A Body to Dye For

by Grant Michaels

  Her eyes had softened somewhat, and I got a glimpse of a keen intelligence working behind them. “Don’t let the police bully you,” she said.

  I left her office and stopped near the reception desk to call a cab. While I was doing that, a handsome man walked by me. He looked like one of J. C. Leyendecker’s Arrow Shirt men, but older, maybe fifty. He was in shirt-sleeves and slacks, both tailored to show off his muscular physique. I thought he looked damn good. He caught my gaze and he nodded politely. “Good afternoon,” he said as he passed by. His cologne smelled like a citrus grove on a cool, dewy morning.

  I overheard Patrick, the receptionist, say to him, “Mr. Brickley, that’s the man who wanted to see Calvin.”

  Since I was the only other person around, I knew he was referring to me. I stopped my call and did a quick Dior turn to face the man. “Are you Mr. Brickley?”

  He smiled cautiously. “Yes, I am.”

  I hung up the phone and went to him. Close up, I saw that his light gray slacks had subtle pinstripes of pink and apricot. A silk Hermes tie of slate blue and gold complemented a pale papaya-colored cotton shirt. “I’m a friend of Calvin Redding,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  He paused a moment, unsure. Then he said cordially, “I’m sure I have a few minutes for a friend of Calvin. Lets go up to my office.” He put his hand heavily on my shoulder. “Whats your name?”

  “Stan Kraychik.”

  He said, “That sounds Czech.”

  “It is.”

  We started toward the elevator, then stopped. “Why don’t we take the ramps? That’s better than the lift. I like to keep fit. Too many people these days are idle and don’t appreciate the importance of physical activity and a healthy body. A healthy mind and a healthy body are codependent.” Blah-blah-blah, he went. I sensed that his polished appearance was only the veneer over a suppressed chatterbox inside. I wondered what this physical culturist would think of my self-improvement campaign to learn to smoke.

  His office was on the top level of the three-story building. Up there, through the top of the atrium, I could see part of a huge bank of solar panels facing southward on the roof. Most of the offices on that level had vertical blinds across the glass walls for privacy, unlike the offices on the second level, where all activity was exposed. Mr. Brickley settled himself behind a huge rosewood desk, while I sat in a comfortable side chair of the same rosewood, upholstered in mauve-colored leather.

  He said, “How can I help you, Mr. Kraychik?”

  “I’m trying to find out about a young man named Roger Fayerbrock.”

  Roy Brickley’s face showed a flash of surprise that disappeared instantly. “I’m afraid I don’t know the name.”

  “Perhaps you’d remember the face and body. Tall, light-haired, mustache, gentle voice. He was visiting from the West.”

  “Still no connection. What does this have to do with Calvin Redding?”

  “I know that Calvin brought him here the other day, showed him around the place. I thought maybe you’d met him.”

  Mr. Brickley thought a moment. “Maybe I do remember him. You say he had a good build on him, eh?”

  I nodded.

  “I think I may remember seeing him.”

  “Do you know why he was here?”

  Roy Brickley repositioned himself in his chair, then said, “I have no idea.”

  “You probably know that Calvin Redding is suspected of killing him.”

  The man pinched his mouth up, then spoke with a barb on his controlled words. “That’s an outrageous accusation, especially of one of our associates.”

  “But it’s true, Mr. Brickley.”

  He squirmed again and his chair creaked. Then he spoke with resignation, as though caught in a lie. “Yes, I know it’s true, but it’s only a suspicion, and I’m certain the police are wrong. The Choate Group believes, as I myself personally believe, of course, that such a thing is not possible.”

  “Of course.”

  “Nonetheless, I am distressed that one of our associates is in such a dire situation, since we know he is innocent.”

  “But—”

  “I can personally vouch for Calvin Redding’s character. My wife and I have entertained Calvin Redding on numerous occasions, and I can assure you that there is no possible way on this earth that Calvin Redding could physically harm another person.”

