“Sweet Jesus!” Birdie exclaimed. “Do you think you can find a man who’s handsome, charming, witty, well dressed, financially successful, and a romantic lover anytime you decide?”
“No. But it would be nice.” I was amused by Gran’s list. I would settle for someone not leaving town as soon as he got his job back.
“You know, you’ll be thirty soon, and what you look for in a guy will have to change.”
“Really?” I decided two could play matchmaker. “How about when you reach the ripe old age of seventy-five? What do you want then?”
“He needs to be breathing and not miss the toilet when he pees.”
After I stopped laughing, I asked, “Well, Tony Del Vecchio certainly exceeds your wish list. Heck, he has most of what’s on my list.”
“Some things aren’t meant to be.” Birdie’s voice was sad, and a few minutes later she decided to go to bed.
I had thought about asking Gran about her relationship with Tony back when they were teenagers. Why she had married so soon after he was declared MIA. And why she and Tony hadn’t gotten together after both their spouses had passed away. But I wasn’t ready for any more emotion in my life right then. I would discuss it all with her later—once I was no longer in danger of joining my father behind bars.
The first thing I did when I arrived at work the next morning was call Imagination for an appointment. I stated that Joelle had referred me and I wanted her stylist. For once, luck was shining on me. Sarin had just had a late-afternoon cancellation and she agreed to slip me into that vacant slot.
Saturday was a busy day at Devereaux’s Dime Store, and my weekend clerk, Xylia Locke, and I were kept hopping. Xylia was the complete opposite of my high school helper. While Hannah dressed like a Hello Kitty girl, Xylia wore khakis and sweater sets. Hannah planned to study graphic arts, while Xylia was majoring in business administration. However, both young women were hard workers, intelligent, and loyal to me and the store.
With Xylia’s assistance, I was able to help shoppers locate the items they were searching for, work the soda fountain, and still photograph the baskets for the Athletic Booster Club’s fund-raiser, create the flyers, and e-mail the brochure file to the OfficeMax nearest the Parkside Hotel.
It was three thirty, and I was making what I thought might be the fiftieth hot fudge sundae of the afternoon when I realized that Gran would be by herself overnight. Why I hadn’t thought of this sooner, I’m not sure. Maybe because I hadn’t been away from home since I’d bought the dime store.
Shoot! Gran would have a hissy fit if she got the notion I had arranged for someone to babysit her, so I couldn’t ask Poppy or Boone to spend the evening. What I needed was a way to make sure she was okay without making it seem I was unwilling to leave her alone.
Hmm. An idea was forming, but would it work? Handing a bowl of ice cream to the eager ten-year-old customer standing across from me, I put the CLOSED sign on the soda fountain counter and hurried into the back room. It took me a few seconds to find the number, but when I punched it in, Gran’s friend Frieda answered on the first ring.
After identifying myself, and suffering through a few minutes of chitchat, I cut to the chase. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“Oh?” Frieda’s tone was cautious. She’d worked the midnight shift at the local liquor store for too many years to be overly trusting or optimistic.
“How would you like to go to the Argosy casino in Riverside this afternoon and stay overnight in its hotel? I’ll pay for gas, your room, and stake you a hundred dollars gambling money.”
“What’s the catch?” Frieda had had a hard life; losing a husband before she turned twenty-one and dealing with a no-account son had probably taught her that there was no such thing as a free lunch.
“You take my grandmother with you, but don’t let her know our arrangement. Tell her you won the trip.”
“Why?”
I explained that I had to be out of town, without saying why or with whom, then added, “And I don’t think she should be alone for so long.”
“Birdie is fine. You really don’t have to worry about her, but if it will make you feel better, okay.” Frieda paused. “How should we do this?”
