Dixieland Dead

by Penny Burwell Ewing

  The CEO of Whiskey Creek’s small TV station had a wide racing stripe right down the middle of his scalp, leaving two twin hedges of thick, glossy, silver curls. Most of his pride and joy lay on the floor.

  He surged to his feet and whipped the cape from his neck. “I’m going to shut down this salon.” Obscene words poured from his mouth.

  Billie Jo stood in stunned silence, staring at his mangled hair. “I’m sorry. I can fix it—”

  “Fix it! I wouldn’t let you touch me after this. I’m going to call the State Board of Barbering and lodge a complaint against you.”

  Up until this time, Deena had remained quiet. Gently, she extracted the clipper from Billie Jo’s hand, turned it off, and placed it upright in its stand. “Shut up, Mr. Burns,” she commanded. “We don’t like to be threatened. Your hair will grow back.”

  “But what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” he said. “I can’t go out into public with my hair in shambles. I have a very important press conference this afternoon.”

  “Can you blend the layers so no one will notice?” I asked my sister, with my back to him.

  “I’ve lost enough hair for one day,” he responded, his gaze fixed on Billie Jo.

  Billie Jo flushed. “I said I was sorry, Robert. The clipper motor must’ve malfunctioned. This has never happened in all the years I’ve been barbering.”

  “Your excuse won’t restore my hair.” He took a menacing step, thrusting his finger into her face. “I trusted you.”

  I whirled around to glare at him. “Accidents happen, Mr. Burns. We’re trying to come up with a workable solution.”

  “Your salon is having a lot of accidents, Ms. Claiborne.” His face twisted furiously. “Your sister is possessed. I could see it in those she-demon eyes.”

  “What’s done is done,” Deena cut in. “The problem now is how to repair the damage.”

  My watch read nine o’clock on the nose. “Deena, tell Holly to reschedule my morning appointments. If there’s any fuss, squeeze them into my afternoon schedule.” I turned to Billie Jo. “Go have a cup of coffee and calm down. I’ll take care of this.”

  Burns looked uncertain. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m going to fix your hair.”

  “How? By super-gluing it to my head?”

  I nodded. “Something like that. I’m the best in the business with hair extensions.”

  “This had better work. And it better look natural. Not like a wig or toupee—and what about them?”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the staff gathered close by. Clients were coming through the front door and they too, stopped to stare. “Pay no attention to them. They’ve seen weirder hair than yours in here.”

  With a towel wrapped hastily around his head, Mr. Burns followed me to my stylist chair. “How long is this going to take? I’m pressed for time.”

  I fastened a cape around his neck. “As long as it takes. Let me get my equipment and we’ll get started.”

  His cell phone rang. He answered it with a sharp bark. “What…? This is the last time I’m going to tell you I had nothing to do with that. Someone beat me to it… No, I haven’t found it yet… Yes, I’ll get back to you when I have something to report—”

  The distraction of the phone call allowed me to dash back to the dispensary. I located the last bag of curly gray synthetic hair and hot gun on the top shelf and hurried back to my station. Robert was still on the phone when I set the items on the counter and plugged in the gun to preheat. Opening the bag, I pulled out a handful of the silky strands to judge the color match against his curls. Satisfied with the results, I began dividing them into small piles.

  “Tell the mayor everything is under control,” Robert said into the cell phone as he watched me through the mirror.

  When the hot gun reached the correct heat, I selected a pile of strands, winding them around a half inch section of hair, and applied the hot gun, locking them together.

  He snapped his phone shut and slipped it into his front shirt pocket. “Explain what you’re doing.”

  I picked up the gun and another swatch of hair. “The synthetic hair melts together, creating a strong clasp to hold the extension to your natural hair shaft. You can shampoo and dry it as you normally would do. A trim every two or three weeks will keep it looking nice until all the extensions are cut out and your natural hair is restored to the desired length. No one will ever know the difference.”

  He visibly relaxed. “I need to look my best for this press conference this afternoon.”