  It sounded like a statement prepared for the police and the reporters. I almost wanted to applaud, but instead I said, “It’s too bad the police don’t share your conviction.”

  Roy Brickley said, I’ve already spoken with the police, and frankly, they don’t even have enough evidence for a proper charge. They’ll be dealing with Calvin’s attorney shortly.”

  “For what?”

  “Unlawful detainer.”

  “But Mr. Brickley, they do have evidence.” A lie. “I’ve read the reports.”

  That stopped him. “How did you manage that?” ,

  “It’s public information, for a fee.”

  There was a loud knock on the door. Then it burst open and Jennifer Doughton hauled her massive bulk into the room. She jolted to a halt when she saw me, though her body rebounded a moment. She glared at me while she waved some papers and said to Roy Brickley, “These need your John Hancock before two o’clock.” He said, “Certainly, Jennifer. I’ll see to it as soon as I’m finished here.”

  She turned and left the room, closing the door with a ponderous thud. Mr. Brickley said, “Well, as you can see, I’m a busy man, and I have quite a full schedule today.”

  I sensed that Jennie’s interruption had broken the thread of our conversation, and that Roy Brickley was eager to be left alone, so I got up to leave. There’s no reason in pressing people, especially if you might have to see them—and use them—again. I stood up and said, “Thanks for your time, Mr. Brickley.”

  “Not at all. I want Calvin absolved of this monstrous accusation as soon as possible.”

  “I’m determined to settle the matter, too.”

  He extended his hand, and I shook it. It was huge and strong. He said, as he held on to my hand, “By the way, how do you know Calvin?”

  With no reason to lie, I told him, “I do his hair.”

  “Really! What a fortunate coincidence! My wife has been trying desperately to find a new hairdresser.”

  “There are plenty of us around,” I said. “In my business you’re either being discovered or discarded.” His grip on my hand wasn’t loosening.

  “Calvin always looks good, and that’s all the recommendation I’d need for your work. Where is your shop?”

  “I have a card here …” I tugged my hand out of his, then got one of my cards. He took the card and examined it with his powerful fingers, like a boxer handling Venetian glass.

  “Newbury Street. Good location. Near the Ritz, is it?”

  I nodded.

  “But your name isn’t on here.”

  “I go by Vannos in the shop.”

  Roy Brickley wrinkled his forehead. “Why not your own name?”

  “Stanley doesn’t cut it in the world of fashion.”

  “Well, in the world of business, Stanley Kraychik would be a fine name. I hope we’ll be meeting each other again soon.”

  “We probably will.” I left his office and walked quickly down the two ramps to Patrick, the receptionist. “Can you call me a cab?” I asked in my sweetie-pie voice.

  Patrick pressed his lips tightly together, then said haughtily, “There’s one on the way, courtesy of Mr. Brickley.” Was that jealousy I heard in his voice?

  6

  NO YOU CAN’T, YES YOU CAN

  I GOT BACK TO THE SHOP AROUND THREE O’CLOCK. I walked by Nicole’s table, where she was manicuring a customer. Without looking up or missing a single stroke of the emery board, she asked, “Did you see Lieutenant Branco?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, Stanley, he called again. You’re to report to him immediately.”

&nbs
p; “If its so important, let him come to me.”

  Nicole laughed her gutsy laugh.

  “Whats so funny?” I asked.

  “The cat-and-mouse routine you’re getting into.” She raised one eyebrow. “It’s almost romantic.”

  “Don’t project, doll. Your pelvic juices are backing up into your brain.”

  “Oh, Stani, admit it! You do find the lieutenant attractive.”

  “He’s a cop!”

  “You’re evading the point.”

  “And you’re projecting your libido onto me.”

  “I think you like him, just the teensiest bit.”

  “Get real, Nikki. I haven’t had a date in months.”

  “Exactly my point, lover,” she said, and laughed even louder than before. Her customer fidgeted uncomfortably, so Nicole laid down the manicure utensils. “Stani, if you could only see the look on your face!” she said with a squeal.

