Haunted Hair Nights

by Nancy J. Cohen

  But as she hurried outside and across the pavement to the adjacent spa facility—a recent expansion under her ownership along with the Cut ’N Dye hair salon—she doubted those blood-curdling shrieks could be due to an insect. They sounded too shrill and terrified.

  A black bird squawked and dipped over the parking lot. Along with November and the season’s first cold front, the birds had returned from up north to South Florida. That wasn’t a vulture portending some disaster, was it?

  Inside the day spa, patrons in the waiting area stood with their cell phones lifted, taking videos for social media. Marla sped past them toward the rear, where staff members in smocks gathered. They all stared in one direction.

  Traci, the receptionist, spied Marla and called out to someone beyond her range of vision. Just as abruptly as they had started, the screams stopped.

  Marla reached the group huddled in front of one of their facial and waxing rooms. “What’s going on?”

  An aesthetician, her complexion white as her lab coat, wiped her teary eyes. “I am sorry,” she said with an accent, her voice wavering. “Val was fine when I put the cream mask on her face. I only left for ten minutes to let her relax. When I returned, she didn’t move and I thought she must be asleep. I did not realize at first she was not breathing.”

  “I’ve already called 911,” Traci said in a quiet undertone. “The cops and medics should be here any minute.”

  “Your customer isn’t breathing?” Marla pushed past the crowd to enter the room and administer CPR, but the sight inside made her stop mid-track.

  A woman lay supine half off the table, her hands encased in cloth mitts and her mouth wide open. Her face, coated with a greenish substance, aimed a glassy stare at the ceiling. New Age music played in the background, the soothing melody an incongruence to the scene. Air-conditioning blasted cool air into the room with a citrus scent. A discarded towel lay on the floor.

  “Oh. My. God.” It might be too late for CPR if the woman had lain like this for longer than ten minutes. Could she have suffered a seizure? Her bluish lips could indicate anything.

  Marla forced herself to at least palpate for a pulse at the lady’s neck. She tamped down the bile in her throat at the clammy feel of her skin. The hardened face mask gave the lady an almost alien appearance. Was that consistency normal for a facial?

  Not feeling a beat at the carotid, Marla backed away. The best thing she could do would be to secure the room until the cops arrived.

  She swallowed uneasily, anticipating her husband’s reaction. Would Dalton, a homicide detective with the Palm Haven police force, arrive on the scene when he heard the address from the dispatcher? From previous experience, she knew that unattended deaths were investigated. That would apply in this case since the aesthetician had left the client alone.

  Returning to the corridor, she drew the sobbing woman aside. “What’s your name?” she said, her brain foggy under the circumstances. Consuelo? Magdalena? It hovered on her tongue.

  “Rosana Hernandez. Do you think she had a heart attack, senora? Val might have been trying to get up and call for help.” Her gaze misty with tears, Rosana bent her head.

  “Yes, you could be right. Had you done a medical survey on her?”

  Rosana, a couple of inches shorter than Marla’s five feet six, nodded. “Si. Val had been with me for years. She followed me when I came here from my last salon in east Fort Lauderdale. She did not have any history of heart problems or other sicknesses.”

  “So you’ve known her for quite some time.” Marla glanced inside the room and grimaced. “What are those things on her hands?”

  Rosana drew a deep breath. “I was giving the lady a paraffin treatment. She had a manicure scheduled next. I don’t know how this could have happened.”

  Stomping footsteps drew their attention. The other staff members parted like the Red Sea under Moses’ command. A pair of uniformed rescue workers headed their way carrying a load of equipment. Following at their heels were two patrol officers and a tall, broad-shouldered fellow whose piercing gaze made Marla’s heart flutter.

  She exchanged glances with Dalton but avoided embracing him in front of the staff, even when she wanted nothing more than to sink into his arms.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she told the EMTs. “The patient is in that room. I don’t think you’ll be able to do much for her.”