  “Oh? I hope it’s good news,” I said obligingly as I settled into a steady rhythmic flow, my mind focused on my work. The sounds of the salon ebbed away as my pace quickened.

  “Henry Payne is announcing his bid for the governorship of this great state, and I’m pleased to endorse his candidacy.”

  I didn’t comment. In my opinion, Payne would make a lousy governor. If he ran the state with the same inefficiency he ran this city, we citizens had best get ready for a substantial tax increase to pay for his over-inflated projects. Yesterday’s conversation with Scarlett seared my memory cells. Here was an opportunity to broach the subject utmost on my mind, but I had to be careful how I handled the bear. I didn’t want him to catch on that I was suspicious of him in any way. I opted for the dumb blonde routine. “How was your trip to Biloxi?” I asked casually.

  “Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged. “Scarlett told your wife that you skipped the business trip to Biloxi and was entertaining at Merry Acres instead.” I raised my brows suggestively.

  “Scarlett was a liar and a troublemaker.”

  “I heard WXYB wasn’t renewing her contract.”

  “Scarlett’s Top Spot wasn’t enough for her,” he replied. “I was already looking for her replacement.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you did the right thing. Scarlett struck me as greedy.”

  “Lust for the limelight. That was her biggest crime. She wanted what she couldn’t have. I shouldn’t have hired her in the first place.”

  I giggled. “She did crave attention. She even complained loudly to Anthony that she wanted to pursue a career in investigative journalism, and her TV show hadn’t turned out to be the stepping stone she’d envisioned. How’d she take the news that she was losing her show?”

  “Surprisingly, she took it well,” he said, his lips pursed in a miserly line. “Hinted that she had a big story she was working on. One that would prove she belonged on the news anchor’s desk. As if I’d ever replace a good man with a pretty face. What a laugh.”

  Scarlett was right about two things: Burns was a pompous ass, and you can’t shampoo a skunk. Today, most networks, even the smallest, employed women in the highest positions. And not just behind the screen. I swallowed my disgust, and squeezed his arm in a show of admiration. “Did she tell you what kind of big story she hoped would impress you?”

  At my question, he clammed up. “As I said before, Scarlett wasn’t a model employee. I decided to cut my losses and replace her. It’s as simple as that.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What’s your interest in this? Are you trying to suggest that I had something to do with her death? There were numerous complaints filed against her at the station. But I believe the most likely candidate is your aesthetician.”

  “The police haven’t finished their investigation,” I reminded him. “There were plenty of people who wanted to do Scarlett in. You said so yourself.” I secured the last pile of synthetic hair to the last patch of hair.

  “I said there were numerous complaints filed against her. And Carla Moody had a motive for wanting her out of the way. Her husband was stalking Scarlett.”

  For the second time in two days, unexpected revelations left me speechless. He smiled knowingly at me in the mirror. “I knew that would get your attention. Frank made a first-class nuisance of himself. Flowers arrived practically every day from him, and I personally witnessed him accosting her in the parking lot on Wednesday afternoon with vo
ws of undying love. Scarlett told him to go home to his wife and kids. That woman tore him to shreds.”

  Questions swirled in my mind as I dampened his hair. “What did you do? Did you call the police?” I picked up my scissors and comb and started cutting his hair.

  “No, not at the time. I felt sorry for the guy. I know how Scarlett could string a man along, so I had a talk with him. He confessed he’d made a pass at her in a bar. He woke up the next morning at her house. He told her he loved her and wanted to marry her. After his divorce. She wasn’t interested in marriage, but he was determined to change her mind.”

  Burns sounded as if he had firsthand knowledge of being one of Scarlett’s has-beens. How else would he know how it felt to be strung along by her? One thing for certain: Frank couldn’t possibly have been Scarlett’s married lover. He wasn’t rich or powerful. Robert was both. I pressed him for further information. “What makes you believe Carla knew about her husband’s infidelity?”

  “Because Frank told me he was going to ask his wife for a divorce that night.”

