Dyed and Gone

by Beth Yarnall

Juan Carlos reached for me, but I shrank away from him. His gesture brought with it the realization that it was me who was crying out.

  Richard made a move to come to my aid, then froze. Horror etched his face, curling back his features, the skin pulled tight as his attention fixed on the head dangling from Juan Carlos’s fist.

  Juan Carlos followed our gazes, his eyes moving slowly from his fist clutching the long, snowflake-white hair, to the dulled ice-blue stare, over the fragile, ashen beauty, finally resting on the jagged edge where the head should have met the body.

  Juan Carlos opened his mouth to scream, but unlike me, no sound came out. He began to shake, quaking so hard the head bobbed back and forth. The head’s movements seemed to snap something inside of him. In his panic, he flung the head away from him, scattering the remaining people in a flurry of yelps and shrieks.

  As the head came to rest, the crowd stopped and stood there, gaping. Then as a group, they inched closer, sealing away from me the sight of Dhane’s face lying broken and wrong on the dirty, industrial-grade carpeting.

  Chapter Four

  My nose stinging from unshed tears, I stared at the scarred linoleum floor of the well-used hallway where I sat with Lisa, Richard, and a handful of students waiting to be questioned by the police. Memories of Dhane kept flashing over and over in my mind’s eye like a flickering, old movie. Snippets of scenes: Dhane, unbelievably handsome, gazing back at me from his TV commercials, dynamic and compelling as he prowled the Hjálmar stage, and then the overwhelming physical sensation of meeting him in person.

  He’d been so vibrant, so young, and now he was just gone.

  I couldn’t believe it. Who would do something so awful to Dhane? And why?

  It was the first time I’d seen death. There was no way to prepare myself for the tragic strangeness of it. Or the overwhelming sadness. None of it seemed real, and yet sitting here in this hallway, I had to face the fact that it was very real. Dhane was dead. Someone had murdered him and left his head to be found in that bin of doll heads.

  I thought about Juan Carlos and the expression on his face when the police had whisked him away. If it hadn’t been for Richard holding Juan Carlos and calming him down before they’d gotten there, the police might have carted him off to the mental hospital. I’d never seen him so distraught, panic distorting his features, making his handsome face so pale, he’d looked close to passing out.

  Looking down the long line of chairs, I thought about Vivian and worried about how she’d take the news of Dhane’s death. I sniffed back threatening tears, wishing more than anything that I could talk to her, but the policeman guarding us had forbidden conversation, which included cell phones.

  A door finally opened down the hall and a very short man with very nice hair, wearing a very nice suit, appeared. The clipboard he consulted would have looked awkward and too large in his small hands if he weren’t clutching it with so much authority. Again the word very came to mind. Everything about him was excessive, from his expensive haircut to the way he scanned the line of witnesses, as if reading our minds.

  He zeroed in on Richard. “Richard Stain, you’re next.”

  I exchanged a curious look with Lisa, and her dark brown eyes held the same question I was asking myself. How’d he know who was who?

  “Azalea March, you’re with me.” I turned from Lisa to find the man staring directly at me.

  For a moment I sat frozen, pinned in place by his stare. Then Richard brushed past him through the doorway, breaking our eye contact. Compared to Richard, the man looked like a child playing dress up. That thought made the corner of my mouth want to kick up.

  As I passed him, the man asked, “Something funny?” Saying it in such a way so that I knew he knew what I was thinking.

  I ducked through the doorway, feeling guilty in the way you do when your parents have caught you doing something you shouldn’t, something they’d told you not to do a thousand and one times. But being a kid, you did it anyway and there you were, caught red-handed and ashamed. That was me. A lot.

  The small man closed the door behind me and marched over to a set of chairs identical to the one Richard sat in with another police officer across the room.

  “Have a seat.” He motioned to the chair facing the wall, then sat in the opposite one with the best view of the room. “I’m Detective Weller.” He set aside his clipboard and pulled out a small notebook. “I need to ask you a few questions.” He paused pen over paper to nail me with his scrutinizing stare. “Are you comfortable?”

