by J. R. Ripley
I looked too. I didn’t see any signs of potential killers. ‘That’s OK.’ I climbed out of the pickup. ‘Aubrey’s here.’ I watched as she climbed out of her car and headed up the sidewalk with a bounce in her step.
Thank goodness. Despite my show of bravado, I really didn’t want to face going into the deserted café alone.
Fortunately there were plenty of tourists around. I’d been worried about it being slow on Sunday but as it turned out there was a hot-air balloon race going on outside of town that had brought in flocks of tourists from nearby Sedona and other parts.
The first chance I got when there was a break in the action, I marched straight across the street to Karma Koffee. ‘Where’s that new air-conditioning unit you promised me?’ I demanded. I felt the twinge in my back acting up. It had been a rough night on the couch.
Rob and Trish sat at a table in the corner, sharing a newspaper. Rob looked up and flashed a scowl. ‘It’s Sunday,’ he said icily. ‘You’re going to have to wait until Monday.’ He returned his eyes to the sports section. ‘At least.’
‘What was that?’ Monday, at least? My psyche couldn’t take it – my back couldn’t take it!
He looked up once more, his eyes meeting mine. ‘I said, “at least.”’
‘Don’t worry, Ms Miller. We’ve called our property agent.’ Trish looked Sunday comfy, with her hair hanging in loose folds, minimal makeup and wearing a simple off-white shift. ‘She’ll make arrangements with the electrician and the painters to get everything back in shape.’ She ruffled the arts section. ‘Shouldn’t take more than a week.’
‘A week?’ I couldn’t wait a week. A week of sleeping on Donna’s couch, forced to feast on Donna’s vegan nightmares. And there was no way I was surrendering and going to live in Mom’s guest room!
‘That just won’t do,’ I said loudly. The place was filled with customers but I didn’t care. The three servers behind the counter shot nervous glances at me while busily frothing up coffees and plating pastries. If their nerves were that bad, they should cut down on their caffeine intake.
‘So,’ said Rob, folding the sport section from the Arizona Republic newspaper across his lap, ‘unless you’ve come to steal another employee, I believe we’re done here.’
‘I didn’t steal her, she escaped,’ I replied. ‘And believe you me, she has plenty to say about the two of you.’
Rob cocked his brow, a look of condescension and amusement blending together on his face. ‘Oh, what a surprise. Disgruntled ex-employee bad-mouths bosses.’ He stretched his hands out like a banner.
‘I always knew that girl was troubled,’ Trish said, gently pulling apart a blueberry muffin that looked good enough to dive into. ‘Her energy was all wrong. You could see it in her aura.’
‘Oh, yeah? Well, Aubrey saw some things concerning the two of you.’ I pointed a finger at Rob Gregory. ‘Especially you, mister.’
He scooted back his chair and faced me. ‘Such as?’
‘Such as how she saw you arguing with Rick Wilbur the night he was killed.’
I felt every eye in the store on me now but I didn’t care.
Rob tossed a hand in the air. ‘Oh, that. Please, is that the best you’ve got?’
My jaw fell.
Trish smiled and stood. ‘The police have already questioned my husband about Mr Wilbur’s murder.’ Her smile grew. ‘He has an alibi.’
‘And the police bought it?’ I rolled my eyes.
‘They had to,’ said Rick. ‘You see, I was teaching one of my yoga classes upstairs.’ His eyes rose to the ceiling.
Boy, those were some nice tin tiles they had up there. Maybe I should have some of those installed one of these days. ‘Maybe you slipped out.’
‘I have a dozen witnesses.’
‘Please, they could be lying to protect you.’ I was pretty sure that twelve people wouldn’t all be willing to perjure themselves to the police in order to protect their yoga instructor, but this is Table Rock, so you never know.
‘One of my students is a Table Rock PD patrol officer.’
I felt deflated and needed to sit. No way was I going to though. The next thing you know, I’d be ordering coffee and one of those mouthwatering blueberry muffins. I had to do something, and quick.
‘What about you?’ I demanded of Trish Gregory. ‘Where were you when your husband was teaching yoga? Were you here? Working?’
‘I-I was home,’ Trish stammered. ‘I mean, you can’t think I’d have anything to do with murdering Mr Wilbur.’
‘Leave Trish out of this. My wife wouldn’t harm a spider,’ Rob insisted. He stepped in front of her. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree.’
He took three steps to the door and opened it. ‘Speaking of bark, I hear that’s what your beignets taste like. Shouldn’t you get back to your place and peel some more off the trees?’
I yelled back: ‘I’ve got you pegged – the way you tricked me, pretending you didn’t know where Rick Wilbur’s body was found. I’m still giving dollars to doughnuts that you’re mixed up in this.’
He could have made up the whole story about teaching yoga and there being a police officer in the class. It was all too pat.
Trish grabbed her husband’s hand. ‘And yet, Rick Wilbur was found dead in your establishment,’ she said. ‘We hear you’d had an argument with him as well.’
Darn, how had she heard that? This small town stuff was beginning to get under my skin.
‘So you still seem like the most likely person to have murdered him,’ Trish went on. ‘You probably stuffed him in a box, waiting for an opportunity to dispose of his body.’
‘Yeah,’ Rob said, his lips curved into a snarl as he passed his eyes over his customers, ‘maybe chop it up into little bits and use it in your beignet dough.’ He laughed at his joke.
I don’t know what upset me more, the thought of Rick Wilbur in my pastry dough or the Gregorys in my face. Either way, I’d had enough.