  A quick examination on their part confirmed her assessment. Dalton and one of the uniformed cops entered the room while the other officer began questioning onlookers.

  “What happened?” Dalton asked Marla, tucking his cell phone away as he rejoined her. He must have made a call from inside the room.

  “Rosana was giving her customer a facial. She put on the woman’s face mask and left the room for a few minutes. When she returned, the lady wasn’t breathing.”

  “Can I speak with Rosana somewhere private?”

  “Sure. How come you’re here? Did you recognize the address from the dispatcher?”

  “That’s right. Good guess.” The corners of his mouth lifted. This was far from the first time he’d been summoned to her place of business.

  “We can use one of the empty massage rooms,” Rosana suggested in a weak tone.

  Marla introduced the aesthetician to her husband. She patted the woman’s shoulder. “It’ll be all right. Dalton will ask you some questions, and then you can take the rest of the day off. Traci will notify your clients.”

  Dalton pulled out a notebook and pen and followed Rosana into another treatment room. Marla joined them, intending to offer moral support to her staff member. To her gratitude, Dalton didn’t object. But then, he’d come to value her contributions. He had even identified her as his unofficial sidekick to an Arizona sheriff during their recent honeymoon.

  “Okay, can you please tell me exactly what happened?” he asked Rosana.

  Her lower lip trembled. “I was giving Val a facial. She has been my customer for years, and we never had a problem before.”

  “Her full name is...?”

  “Valerie Weston. She lives east on the Intracoastal. Anyway, when I took the job here, Val followed me to this salon even though it was distant for her.”

  “So you’ve given her facials before. And she’s never had a bad reaction?”

  “No, sir.” Rosana gave a visible shudder. “Everything was fine. I put the facial mask on, set the timer for ten minutes, and left the room so she could relax. I went to get a cup of coffee. When I returned, I found her... like that.” Her voice choked on a sob, and she covered her face with her hands.

  “Rosana, why don’t you make a copy of your client’s medical survey for Detective Vail?” Marla suggested.

  “Si, I get it now.” The white-coated woman shuffled from the room like a condemned prisoner on her way to execution.

  Marla’s heart went out to her. She knew how horrible Rosana felt. She’d been in the same position of losing a client when crabby Mrs. Kravitz died in the midst of getting a perm. The image of her head lolling against the shampoo sink remained with Marla even now. How many years ago had that awful incident occurred? She’d met Dalton, the detective assigned to the case, as a result. Back then, he’d suspected her of poisoning the woman’s coffee creamer.

  “Won’t you be reassigned?” she asked him, leaning against the treatment table. “I mean, I own this place. You have a conflict of interest here.” Same as when our neighbor was found dead in his house next door after we’d argued with him.

  “We’re short-staffed this time of year. A couple of the guys requested vacation time before the holiday crush. Come here.”

  He held out his arms, and she rushed into them. She leaned her head against his solid chest, her anxiety easing under his embrace.

  “I’m glad you came, even if your partner takes over later. I suppose you’ll order an autopsy?”

  “It’s normal procedure. Does the woman have any close relatives nearby?”

  “I have no idea. I’d
never met her myself.”

  “What can you tell me about Rosana? Is she an immigrant? Does she have citizenship papers?”

  Marla stepped away, perturbed by his return-to-business tone. “Yes, she’s from Venezuela and married an American. Rosana is very good at what she does. Her customers highly recommend her.”

  “What was her relationship to Valerie Weston?”

  Marla spread her hands. “As Rosana said, Val was her customer, and they’d known each other for years.”

  Rosana approached and handed a paper to Dalton. “Here is Val’s client survey.”

  “Thank you.” He scanned the contents. “It says here Ms. Weston had a latex allergy.”

  “That is correct, Detective. I was always careful not to use latex products in her presence and to wash my hands before touching her.”

  “May I take a look?” Marla snatched the paper from his fingers.

  The Confidential Consultation Card, as the survey was labeled, consisted of three sections. Marla scanned Val’s responses on the general health record. Topics ranged from dietary habits to female problems, sun exposure, implants, disease listings, skin-related ailments, and medications.

