Highlights to Heaven

by Nancy J. Cohen

  “Well, there is one thing. I have a problem.”

  “You know you can count on me, bubula. What’s wrong?”

  Rummaging in her purse, she pulled out the mangled chess piece. “This is part of a gift Dalton is giving to Brianna for her birthday. He wanted me to wrap it. Spooks thought this was a meal.”

  “Oy vey.” Arnie peered at the damage. “What will you do?”

  “I can’t tell him I ruined his present. He bought this with his late wife on a trip to Switzerland. I’ll have to find a replacement.”

  “You could try the toy stores.”

  “And the hobby places. I’ll look around. Just another chore to add to my list.”

  “When is her party?”

  “A week from tomorrow.”

  “You’ve got time. Let me know if you need help.”

  Warmed by his thoughtfulness, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’re a savior. Say hello to Jill for me.”

  Back at the salon, she handed the bagels to the receptionist. “Giorgio should be here soon, and Nicole will be coming at nine. I’m going out for a little while.”

  Marla approached the stucco facade of the Sunrise Academy of Beauty with a feeling of deja vu. No wonder; she’d spent forty weeks here studying cosmetology, earning the required twelve hundred hours toward her diploma. The building didn’t show its age, thanks to a fresh coat of coral paint. She wondered if the interior had been spared the ravages of time. If memory served her correctly, this place had been here since 1975.

  Inside the air-conditioned lobby, she faced a receptionist’s desk done in generic office motif. Rows of plastic chairs lined the opposite wall. A couple of senior citizens lounged there, leafing through old hairstyling magazines.

  “Hi, I’m Marla Shore,” she introduced herself to the middle-aged redhead behind the desk. The secretary’s name badge identified her as Janine.

  “Are you here for hair or nails? You’ll need to sign in,” Janine said before Marla had a chance to explain her purpose.

  “I’m not here for any services.” She was aware students practiced on real clients in an adjacent lab, and members of the public could walk in and register for treatments. A sign on the wall said a wash and blow-dry was only three dollars. Huh! That was a lot cheaper than the twenty dollars she charged. And where else could you get a pedicure today for five dollars?

  “I’d like to speak to someone about your program,” she announced firmly.

  “Which one?” Janine’s gray eyes scrutinized her as though she were an overgrown cuticle. “We have courses in cosmetology, facials, nails, and skin care. We’ve recently added a health department where you can study to become a medical, dental, or nursing aide.”

  Marla lifted her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had expanded your curriculum.”

  Janine’s ample bosom swelled with pride. “Our enrollment keeps increasing. Dorothy May founded the academy in 1975. All we had to offer early students was nail and skin care technology. Then we moved into hair, and now we have cosmetic specialties in fields like sculptured tips and permanent makeup.”

  “I’m interested in cosmetology.”

  She pursed her lips. “You’ll have to attend our orientation program which runs every Tuesday, either in the morning from eight until ten, or in the evening from seven to nine. You’re required to take a placement test to measure your math, reading, and language levels. It takes about twenty minutes on the computer. Then a counselor will describe the required classes.”

  Grinning, Marla shook her head. “That’s not why I’m here, although I’d like to learn more. Just to see how things have changed, you understand. I’m a licensed stylist.”

  “Oh, then you’re here about a renewal? We don’t do the HIV/AIDS course here or the other things you’ll need. It’s tough to get part-time instructors, and we have too many regular students. One of the other schools may be able to help you.”

  Marla stood her ground. “I need to speak to a director.”

  Challenged, the receptionist tilted her head. “Maybe you’re here to register for one of our advanced-products seminars?”

  “I’m seeking specific information on my former classmates. Do you keep records from several years ago?”

  Janine’s expression deflated now that she realized Marla wasn’t applying as a student. “You’ll have to speak to Virginia. She’s the cosmetology department chief. I’ll ring her up and see if she’s in.” A few moments later: “You’re in luck. Go down the hall; it’s the third door on your left.”