  I looked in a nearby mirror and saw the usual puss: pink skin with the remnants of freckles, bright green eyes, reddish hair styled in a “regular boy’s” cut, and a big mouth that fell easily into a dopey grin. The strong squarish bones and the mustache helped to counteract my tendency to fleshiness, or as I like to refer to it, my voluptuousness.

  Nicole cried, “You’re blushing like a third-grader playing Post Office on Valentine’s Day.” At this she shrieked, while her customer politely cleared her throat, but to no avail. Mirthful tears had filled Nicole’s eyes.

  “Be careful, doll,” I said. “Your lashes might run, not to mention your client.”

  She shook her head through the spasms of laughter and explained, “This new stuff is waterproof.”

  “Any other calls while I was out?”

  Nicole dabbed at her eyes. “Whom were you expecting?” She emphasized the word for my’ benefit, which put her on the edge of another laughing fit.

  “Just say yes or no, Nikki.”

  “Yes, darling. But he left no message. Said he’d call back.” She resumed work on her customers hands, applying heavy enamel to each nail in three expertly guided strokes from cuticle to tip—side, side, and center. “And, darling,” she said as she dipped the brush into the creamy polish, “don’t be cross with me. I couldn’t laugh when I was modeling, but now I don’t worry about wrinkles, and it feels so good.”

  “Especially at the expense of others.”

  “I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at your condition.”

  “You make it sound as though I’m pregnant.”

  The phone rang. The receptionist answered it and gestured to me. I picked up the receiver at Nicole’s table and spoke into it, raising my voice an octave and applying a Southern drawl. “Stani’s Curl-Up-N-Dye,” I said breathily.

  The voice was muffled and the line was noisy, but the message was clear: “Mind your own business or you end up like the ranger.”

  “Who is this?” I demanded in my normal voice.

  “Just keep out!” Click.

  “Hmph! Happy Halloween to you, too!” I slammed the phone down.

  “Who was that?” asked Nicole.

  “Someone with bad telephone manners.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Nothing. It was just a crank caller.”

  Nicole continued manicuring her customer. “We get plenty of those.”

  I nodded. “No kidding. This one even tried to sound threatening, but it was halfhearted.”

  Nicole stopped her work. “Stani, are you serious?”

  “Yes,” I answered nonchalantly, not sensing any real trouble from the call. Then I thought a moment. They’d said “the ranger,” so it was someone who knew I was involved in this mess. That narrowed it down to a specific handful. I asked Nicole, “Did we get the Herald today?”

  “Oh! I meant to tell you about it. They’ve really outdone themselves this time. You’re a costar with Calvin Redding.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Go read it.” She nodded toward the newspaper rack in the waiting area. (Snips carries all the papers from Boston and New York on a daily basis. After all, theater folk from Manhattan want to read their “hometown” paper even while working in the provinces.)

  I found the tabloid-like Herald all dog-eared and wrinkled. Today’s edition had clearly been read throughout the shop. The caption was on the front page. It wasn’t the main headline, but it was right under it. The writing was sensational and liberally interlaced with conjecture wherever the reporter had lacked facts. My name was there alongside Calvin’s throughout. I looked like an accomplice. They identified my place of work, too. So much for privacy.

  I returned to Nicole’s station. “Business ought to pick up after that story,” I said. “Why didn’t they just write, ‘Go to Snips and get your hair done by a murder suspect’?”

  Nicole had finished with her customer, and the woman had departed. “Do you think she’ll be back after our little scene?” I asked.

  “Of course,” answered Nicole. “She would never admit it, but she was thoroughly entertained by us.”

  “And that’s part of our service here.”

  Nicole prepared her table for the next customer. “Stani, I’m concerned about that phone call.”

  “Nikki, considering that story in the paper, I’m sure it was just a stupid prank. Someone was playing ‘scare the fairy,’ and they had no imagination.” I held the newspaper up. “Anyone who saw this could have made that call to me.”