  “What?” Was I comfortable? Like it would make this experience or my memories easier to deal with if I had a comfy chair and a cold beverage? “I guess.”

  “I was being polite. I’ll get on with it, then. What were you doing in the competition room? I understand only judges and contestants were supposed to be there.”

  “My friend Lisa is a judge. She invited me to watch the competition. I own a salon…” I started babbling, spilling my guts like I was turning state’s evidence or something. I was on the verge of confessing about the frosty-pink eye shadow I’d stolen from a drugstore on a dare when I was fifteen when he stopped me with a hand.

  “Thank you. You’ve given me a great deal of information. Now if you could narrow it down and tell me about what brought you here today, that would be great.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Happens all the time. I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations has run out on most of those crimes you’ve confessed to, so you’re okay.” He broke out an understanding smile that was just this side of patronizing. “What happened when you walked into the competition room? Keep it short. If I need more information, I’ll ask. Okay?”

  I nodded like the idiot I apparently was. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” He waited, pen hovering, that smile permanently affixed.

  I started in again, concentrating hard on keeping my story as concise as possible. When I’d gone through it once, he wanted me to go over some of it again, asking me about a few details that seemed totally unimportant to me.

  “Thank you, that was very helpful,” he said. I was about to stand, assuming we were finished, when he hit me with the zinger. “You knew Dhane. Tell me how you met.”

  I gripped the hard plastic seat of my chair. If I told him about how I’d met Dhane, then I’d have to tell him about who had introduced me to him. And then I’d have to tell him about what Vivian had told Juan Carlos and me after she’d introduced us to Dhane. I wasn’t entirely sure on the friendship code of ethics here. Does a sworn-to-secrecy friendship oath supersede my obligation as a witness of a crime or vice versa?

  He must have guessed at the predicament I was in because he warmed up his smile and dropped his voice, turning all confidential and friendly on me. “I know you want to help. You’ve helped me solve the case of the missing hundred-dollar bill in front of Rally Burger back in 1997.” That corner of his mouth kicked up, again just short of condescending. This guy was good, better than me by far. I didn’t have a chance of keeping anything from him.

  “I didn’t know Dhane. I’d just met him briefly this morning.” There. That was the truth.

  “I have a feeling there’s more to the story.”

  “No. Not really.” Yes. Totally.

  I folded my arms over my chest and clamped my mouth shut, sure I’d get lockjaw from the effort. Nothing was going to get past my lips. He could glare at me with that penetrating stare, quirk his lips in that trust-me smile, and use his authority over me all day long. I owed Vivian more than I could ever repay. She’d been there for me more times than I could count. Now it was my turn to stand by her.

  “Don’t you want to help me find the person who did this to your friend?” Once more he made with the just-buds, you-can-tell-me, you-know-you-want-to grin.

  I had the strongest urge to kick him in the nuts.

  Instead I tightened my arms harder against my chest, pressed my lips into a thin line, and gave him my coldest stare. I tried to imagine
an invisible shield going up between us, preventing him from reading any more of my thoughts. Maybe to keep myself from kicking him in the nuts, too. I was pretty sure I’d be in more trouble for doing that than for not answering any more of his questions.

  He flipped his notebook closed and pulled out a card. After he wrote something on it, he handed it to me. “Here’s my card with the case number on it. If something should come to your notice or events should occur that require you to confide in me, call me. My cell number’s the one at the bottom.”

  “The one marked ‘cell’?”

  “That would be the one.” He sat back and searched my face. “Before you go, there’s something I want you to remember.” He paused, making sure I was listening, and then he recited something about dancing in rings and secrets knowing stuff. “That’s from a Robert Frost poem,” he finished.

  “Uh-huh.” If that poem was supposed to be some kind of ominous statement, it hit its mark. “Can I leave now?”

  He waved me off. “Go. But don’t forget what I said.”