  She nodded at that last one. Meds could affect hair as well as skin reactions. Most people didn’t think to tell their hairdressers when they started on a new drug, but certain medications could cause a stronger response to chemicals such as bleach.

  According to this report, Val Weston appeared to be in good health. The next two sections regarding skin care and the beautician’s analysis didn’t raise any red flags.

  “Was she married?” Dalton asked the beautician. “Do you know who her next of kin might be?”

  “She was single. No children. I know she had a sister who died recently from breast cancer.”

  Dalton asked a few more questions before dismissing Rosana.

  Marla walked her out. “Go home and get some rest. This wasn’t your fault. Val might have had an unknown medical problem to cause her death.”

  Rosana sniffled. “Gracias, senora. It is horrible.”

  “I know, but the police will find out what happened.”

  Once the staff member had left, Marla sought her husband again. He’d been conferring with one of the other officers and broke off at her approach.

  She drew him aside. “What’s your theory about Val’s death?” The woman’s image kept replaying in her head. The glassy eyes and weird greenish tint of the facial mask became increasingly grotesque in her imagination. Her stomach lurched.

  Stow it, Marla. You have to remain strong.

  Dalton’s gaze grew warm as he regarded her. “Could be anything. Brain hemorrhage? Aortic aneurysm? Heart arrhythmia? Who knows?” His cell phone buzzed, and he squinted at an incoming text message. “The M.E. is here. Marla, you can go back to work. I’ll catch you later.”

  “Shouldn’t I stick around to support the staff?”

  “It’s not necessary. I’ll help the uniforms interview witnesses, and then we’ll close down the day spa until we complete our investigation. I know you want to keep chaos to a minimum, so I’ll tell the body removal guys to use the rear entrance.”

  “Thanks. That’ll help.” But not by much. “I know this might sound harsh, but I don’t need the negative publicity right now. I’m in the running for that educator position with Luxor Products, and this won’t look good.”

  “You’re right. It does sound harsh in view of a woman’s death. That’s unlike you, Marla.” The fine lines around his mouth tightened.

  She knew her husband wasn’t thrilled about her accepting another job, especially one that would mean more travel. They were celebrating their one-year anniversary in a couple of weeks, and she had enough to do between work and her new family. While it was a second marriage for both her and Dalton, they’d become a tight unit in a short amount of time. Marla still felt odd as Brianna’s stepmother, but the role had grown on her. The teenager needed a woman’s guidance.

  Still, gaining the new position meant a lot to her. She had contacted the hair product company—whom she’d worked for at a beauty trade show—to let them know she’d like to do the models’ hair on any advertisements they shot in the area. They’d called back saying they had an opening for an educator and asked if she would be interested. Her affirmative response had prompted the admission that they were considering one other candidate as well. Would this incident jeopardize her chances?

  At any rate, Dalton was correct. She shouldn’t be thinking about herself right now. As the day spa’s owner, she was ultimately responsible for Val’s death. And poor Rosana. This would hang over her head. Marla should see to it that the rest of the staff didn’t hold it against her.

  She went from person to person, speaking to each staff member in turn and reassuring them the place wouldn’t stay closed for long. Her own state of nerves wasn’t as steady as she appeared. Her stomach felt increasingly queasy, and she had a strong urge to sit down before her knees folded.

  Nonetheless, she took time to apologize to any clients still waiting to be interviewed. “If you’re here for your hair or nails, we’ll fit you in next door. Go see Robyn at the front desk. Otherwise, Traci can reschedule you for next week.”

  “That poor woman,” one of the ladies said with a sorrowful expression. “To die in the middle of getting a facial, which is supposed to be a relaxing treatment.”

  “I hate them myself,” retorted a young blonde. “All that steam in your face, and then they squeeze open your zits. It hurts. I don’t find anything pleasurable about it.”