  Well, he was right about one thing—Carla had motive. And so did her cheating husband. Perhaps Frank couldn’t cope with Scarlett’s rejection. Or maybe he decided if he couldn’t have her, no one would. My theory sounded good, but I needed a sounding board to spring it off of after I’d had a chance to organize my thoughts.

  With my mind awhirl with questions and speculations, I finished the haircut. After Burns approved the completed style, I removed the cape and waited as he slipped on his suit jacket. Checking out his appearance in the mirror, he then turned to leave, but paused. “One thing I failed to mention,” he said, studying me. “Detective Bradford was at the station yesterday afternoon with more questions. I told him everything, so don’t be surprised when Carla is arrested for murder.”

  This time I kept my mouth shut, and he left an extremely satisfied customer. His cap of curls showed no signs of the previous destruction from the malfunctioning clipper. We’d dodged the bullet on this one, but how many more of Scarlett’s destructive pranks would we have to endure before the salon came down on top of our heads?

  A few minutes later, I was standing behind the reception desk when I spied both my sisters slipping into Deena’s office. With a little free time on my hands, I grabbed a Dr. Pepper from the refrigerator and joined them.

  When I entered the office, Scarlett was perched on the edge of Deena’s desk, resplendent in a short ivory satin wedding dress and veil. Silently, I moaned.

  “Vivian hates this dress,” Scarlett said. “She thought it looked better on me. Of course, I raised the hemline a little.” Her eyes blazed with a haughty, defiant air.

  I ignored her. I was more than a little put out with her, especially since our discussion this morning hadn’t produced positive results. I fully intended to have another talk with this rebellious lost soul as soon as I could corral her without an audience.

  Billie Jo, seated in one of the chairs facing the desk, said, “Robert is going to sue the pants off us. Our malpractice insurance is already through the roof.”

  I took a seat on the plush sofa and slipped off my yellow heels, wiggling my toes to increase circulation. “I worked my magic, and he was very happy with the results. I asked Anthony to pick up the overflow. He needs the money, and I need a break. Boy, my feet are killing me.”

  Deena closed the supply catalogue on her desk. “I swear I don’t know how you manage to work in heels, Jolene. Your back is going to give out one day and then what will you do?”

  “Find a sugar daddy, if I’m lucky.”

  The corner of Deena’s mouth twitched. “Billie Jo, do you feel like telling us what happened? What did Burns say to set you off?”

  Billie Jo wore an expression of dismay. “That’s the weird part. He didn’t say anything out of the ordinary whatsoever. We talked about Scarlett’s death, the new tax proposition slated for this week’s county commission meeting and then—nothing. I don’t remember anything from then on until Deena took the clipper from me. I felt so strange.”

  “Like someone or something had invaded your body?” I asked.

  “Please, be serious,” Deena said. “Now is not the time for jokes. The last several days have been enough of an ordeal.”

  Scarlett stretched as she slipped off the edge of the desk. “He’s had it coming for a long time, you know.” Smoothing her hands over the wrinkled, silky material, she looked over at me. “You wouldn’t happen to have an iron, would you?”

  I continued to ignore her and spoke to Deena. “Billie Jo was under the influence when she mowed down Robert’s hair.”

  Deena’s frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

  The subject of the undead, ghosts, spooks, spirits, or in Scarlett’s case—poltergeist—wasn’t one I relished addressing, but Scarlett’s continued noisy, mischievous antics made it impossible to disregard. How did one explain a ghost? A dead person who didn’t appear dead? Scarlett sure appeared alive as she floated across the room, her angelic face highlighted by the sunlight streaming through the window.

  “I know you don’t believe in ghosts, but I’m still seeing Scarlett’s spirit around the salon,” I said. “She’s responsible for the crazy accidents we’re experiencing. She manipulated Billie Jo to do her bidding.”

  “What nonsense.” Deena rolled her eyes. “There’s a logical explanation for every incident. Anthony set the timer for a longer period and is too embarrassed to admit he over-processed Onella’s hair. Same thing for Mandy—she accidentally turned up the heat in the pedicure bath.” Her gaze was direct, level. “Mama isn’t going to be happy that your invisible friends are back.”