  As if I could. As if I wouldn’t be up half the night trying to figure out what the heck he was warning me about and worrying that I’d be carted off to jail for trying to protect Vivian. “Secrets know. Right.” I managed to not roll my eyes. “Words to live by.” I headed for the door with the hairs at the nape of my neck standing on end.

  Lisa was still sitting in one of the chairs in the hall. I gave her a small wave and a thumbs-up that had no truth in it. I felt more miserable leaving than I had going in. I hustled out of the convention center and into the taxi line out front, needing as much distance between Detective Weller and me as possible,

  Good gracious, Vegas was hot in July. Dry heat, my Aunt Fanny’s fanny. I swiped at the sweat puddling on my forehead, knowing it wasn’t all from the weather. I was second in line, so I was out of the heat and into an arctic taxi faster than a Vegas drive-thru wedding.

  As I sat in the back of the taxi on my way to my hotel, I thought about Dhane and Vivian. Where was she? I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, bringing out the hotel card key Dhane had given me along with it. Looking at them in each of my hands, I had the oddest feeling. My thoughts bounced back and forth between the two items, trying to sort out what exactly had me so on edge.

  Making my decision, I punched Viv’s speed-dial number and gave the driver a new destination. “Can you take me to the Raine Tower Suites instead?”

  The taxi driver lifted a hand off the wheel. “Sure. No problem. I go where you say.” Then he flipped a U-turn, sending me flying across the backseat just as Viv’s voice mail kicked in.

  “Viv, call me as soon as you get this message. I mean it. Call me!” For emphasis, I texted her, too.

  Then I texted Juan Carlos, hoping he was all right after being questioned by the police. I wasn’t sure how he’d deal with finding Dhane’s head in that bin of doll heads. Thinking about him made my stomach churn with worry, not that the cabbie’s driving helped. Holding on to the seat back and door handle, I braced myself for another turn.

  This was supposed to have been a friends’ weekend, a little fun in Lost Wages to help me move past my past. The worst I’d expected to happen was Juan Carlos throwing his panties at a Celine Dion impersonator or Vivian forcing us to sit through a cheesy Michael Jackson tribute. Murder certainly hadn’t been on the agenda.

  Where are Vivian and Juan Carlos?

  I got my first look at the famous Raine Hotel as the cab pulled up to the front drive. A gleaming, curving tower with the famous Raine signature at the top, I couldn’t help but gape at the grandeur.

  I wasn’t entirely sure why I was here. You know that feeling, that niggling voice in the back of your head that sometimes whispers at you to go in a particular direction or avoid a certain situation? It was yelling at me now, so I followed it, blindly letting it lead me to the Raine Hotel. The voice had been wrong before and maybe it was wrong now, but I had to go with it. When it was right, it was really, really right. And the sense that it would be right this time rode me hard.

  Oh, who was I kidding? I was dying of curiosity, practically vibrating with it.

  I stumbled out of the cab and paid the fare, happy to see the car disappear back into Vegas traffic. The heat touched me briefly before I was sucked into the climate-controlled interior of the hotel. I was immediately struck by the understated elegance, the restrained wealth. This was a place where the truly affluent played. Trying not to gawk like a slack-jawed hick, I found the elevators. Slipping the hotel key card in the slot, I punched the button for Dhane’s floor.

  This was such a bad idea and yet I couldn’t help myself. My avid curiosity was as much a part of me as my hazel eyes, big boobs, or the birthmark on the small of my back in the shape of Mickey Mouse. I was the kid who unwrapped and then rewrapped all of my Christmas presents to avoid any disappointing surprises and then unwrapped my sister’s, too, just to make sure hers weren’t better than mine. One time hers were better so I switched them. That was the last time my parents put out presents before Christmas Day.

  The elevator doors slid open without a sound, delivering me into a sparsely furnished space. I paused before going down the eerily quiet hall, not entirely sure why I’d come here. I checked my phone—still no calls or texts.

  Maybe I should turn back.

  I mentally shrugged. In for a penny, in for a pound, I supposed. Taking a deep breath, I braced myself and headed down the hall.