  Marla marched proudly along the corridor, appreciating how far she’d come since she’d walked these halls so many years ago. No longer a novice, she now had the benefit of many years of experience. She glimpsed into the laboratory on her left, smiling at the scene. Students wearing blue uniforms worked on mannequin heads while others practiced on actual clients clad in maroon smocks. Although part of her felt a wave of nostalgia, she was glad her year of basic training was long finished.

  When Marla reached the office indicated, she knocked on the solid wood door.

  “Come in,” rang out a strong female voice.

  Marla entered. An auburn-haired woman, sitting behind a mahogany desk, glanced up and smiled. Her china blue eyes looked vaguely familiar.

  “Please come in,” the director said. “I’m Virginia Hawkins.”

  “Hi, I’m Marla Shore. I graduated from here a number of years ago, and I need some information.”

  “Please have a seat. I remember you, dear. I believe I was one of your instructors.”

  After sharing nostalgic memories, Marla stated her case. “Do you keep class rosters? I’m interested in looking up a former classmate.”

  “We keep a database on all our former students. Names, addresses, phone numbers, resumes, job placement. We don’t normally give out this information.”

  Marla thought fast. “I’m planning a reunion.”

  “A reunion, how exciting!” Virginia grinned in delight.

  “I think we lost a member,” Marla said in a sad tone. “I’d read in the newspaper about a stylist drowning in an accident. I couldn’t remember whether she was in my class or not.”

  The director clucked with sympathy. “Just let me bring up that window.” Turning to her computer, Virginia typed in a few commands. “You’re talking about Eileen McFee.”

  “May I see?” Marla craned her neck to peer at the monitor. What she saw made her blood run cold. Louise Cunningham, the recent hit-and-run victim Giorgio had mentioned, was on the same list.

  “This is my class! Can I possibly get a printout?”

  “Well, since you’re a former student of mine…I’ll make an exception, but only if you invite me to the reunion.” Virginia pushed the PRINT button. “It’s difficult retaining students with our transient population.”

  “Tell me about it. I have the same problem with my staff.”

  The director’s eyes lit with curiosity. “How long have you had your own salon?”

  “Eight years. I actually used my portfolio design from class.” It had been part of her graduation requirements. The portfolio included a floor plan for an imaginary salon, projected costs, outfitting, and price lists for services, among other items. “I’d be interested in seeing what you do now. Things have probably changed since I studied here.”

  She needed time to think about the connection between the dead stylists and herself. Were their deaths accidental as reported in the news, or had she almost become the third victim of a crazed killer who hit on hairdressers? Though if this were the case, why would her assailant take Goat’s envelope?

  Cutter Corrigan had been their instructor. She should pay him another visit, with or without Dalton Vail’s approval.

  “I think one thing you’ll find different than when you were here is that now we have defined lesson plans,” Virginia said, rising. She handed Marla the printout of her class roster, and a bunch of other documents. “As you see, the curriculum is much more stru
ctured, with set objectives and a course syllabus. Students must pass a basic skills test. We also have field trips to various shows.”

  Marla shuffled through the papers in her hands. Lecture subjects ranged from bacteriology to business skills, sanitation to science, Florida state law to salon management. She noted classes on electricity, anatomy, chemistry, and disease. The requirements weren’t much different than when she’d gone through school. Hairstyling, cutting, coloring, chemical waving, and other services still had the same performance sheets, with a few modern additions.

  “We’re always looking for substitute teachers,” Virginia said, noting her interest. “Let me give you a tour. Perhaps I can motivate you to become one of our instructors. Have you taken any specialized courses since you obtained your license?”

  “Well, sure.” Marla mentioned some of the seminars she’d attended. They began their tour in the lab, the sound of blow-dryers competing with the students’ chatter. “It looks pretty much the same as when I was here,” she said, noting the worn linoleum on the floor and the plastic ceiling panels overhead.

  “Terms three through five spend two days a week in the laboratory. The rest of the time is in the classroom. We’re working with Broward Community College to try to get college credit for our courses and maybe have some high school students join us. The health section is in our new building. We’re slated to renovate this one next year.”