“Call Gran as soon as we hang up and don’t take no for an answer. Tell her you won’t go if she doesn’t come with you because it won’t be any fun alone.” I swiftly calculated the logistics. “I’ll make your hotel reservation right now and drop the money and your confirmation number off in a half hour or so.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
I thanked Frieda and said good-bye, then got online and booked a double room for her and Gran. Although it was still ten minutes until the store was officially scheduled to close, there were no customers present, so I walked Xylia to the front door and switched off the neon OPEN sign. Once I was alone, I took six twenties from the register for Frieda and two hundred dollars for me before locking the rest of the contents in the safe. Not that there was much left after my pilfering.
I paperclipped Frieda’s money to the reservation printout and stuffed it all into an envelope, then stuck it in my purse. I carefully tucked the remaining cash into my wallet, reserving a fifty, which I stashed in my bra.
With only a few minutes left, I grabbed my tote bag and dashed into the restroom to change clothes. It wasn’t that I cared about being attractive for Jake. Really. But I knew from my days of patronizing upscale hair salons that I needed to look the part of their usual affluent clientele when I arrived for my appointment.
The antique black distressed jeans and scarlet V-neck sweater were the perfect attire for a Saturday afternoon visit to the salon, especially when I added my cropped leather motorcycle jacket. The asymmetrical ruffle-covered zipper gave the jacket a chic flair. Thank goodness I hadn’t gotten rid of all my “city” clothes—only the ones that reminded me of the office.
Jake was precisely on time. I met him at the door and hustled him into his truck while explaining, “Sorry to rush you, but we need to run a couple of errands before you take me to the hair salon, and I don’t want to be late for my appointment.”
“No problem.” He backed out of the parking space and asked, “Where to first?”
“White Eagle Trailer Park.” I was pleasantly surprised that he didn’t question me about what we were doing, but wondered why he was so silent.
After I delivered the money and confirmation printout to Frieda and she assured me that Gran had agreed to accompany her to the casino, I settled back into the F-250’s comfy leather seat and gave Jake the address of the OfficeMax. I waited for him to say something about the errands or our mission, or even about my outfit, but he just nodded, put the truck in gear, and headed toward the highway.
His silence as the miles rolled by was beginning to get on my nerves, but when I tried to start a conversation, he responded with only a word or two. The man plainly didn’t want to talk, and that confused me. The previous night at my car, I was sure he was about to kiss me. Now, in the light of day, I wondered if he was regretting his offer to help me.
Between the quiet and the motion of the pickup, I must have dozed off, because I startled awake when he pulled up in front of the OfficeMax. When my eyes opened, I saw that Jake was studying me, his expression impossible to read.
After a few seconds I gave up trying to figure out what he was thinking and said, “I’ll only be a minute.”
“Fine.”
As promised, the flyers were waiting for me. I paid for them and was back in the Ford before my seat got cold. As I settled in, I asked, “Do you know the way to the salon?”
“Yep.”
Why wasn’t he talking? Had I done something wrong? Maybe he was sorry he had agreed to act as if we were a couple. Grr! Even if his brooding was about something else, the least he could do was be sociable.
When we pulled up to Imagination, I asked, “Are you coming inside with me?”
He shook his head. “I’ll go take another look at
the hotel before we check in, and be back for you in an hour.”
“Don’t bother.” His impersonal attitude was beyond exasperating and I snapped, “I’ll grab a cab and save you a trip.”
He didn’t respond, just waited for me to get out, then merged smoothly into traffic. I thought I saw him glance in his rearview mirror, but that may have been purely wishful thinking on my part.
Before I entered the salon, I took a deep breath, determined to put Jake’s disturbing behavior out of my mind. I needed to have my wits about me in order to find out all the dirt on Joelle. No one knows more about a woman’s secrets than her hairdresser.
Imagination was exactly what I expected—sleek, modern, and featuring shampoo that sold for thirty-six dollars a bottle. Although I didn’t really want to, I was getting highlights. I figured that procedure would give me twice as much time to grill Sarin.
Once I made it through the gauntlet of receptionist, beverage girl, and stylist assistant, who directed me to change out of my sweater and jacket and into a short, silky kimono, I was finally seated in front of a mirror. Before I finished getting comfortable, a glamazon appeared in front of me.