  “Rosana cares about her customers,” Marla said, defending her employee. “She must be doing something right, since her appointments are almost always filled.”

  “She messed up this time,” said Miss Sourpuss.

  Marla stared the woman down. “No one can predict the sudden onset of a life-threatening medical emergency. Rosana had done a thorough assessment on her. The lady didn’t have any known heart conditions.”

  “Maybe she had a reaction to one of the products,” the other customer offered with a frown. She was a middle-aged lady with tinted auburn hair, and she wore skinny pants that belonged on a thinner woman.

  “Rosana would have used the same lotions on her before,” Marla replied in a patient tone. “Val had been a long-term customer.”

  “Val, as in Valerie? That wasn’t Valerie Weston, was it?” Redhead gaped at her.

  “Yes, it was, although the police detective will urge you to keep this information quiet. They have yet to notify next of kin.” Marla pressed her lips together. Gossip would be bad enough, but they didn’t need rumors flying along with videos.

  “I have tickets to her fancy ball next month. I hope they don’t cancel.”

  Marla had a sudden sneaking suspicion that made the hairs on her nape rise. “What ball do you mean?”

  “The annual holiday fundraiser for Friends of Old Florida. It’s a historic building preservation society. They do the best party, especially with Yolanda Whipp showcasing her latest fashion designs. I can’t wait to see what she’s come up with this year.”

  Marla’s heart sank. The dead woman had been the Valerie Weston? Oh, no. Putting two and two together, she slapped a hand to her mouth. Val’s demise in her day spa would have more repercussions than she’d thought. What would this mean for the fashion show?

  She’d been hired, along with her stylists, to do the hair of the models backstage at the highly anticipated event that took place during FOFL’s annual gala. Why hadn’t she recognized the connection earlier?

  Because I’d been upset. Val’s death threw me for a loop. And it hadn’t been Val who’d hired her team. Marla’s contact had been someone else from the group.

  Dear Lord, this was much worse than she’d anticipated.

  Stunned by her new knowledge, she addressed Traci once she was free. The receptionist’s usual calm had given way to a frazzled exterior as she tapped at the computer keys to change people’s
appointments. This was Wednesday. Marla hoped they’d be allowed to reopen by next week.

  “Tell me, did Ms. Weston show any signs of trouble when she checked in earlier?”

  Traci shook her head, her shoulder-length layers framing a face that looked pale in contrast to her sangria lipstick. “She seemed fine. I liked her. Val always had a pleasant smile and something upbeat to say.”

  “Do you know if she had any relatives nearby?”

  “Just a sister who died recently. She called FOFL her family. That’s Friends of Old Florida, an organization where she devoted her time. Somebody from there made her appointment for today.”

  “Oh, really? Can you give me their number?”

  Traci squinted at the computer as she retrieved the data. “Here it is.” She wrote it down on a scrap of paper, while Marla wondered if it could be the same person who’d hired her staff for the fashion show.

  “Do you remember the person’s name who called? So you’re saying it wasn’t Val?”

  “That’s correct. Sorry, I don’t remember much else.”

  “Male or female?”

  Traci’s shoulders lifted and lowered. “Could have been anyone. I field a lot of calls every day.”

  “Okay, please let me know if anything else comes to mind.”

  “There is one more thing. Patty didn’t come in to work today. I’ve called her cell a few times, but it goes straight to voice mail.”

  They had hair stations here for backup when the salon got too full. Patty, the shampoo assistant, helped with cleanup and other assorted tasks. She should have come in today.

  “That’s odd. Didn’t we just hire her?”

  “She’s only been here two weeks. She applied when our last girl had an accident on her bike, remember?”

  “And you don’t have any other contact number?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s not good. She should call in if she can’t make it to work.” Marla shoved the scrap of paper into her skirt pocket. “After you settle things here, why don’t you take the rest of today off? Tomorrow, you can work with us at the salon. Robyn could use the extra help. And thanks for your quick action. You did good calling 911 right away.”