  “Are classes still just in the mornings?” When she’d gone to school, Marla had worked part-time as a shampoo girl in a local salon during the afternoons.

  “We run three sessions six days a week. You can start at eight in the morning, three in the afternoon, or six in the evening. Labs are Wednesdays and Fridays. So if you’re considering being a substitute, just about any time you’re available except Sundays would work.”

  They passed a row of green vinyl chairs with old-fashioned dome hair dryers. She figured a lot of senior citizens came in who still liked to get a wash-and-set. “How many students are enrolled?”

  Virginia waved an arm. “We have upwards of one hundred twenty in here at a time. That’s an average of thirty students per classroom, with four rooms, including this lab. Then there are the facial rooms and the pedi-spa.”

  Marla smiled at the familiar sight of one girl setting a mannequin head with perm rods while another combed out a head of curly brown hair after doing a foil frosting. Gads, look in that corner! She hadn’t used an electric oven for comb-pressing hair since training. Chuckling, Marla turned her attention to another student doing a demi-perm coloring on a real customer. Products spilled from roll-abouts standing in the aisles; cut hairs littered the floor; and trailing wires from various implements tangled on the counters. In the center stood a row of sinks for mixing chemicals. Her former mentor would be horrified by the mess. Cutter’s place exemplified order amid high style.

  “Do you remember Cutter Corrigan? He was another one of my instructors. Cutter owns a salon on Las Olas now. Do you keep in touch with him?”

  Before answering Marla, Virginia called out, “Not that way,” to a student doing a piggyback perm. “You’ve put the rods too far in the back. Move them over here.” After demonstrating the proper technique, she turned her attention back to Marla. “Cutter is always looking for promising graduates. I saw him at the Wella show a few weeks ago. He’d brought his friend.”

  “Oh? Male or female?”

  “The same guy as before.”

  Marla gave her a curious glance. “Light or dark hair?”

  “Very dark, with those Latin good looks.”

  “Hmm.” Couldn’t have been Yani Verkovich; and, besides, you had to be a licensed professional to get into the shows.

  “There’s one of Carolyn Sutton’s girls.” Virginia pointed to a student fixing a fancy updo on a mannequin. “You used to work for her, didn’t you?”

  “Carolyn gave me my first job after I graduated.”

  “She sponsors students here. Some of them don’t speak much English, so I don’t know where she gets them. She employs them in her salon after they graduate.”

  Marla put a hand on Virginia’s arm. “Carolyn is opening a salon in the same shopping strip as my place. I thought her previous location looked rundown, and our rent is probably higher. How can she afford to move, plus sponsor any students? How much is tuition today, by the way?”

  “It costs twenty-five hundred for the year. That includes fees, books, uniforms, and a personal styling kit. Field trips cost extra.”

  Marla dropped her hand. “I think someone must be financing her.” Marla’s ex-spouse, Stan, had tried to undermine her lease at one point in Carolyn’s favor, but she’d defeated his efforts. After she helped solve the murder of his third wife, they’d become allies if not friends. He wouldn’t back her rival this time, so who would? Get back on track. Dealing with the competition wasn’t her priority right now.

  “Do me a favor,” she said to Virginia. “If you see Cutter again, don’t mention that I was here.”

  The director’s eyes widened with glee. “I know! You’re planning to surprise him with the reunion, aren’t you? How delightful. It’s so unusual for people to keep in touch these days.”

  “I appreciate your help,” Marla said before taking her leave. Celebrating Cutter’s stint as her teacher was the last thing on her mind. She needed to learn what Cutter knew about Goat, if the deaths of these two stylists were coincidental or not, and where the history of hairdressing fit into it all.

  Chapter Six

  Marla, didn’t get a chance to ask Cutter Corrigan about her classmates, because when she reached Heavenly Hair Salon at five P.M., he was just leaving. She followed in her Toyota as he strode along the sidewalk, then turned right at the corner. Thinking he must be going for a bite to eat, she was surprised when he climbed into a black Mercedes in the rear lot and headed off.