  Nicole nodded. “That may be true, but what exactly did the caller say?”

  “Just told me to lay off. And with the distortion, I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.”

  “Maybe now you’ll agree that you should leave the detective work to the professionals. It might be safer.”

  “Nikki, I told you before … the pros are the ones who suspect me. Anyway, I don’t feel any danger, especially from a call like that.” I looked around the shop and noticed that Ramon, the shampoo boy, was absent. “Doll, I’m wondering… . You wouldn’t by any chance have solicited someone—I’m thinking of a particular staff member—to make that phone call, just to put the so-called fear of God in me and get me off this case?”

  Nicole looked offended. “Stanley! How could you! I’ll confess to the occasional choreography of an event if its not about to happen on its own, but I’d never stoop to something as common and cheap as an anonymous phone call.”

  “Then it was obviously someone with less class.”

  “Obviously. And I’m hurt that you could even think it.”

  “I apologize. But I know how much you want me to stop nosing around Roger’s murder.”

  “True.”

  “But I need your support, doll, not another roadblock.”

  Nicole said, “I’m still hurt.”

  “And I apologize again, but, Nikki, honestly, I’m feeling so alone in all this, and I know its only going to get worse.”

  “Then stop it all now.”

  “I can’t. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “I’ll pay you whatever it takes.”

  “Thanks, but money won’t solve it. I suppose I ought to go see Lieutenant Branco now.”

  “Now that’s a good idea! Work together with him.”

  “You’re right doll … great idea! Play with the police!”

  “I can think of worse playmates than the lieutenant.”

  “He’d be no fun, Nikki.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s the kind that never took his trucks out.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll bet the lieutenant was a very tidy tot, always afraid of getting his toys dirty.”

  Nicole cocked her head and arched one eyebrow. “Stanley, why do I get the feeling you’re referring to something else?”

  I winked at her and got my jacket. “Because I usually am, doll.

  I shouldn’t be long.”

  “Did you check the book?”

  “I don’t have
to. Its open, remember? My photo session was canceled.”

  “Well, make sure.”

  “Nikki, I’m sure!”

  “In that case, take your time.” Then her voice took on a lilt. “If the lieutenant wants to detain you for any reason, Ramon will help me close up.”

  Ramon, Ramon. Why was I bothered by Ramon? Was it because Nicole had sent him to Neiman’s earlier for the chocolate I’d forgotten? Or because he was a sexy little Parisian who claimed to be bisexual? Or because I’d suspected him of making the phone call? Or because Nicole seemed to have a special interest in him? Was she tiring of me and preferring a younger confidante?

  Nicole called after me as I left the shop, “Crabtree and Evelyn has ginger shortbread on special this week. Perhaps Lieutenant Branco would like a tin.”

  There it was again, that provocative tone of voice. “Sure, Nikki,” I answered. “That’s a lot butcher than flowers.”

  I heard her potent laugh as the door closed behind me.

  I got a cab and headed across town to Station E of the Boston Police Department.

  Station E was an old building that had been named an official historic landmark, so it qualified for city and state funds for restoration and preservation. Most noticeable in the recent work was the graffiti now gone from the noble Doric facade and columns. It had been sandblasted away, and the granite front had regained its ponderous authority.

  I entered the building and strode by the desk sergeant, barely pausing in my airy rapid-fire delivery. I’m-here-to-see-Lieutenant-Branco-he’s-expecting-me.” The sergeant didn’t respond until I tried to open the door that led to the hall of offices. Then he snarled, “Come back here and state your business.”

  “I already told you, I’m here to see—”

  “I heard what you said! I said state your name and the nature of your business.”

  I told him what he wanted to hear, while I silently reminded myself that the pushy technique I’d used in Neiman’s and at the Choate Group didn’t necessarily work with the police. He called Branco and told him I was there. Then he hung up and said, “You can go in now. Wait for me to unlock the door.”

  I went to the door without another word.