She was six feet tall and reed thin, a platinum blonde with a bone-white complexion, dressed from head to toe in black leather. In a thick Romanian accent, she said, “I am Sarin. You will leave everything to me and I will make you beautiful enough to marry a prince.”
Uh-oh! “Actually, I just want a few highlights. Nothing too extreme.”
“Of course.” Sarin clapped for her assistant. “Let us begin.”
As Sarin ran her fingers through my hair, holding up what appeared to be random strands, I scanned my surroundings. The salon had an air of luxury. Thick rolled towels were artistically arranged in brass trays, flutes of champagne sparkled in the clients’ hands, and scented air was puffed from hidden nozzles.
I was shocked to realize that I had forgotten what this kind of life was like, and happy to recognize that I hadn’t missed it. When I quit my job and bought the dime store in order to spend more time with Gran, I knew I’d never regret that decision. But I had been afraid I’d mourn the loss of my huge salary and all the things I was used to buying with that money.
“You have good hair.” Sarin refocused my attention on the task at hand. “You should let me style it for you after I finish the highlights.”
“Not this time.” My sales resistance was extremely high, having used all the tricks myself when I was trying to get people to invest with me. “Although I do like my friend Joelle Ayers’s cut.” I crossed my fingers that Sarin hadn’t heard about Joelle’s death.
“Yes. It is striking.” There was something calculating in Sarin’s tone. “But her hair takes a lot of maintenance. She comes in every other week to keep it up. Are you willing to do that?”
“Not really.” There was certainly no way I could afford that. “Why does Joelle’s style take so much work? It looks fairly simple to me.”
“I can’t really say.” Sarin’s jet-black eyes kept sneaking quick peeks sideways, as if what she was saying was for the record rather than her true inclination. “Client confidentiality.”
Nodding sympathetically, I said, “Of course. I completely understand.”
She dismissed her assistant, then walked around me so that her back was to the mirror, and said in a low voice, “You wouldn’t believe the stories I could tell you.”
“Oh?” Was she asking for a bribe? “Joelle was in last Saturday, right? Did she have anything interesting to say?”
Since Sarin’s Ferragamo sandals probably cost upwards of four hundred bucks, I wasn’t sure fifty dollars would impress her, but I reached into my bra and handed her the folded bill anyway. Crossing my fingers, I lied. “I promise not to divulge anything you tell me.”
“No. Nothing that stands out.” Sarin tucked the money into her pocket.
“So what stories do you have?” I hoped I hadn’t just wasted my money.
“Joelle demands that no one ever be able to tell that her hair is colored or permed.” The stylist picked up the stack of foil squares her assistant had left for her, and started working on me. “She freaks out if she sees any of her natural shade at the root or, God forbid, a gray hair showing.”
“Wow!” I noticed that Sarin’s accent had disappeared and her cheeks were rosy. “That’s certainly over the top.” The stylist no longer looked or sounded like the queen of the vampires, which was a huge relief.
“And don’t get me started about her extensions and her need to have them be perfect.” Sarin shook her head. “If one comes loose, it’s as if the apocalypse has begun and one of the horsemen is breathing down her neck.”
“I wonder why?” I mused, thinking that even for a woman hiding her identity, Joelle’s obsession had been a bit much. “Who cares if people know you dye your hair or add to it? In this day and age it’s no big deal.”
“It is to her boyfriend.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Sarin’s smile was mean. “He’s some kind of hotshot doctor, and he made a big deal about being honest in a relationship. He told her that plastic surgery and fake hair were a lie.”
“I didn’t realize Joelle was so insecure.” Interesting. Everyone had said Noah was wrapped around her little finger, but Sarin’s information suggested otherwise. “She seems so confident.”
“Maybe in other matters.” Sarin shrugged. “But she told me that she doesn’t feel like this guy’s true love. More like a fill-in.”
“Who is she a fill-in for?”