  “Leave Mama out of this,” I said. “But tell me, how do you explain all the clients who’ve witnessed strange phenomena here?”

  She shrugged. “Suggestive hallucination. Whynell started the whole thing when she wandered into the facial room and imagined a ghost. She’s such a sweetheart that everyone wants to believe her.”

  Billie Jo set her Coke on the desk. “Oh, you don’t really believe that. I discussed this with Roddy. He believes when people die suddenly, or tragically like a murder, their spirit can’t move on until someone shows them the way. He suggested that I research it and draw my own conclusions, so I’ve been watching those paranormal reality shows on TV, and I’ve checked out a few websites on the Internet. I’m more open to the possibility. It explains what happened with my clipper.”

  “Y’all are starting to freak me out with all this talk of ghosts,” Deena said.

  I could understand her anger and disbelief. Heck, I’d felt pretty much the same way the first time I glimpsed Scarlett. But after reading and studying about life after death, I was more accepting of my “gift”. Actually, I wanted to grow as a psychic or medium so I could help Scarlett find her way into the netherworld and out of my beauty salon. After that, I was gonna concentrate on communicating with Granny Tucker and my father.

  “Take Billie Jo’s approach and see if you don’t change your mind,” I suggested, then went on to explain, as best I could, what I could remember of my childhood experiences with lost souls.

  “Okay. I’ll keep an open mind.” Deena’s voice betrayed her doubt

  “That’s all I ask,” I replied, happy that at least she wasn’t laughing at me.

  Deena’s intercom buzzed. “Yes, Holly?”

  “Detective Bradford is here to see you.”

  “Send him in,” she said into the intercom.

  I slipped on my heels. “We’ll give you two some privacy. Billie Jo and I need to get back to work anyway.”

  The door pushed open, and Detective Bradford strode into the room, cowboy hat in hand, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. My heart reacted immediately, and I dropped my eyes from his before Deena could detect my interest. Maintaining an emotional distance from this man was getting harder with every meeting.

  Scarlett threw me a saucy look. “I’d do him if I were alive. Can you believe there�
�s no sex in heaven? I ask you, how can paradise be paradise without sex?”

  Deena rose, smiling. “Come in, Sam. We’re just finishing our break.”

  I stood up, smoothing my sleeveless, plaid dress. “Billie Jo and I were just leaving. I’m sure you two have lots to talk about.”

  He laid a file folder on the desk corner. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I needed to come by and talk with you ladies about a new development in the Cantrell case.” He sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

  Resuming my seat on the sofa, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Scarlett was on the move. She perched on the side of Deena’s desk. “Yummy. If you don’t make a play for him, you’re crazy.”

  Thankful that I was the only one in the room who could see and hear her, I shot her a keep-your-distance look before fastening my eyes on Bradford, curious to hear the new development.

  The detective shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Could he feel Scarlett’s hot ghostly breath fanning his face? He cleared his throat and shifted again.

  Deena hit the intercom button. “We’re going to be a little longer.” She turned to him. “Can I get you a drink, Sam? It’s a warm morning.”

  There was a rasp of excitement in her voice. A rush of pink stained her lips, her eyelashes fluttered extravagantly, and the tip of her tongue darted out to lightly touch her bottom lip.

  The atmosphere tensed. Sexual magnetism pulsed. What the hell?

  Billie Jo shot up from her chair. “There’s a fresh pitcher of sweet tea in the refrigerator,” she said with an ear-splitting grin, her fingers nervously brushing pale bangs out of her eyes.

  He smiled at her. “Make that a Mountain Dew if you have one.”

  “Sure thing.” Billie Jo practically danced out the door.

  My God, it was contagious. Even Billie Jo was flirting—and she was happily married. We were behaving like three middle-aged housewives experiencing a mid-life crisis.

  Wickedness shone in Scarlett’s eyes.

  “Stop it,” I mouthed.

  Ghostly fingers played with his shirt buttons. “I’m not doing anything.”