  It might be better if she spoke to him at home anyway; the salon wouldn’t be very private for the questions she wanted to ask. But instead of aiming toward the part of town where he lived, according to the address she’d looked up, Cutter veered west on Broward Boulevard-all the way west, to Flamingo Road. Gritting her teeth, she followed, hoping they wouldn’t end up on Alligator Alley for a trip to Naples.

  Staying several cars behind him, she passed the WELCOME TO DAVIE sign after the 1-595 underpass going south on Flamingo Road. Plant nurseries, herb farms, and palm-tree growers lined either side of the long stretch, interspersed by vast open spaces studded with pines, palms, and native shrubs. As they crossed the intersection at Southwest Thirty-Sixth Court, Marla spied a couple of tour buses in the parking lot at Flamingo Gardens on their left. Not much farther up the avenue, Cutter turned where a sign said WILD BIRD ranch. He charged down a bumpy dirt road into the dusty distance.

  Marla made a U-turn and parked in the free lot at Flamingo Gardens. It wouldn’t be smart for her to trail directly behind Cutter’s Mercedes down a private road. Nor was it wise for her to continue on this course of action without backup, she realized with a spurt of doubt. But curiosity got the better of her, and so did her need to find Goat. Cutter knew something, and it was possible that tailing him might help her find her neighbor.

  Glad she’d dressed for comfort that morning in dark pants and a lightweight pullover sweater, she trod down the dirt road in her sturdy work shoes. They’d never win a style award, but eight hours of standing in pumps or even strappy sandals would have left her legs hurting. Treading on small pebbles, she was grateful it hadn’t rained, or she’d be sloshing in mud. Probably she should’ve left her handbag locked in her car, but you never knew when a nail file, can of hair spray, or metal pick would come in handy.

  What kind of ranch was this? The dirt road abruptly ended at a tropical hammock. She spotted Cutter’s black Mercedes parked on a patch of grass. No sign of her quarry showed anywhere in the thick foliage ahead. A glimpse of various buildings gave her a goal. Cutter must have gone in their direction. Shifting her
purse from one shoulder to the other, she started through the foliage toward the closest structure. It wasn’t long before she realized the grounds consumed considerable acreage and the distances were deceiving.

  Her hair lifted in a breeze too warm and humid for March. Carried on the wind came a cacophony of sounds: strident bird cries, twittering songs, squawks, and loud honks. Wait a minute. Hadn’t Vail said he’d found receipts in Goat’s house from a bird breeder? Could this be the place? According to his report, the receipts had been made out to a pet store. It logically followed that the breeder sold birds to that store. She wondered if Vail had visited either place to inquire about Goat.

  Grimacing as her feet crunched on twigs and dead leaves, she steadily proceeded into the jungle along a meandering path. Shafts of sunlight illuminated pink and white impatiens nestled among broad-leafed green plants. A cluster of bamboo creaked next to a stand of spindly red crotons. On either side of the trail, trees rose skyward, forming a canopy. Species she had seen only in parks had her craning her neck to spy the tops: hundred-year-old live oaks, shady Indian jujube trees, sapodillos, and arjun trees with thick, odd-shaped trunks. She recognized a peeling melaleuca as the wind tickled her skin and brought a musty smell of humus.

  Steering around a bread-nut tree, she narrowly avoided colliding with a glistening cobweb. A black spider hung in the center, crouching for prey. Her nerves tensed as she imagined its sticky web catching her unaware, and a shudder racked her spine. She advanced forward, treading carefully to avoid roots and rocks in her path. Wary of creatures dangling overhead, she ducked under an overhanging branch.

  A mosquito buzzed past her ear, and she swatted it away, cursing. Water trickled down a rocky ledge into a nearby pond, providing breeding grounds for more of the pesky insects. Bugs and spiders were not her thing, nor were the strange, piercing bird calls that rattled her composure. She almost missed the low murmur of voices ahead, but drew herself up short just in time.

  “What’s happening?” Cutter said in a harsh tone.