“Some old teenage crush.” Sarin finished painting the highlighting solution on my hair and set the timer. “Before he asked Joelle to marry him, he told her that he had to be honest with her. He knew he could never get this high school chick back, but he’d love her forever, and Joelle would always be second in his heart.”
CHAPTER 20
I walked out of Imagination in a state of shock. Both Sarin’s bombshell about my ex-boyfriend and the cost of her service had stunned me. I wasn’t certain which was more disturbing, but a hundred and fifty bucks for highlights that I wasn’t sure I even liked was edging out the news about Noah’s declaration.
The beep of a horn jerked me back to the present, and I saw Jake’s truck double-parked in front of the salon. He waved, then leaned across the seat and opened the passenger door. My first inclination was to ignore him and grab a taxi. His cold-shouldered attitude on the ride in had upset me more than I cared to admit, and I wasn’t ready to face him.
Too bad I had already blown through the money I took from the register. That meant twelve dollars and change was all I had left. Taking a taxi to the hotel would leave me close to broke. Since I had shredded my debit card, an ATM was out of the question, and because I’d kept only one credit card—which currently resided in the dime store safe—for emergencies, Jake was my only way home.
Pride warred with common sense, and for once common sense won. I grudgingly stomped over to the Ford, climbed into the cab, and buckled up.
Jake flicked a quizzical look at me, then pulled into traffic.
When he kept glancing my way, but remained silent, I said, “What?”
“You seem different.”
“Duh.” After finishing the highlights, Sarin had somehow managed to form my curly hair into a waterfall of ringlets. “I just spent an hour and beaucoup bucks in a salon. I’d better look different.”
“Oh.” Jake shrugged. “I thought you’d just get a trim or something.”
I didn’t bother explaining my motive to him. Instead I said, “Don’t be concerned. The color will grow out in a couple of months, and the style will be gone as soon as I shower in the morning.”
“I wasn’t worried.” Jake’s appreciative smile and sexy dimples almost made me forget I was ticked off at him. “It looks good.” Under his breath, I thought I heard him mutter, “Too good.”
“Thanks.” Since I couldn’t think of anything more to say on that subject,
I demanded, “Guess what I found out?”
“The beauty shop gal killed Joelle because she used the wrong shampoo.”
“I wish.” I bit back a giggle. Jake’s good cop, bad cop routine wasn’t about to work on me. I was determined to hang on to my mad until he explained himself. “Joelle’s hair was as phony as her identity.”
“So?”
So, indeed. Did her fake hair have anything to do with the murder? The only one who would have been upset by her deceit was her fiancé, and since I wasn’t sure I wanted to share the information Sarin had revealed about Joelle being a fill-in for me in Noah’s eyes, I kept silent.
While I pondered, Jake turned the pickup into the entrance of the hotel’s parking garage. He rolled down the window, plucked the ticket from the machine, and when the gate lifted, drove into the darkness. It took a while, but he finally found an empty space on the top floor. Grabbing my tote bag and his duffel from the backseat, he met me by the elevator and punched the DOWN button.
The doors opened immediately and we stepped inside. When we arrived at the ground level, Jake took my hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm.
I tried to draw away, but he murmured into my ear, “Try to act like we’re in love. Remember, we’re supposed to be sweethearts.”
“How could I forget?” I sneered. “You’ve been so pleasant all afternoon.”
It wasn’t a big surprise when he only grunted.
The Parkside was a boutique hotel, which meant it was small in comparison to a Hilton or Hyatt, and its decor made a statement. No cookie-cutter furnishings or predictable artwork was allowed. Instead, uncomfortable-looking chrome chairs were grouped in pairs, trios, and foursomes throughout the ultramodern lobby.
The exposed redbrick walls and burnished-steel light fixtures reminded me more of a warehouse than a luxury hotel. And the wrought-iron reception desk seemed like something that might be found in a torture chamber rather than in downtown Kansas City. I sure hoped the rooms weren’t furnished the same way.
Little Shop of Homicide: A Devereaux’s Dime Store Mystery Page 17
