to the phone. “I know, honey, I sorry. I been busy. Hokay? Its Aaron in men furs. You know him.” Eduardo scrawled something quickly on a sales slip. “Thanks, honey.” He hung up and gave me the paper. “Is his address.”

  I looked at the paper. The street and number looked familiar, and in a moment I realized it was Calvin’s address. “Thanks, Eduardo. At least I found out what he looks like.”

  “And what he smell like.” His eyes twinkled. “Tell me, Astan, how come we never be marry?”

  “Because I can’t support your Eva Peron lifestyle.”

  “I don’t care about that. You such a macho man.”

  I knew that was a lie. “Baby, when you put everything in my name, I’ll marry you.”

  He flicked his wrist at me. “You such a bad boy!”

  I left Neiman’s feeling I was getting nowhere. And when I got back to the shop, I realized I’d forgotten Nicole’s chocolate. Her response?

  “I know you had a difficult night, Stanley, and that to forgive is divine. But to overlook this apt of gross negligence would qualify me for sainthood.”

  She sent Ramon, one of the shampoo boys, out to get the forgotten chocolate. I didn’t miss the twenty-dollar bill she slipped him as a tip, either. Oh, well. I was “family,” so my favors came free.

  It was just noon, but already I was frustrated and irritable. To top it off, the afternoon shooting session on the piers had been canceled. That meant my work wouldn’t be appearing in the Sunday newspaper. (Just goes to prove that in my business, the breakthrough to celebrity or the toboggan to oblivion is a matter of whim, something on the order of a flea’s fart.) The unexpected free time didn’t compensate a bit. Strange as it may sound, I’d prefer to work when I’ve already planned on it.

  I felt my crankiness growing. I plunked myself down at my station. As soon as Ramon left on his special mission, Nikki walked over and said quietly, “You had a visitor while you were gone.”

  “Who?”

  “A sleek Italian cop.”

  “Lieutenant Branco?”

  Nicole nodded approvingly.

  “What did he want?” I asked.

  “You’re to call him immediately.”

  I picked up the phone and dialed the number he’d left, but Branco wasn’t in. I left a message and said I’d call back later. Nicole sighed deeply and said, “That man is one hunk of Mediterranean meat. Is he yours or mine?”

  I scowled at her. “He’s straight.”

  “Ah, and such a long winter ahead. Perhaps I’ll invite the lieutenant over for a warm, cozy evening. The fireplace hasn’t been used for a while.”

  “Nicole, he’s a cop!”

  “Darling, nobody’s perfect.” She eyed me curiously. “Stanley, you’re not jealous?”

  “Doll, isn’t it a bit gauche for you to want to date a guy who’s eager to nail me with a murder charge?”

  “I don’t think he wants to do that at all.”

  “That’s your nether brain talking, Nicole.”

  She twirled her pearls for a moment, then said, “Stanley, why did you lie to me?”

  “What lie?”

  “You told me your trip to Neiman’s was police business.�
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  “It was, kind of.”

  “The lieutenant didn’t know anything about it.”

  “He wouldn’t, since I didn’t tell him. Nicole, I’ve made a big discovery about the police.”

  “How big is it?”

  I faced her directly. “Doll, I can see you’re in one of your swollen-moon phases, thanks to the lieutenant’s visit.”

  “Stanley, you know that’s physiologically impossible.”

  “I’m talking anatomy, doll.”

  “Don’t be fresh.”

  “Don’t be brain-dead.”

  “Just tell me then, what is this big discovery about the police?”

  “I’ve decided that the best way to deal with them is simply to take matters into my own hands.”

  “Stanley, you’re wrong. You have to work with them, not against them.”

  “But they suspect me! If I don’t try to get myself off the hook, who’s going to do it?”

  “Stanley, you’re blowing this all out of proportion.”

  “Nicole, you weren’t there. I was. I am a suspect in Roger’s murder. Remember? I told you last night. A suspect! Calvin is, too, but from what I can tell, they’re only holding him for the drugs he was using.”

  “I’m sure they’ll find the killer and everything will be fine.”

  “Thank you, Nancy Drew.”

  Just then Ramon returned with Nicole’s chocolate. He was breathless from running, but he’d executed his mission proudly, like a loyal little dog. I half-expected her to say “Good boy!” and pet his head.

  When he presented the fancily wrapped package, Nicole said to him, “Aren’t you good!” and patted him on the head.

  Psychic Stanley.

  Ramon gave her some money, which was the change from the twenty-dollar bill. Then he quietly disappeared, and I was embarrassed at my earlier jealousy. Ramon, after all my doubts and suspicions, was still only Nicole’s minion.

  Nicole caught me eyeing the whole transaction, and she asked me slyly, “Would you like a truffle?”

  I shook my head no.

  She continued. “Stanley, I think you should stop this do-it-yourself crusade and cooperate with the lieutenant.”