  The plush carpet muffled my footfalls, amplifying the sound of my heart beating so hard, I was surprised it didn’t echo off the walls. I felt like the too-stupid-to-live girl in a horror movie, sure there was an audience somewhere shouting at me to not go down the hall. Stopping to wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans before making another turn, I knew I was stalling. The same something that had propelled me to be here was now telling me to hang back. I leaned against the wall and peeked around the corner and down the hall. Empty.

  This was silly. What was I doing here? Stupid curiosity.

  I’d just made up my mind to turn around and leave when I heard a noise. I peered around the corner again. A door was open down the hall and two men stood in the corridor, looking back into the room.

  “But the guests,” the taller man pleaded. At closer inspection, I could see he wore a blazer embroidered with the Raine logo.

  “I understand.” The shorter man adjusted his belt over his stomach. “We’ll try to be as discreet as possible, but this is a crime scene. In about ten minutes this place is going to be crawling with techs and supervisors.” Pulling his jacket back, he hooked his thumbs in his waistband, exposing his substantial belly. “I’ll do what I can to accommodate your guests.”

  The tall man twisted his hands. “You’ll use the stairs and go out the back way?”

  The other man waved this off. “Sure, sure. It’s not like this is our first murder. Somebody’s always getting offed in this town. Or offing themselves. We know the back ways in and out of every hotel and motel on or off Strip.”

  The Raine man made a noise like a small, furry creature being stepped on.

  “Hey, Barnes!” the other man, obviously a police officer, shouted into the room. “Are we taking her in, or are we supposed to wait for Kennedy?”

  Barnes muffled a response from inside the room.

  “Figures. Our day wouldn’t be complete without King Kennedy gracing us with his presence.” The officer turned to the taller man from Raine. “We’ll let you know if we need your help.”

  The Raine man started to say something with a finger pointed at the officer, but he got interrupted.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. Discreet. We’ll call you if we need you.” With that, the officer went back into the room, shutting the Raine man out.

  The Raine man looked at the door like he wanted to cry, then turned and headed in my direction. I had a decision to make—go back down in the elevator or hide. Hitching my purse higher on my arm, I marched around the corner like I belonged there.
The man gave me a startled look, then glanced over his shoulder back down the hall. To his credit, he gave me a pleasant smile and how-do-you-do, the very picture of discretion. Mr. Raine would have been proud.

  I walked far enough down the hall to be sure the Raine man had turned the corner, then stopped at a door and pretended to try to open it. A quick peek told me the Raine man was gone, so I retraced my steps and stopped in front of the door the policeman had gone into. Suite 3848. Dhane’s room. As quietly as I could, I bent and put my ear to the door. Nothing.

  A commotion at the other end of the hall caught my attention. People were getting off the elevator, headed this way. The suite doorknob clicked.

  Uh-oh.

  I jumped, suppressing a yelp. Glancing up and down the hallway, I quickly assessed my options. The door started to open. I gripped my bag and just as I had before, I acted as though I belonged, walking decisively back toward the elevators.

  A group of people rounded the corner led by the now very flustered Raine man. “The back way. Detective Platt assured me you’d use the back way.”

  “I’ll remember that for next time,” replied an auburn-haired man at the front of the pack.

  “Next time?” the Raine man squeaked. Even in his agitated state, he still gave me a nod and how-do-you-do as I came even with the group.

  “Hold up.” The red-haired man put a hand on the Raine man’s arm. He held up his other hand to stop me. “Can I see some ID?”

  “What?” My surprise wasn’t faked.

  “She’s a valued guest,” the Raine man defended.

  I held up my key card. “Is there a problem?” I had this acting like I belonged thing down pat.

  “No, no problem. Thank you for staying at the Raine. If there’s anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable, please give me a call.” The Raine man handed me his business card. It read Dave Strickland, Supervisor.

  The red-haired man studied me like a wanted poster. “She’s registered on this floor?” he asked Dave.

  “Detective Kennedy, please,” Dave pleaded.