As I stepped out, Rob said, ‘If you didn’t kill Rick Wilbur, and I’m not saying you didn’t, then the only other person I can think of with the nerve and the desire to punch his clock would be Caitie.’
I turned. ‘Caitie Conklin?’ My eyes shot across the street to the beauty parlor next door to my café.
‘You know another one?’
‘What makes you think she might be involved?’
Rick growled. ‘I don’t think she might be involved. I think you might be involved.’
‘But you just said—’
Trish Gregory came to the open door and squinted into the sun. ‘Rob, let’s not let all this negative energy infuse our day.’
‘Yeah, Rob,’ I quipped. ‘Infuse too much negative energy and you just might blow a fuse.’
Rob Gregory shouted some four-letter epithets my way as I crossed the street that I’m certain weren’t in any mantras I’d ever come across. I ignored them as I headed back to the café then cut a diagonal toward Salon de Belleza.
Unfortunately the door was locked. The sign on it revealed that she’d be opening at two. Perfect. I was closing at three. At three-oh-one I’d be going mano y mano with the overcharging – fifty dollars for a trim, talk about your scalpers – tempestuous and notorious former Mrs Wilbur.
The more I thought about it, the guiltier she looked. Picturing Rick Wilbur’s head sticking out of that carton, it did seem like he might have recently had a haircut.
Did Caitie Conklin cut his hair that day?
Had they had a falling out?
Did she forego giving him a blow dry in favor of a rolling pin blowout?
TWENTY-NINE
It had taken longer to clean up than expected but I knew better to leave the café a mess at the end of the day. That was a slippery slope of sloth I knew I’d never recover from once I’d slid down that path. One look at my apartment, even before the fire, was proof of that.
Speaking of apartment, I sure hoped I didn’t have to sleep too much longer at Donna’s house.
I was pretty sure if I did that Mom would be offended, seeing as she has a perfectly good guest room at her house.
The only answer might be to move back to the apartment. If it got too hot in the bedroom, I could always sleep on my own sofa. The AC unit out there was working. I hoped. Come to think of it, how did I know it hadn’t been tampered with too? Had the police checked?
I was going to find out before I used it. And what about the rest of the apartment? Could there be other booby traps lying in wait for me? An exploding water heater? A leaky gas stovetop?
I hung my apron on a hook in the back, then checked my hair in the bathroom mirror. I fluffed it up with my fingers. Leaning over a vat of hot oil hadn’t helped it any. I hated the idea of interviewing Caitie Conklin on her own turf, the beauty salon, without my hair looking its absolute best.
I fished around in my pocketbook and pulled out my brush. Once I was satisfied and my lipstick was just so, I locked up and walked next door.
Lo and behold, who do I see sitting in a chair near the back, sharing a laugh with Rick Wilbur’s ex? None other than one of my other neighbors, Johnny Wolfe. Were the two of them up to something? Clandestine lovers, even?
She was so much older. He was so much, well, Johnny Wolfe-ier. What could they possibly have in common?
Murder.
I stood on the sidewalk watching for a minute. Johnny was facing the mirror and Caitie had her back to me.
I could hear every word they said. The door was being held in the open position by a small round granite rock with the word Beauty etched into its face. Three bamboo fans whirled overhead the six chairs. I didn’t see any other stylists on the floor at the moment. Maybe Conklin worked solo on Sundays.
‘Are you sure he doesn’t suspect anything?’ Caitie asked. She had a wicked-looking pair of shears in her hands.
Johnny sneered. ‘Not a bit.
I watched her hand dance around his head.
Jiminy, I knew those scissors. There was no mistaking that distinctive Japanese design. Those were Kamisoris, made from molybdenum and as expensive as gold. No wonder she charged so much for a haircut. She was probably making payments on those scissors.
And no wonder she’d chosen a rolling pin rather than the scissors to murder her ex – who’d want to take a chance on messing up a pair of shears like that?
Johnny turned to see his profile. ‘If we can keep things tight for a few more days, we’ll be home free.’
‘I hope so. This whole thing’s got me nervous. I hear that Miller woman has been asking all kinds of questions.’
Johnny turned again to catch his right profile. ‘Don’t worry about her. She doesn’t realize it, but she’s actually helping us.’
‘How do you figure that?’ Caitie grabbed an electric razor and trimmed around his ears.
Johnny waited until the razor stopped buzzing to answer. ‘The way I see it, she’s making such a pest of herself, getting in everyone’s way, it can only be good for us. She’s certainly keeping Clive occupied. The poor man’s a wreck.’
Hey! Was it my fault Clive was with me when I found a dead guy in my storeroom and fainted? Was it my fault that my dead ex-husband showed up at The Hitching Post? Was it my fault Clive was there when Johnny caught me snooping in his stockroom?
Caitie nodded. ‘And like you said,’ she pulled the smock from Johnny’s neck and grabbed a brush, ‘it’s only for three more days and then …’ She flicked hair from his shoulders.
‘Hi, can I help you?’
I twitched and looked in the direction of the sound. A dark-haired young woman in a smock stepped from behind a three-paneled cedar room divider with half wagon wheel tops.
A silver-haired woman followed behind, her hair bunched up under a fluffy white towel.
I swallowed. ‘Oh, hi.’ I thought quickly. And, as it turns out, stupidly. ‘Do you take walk-ins?’
Caitie and Johnny shared a look. Johnny jumped from his chair and dusted himself off with meticulous care. ‘We’ll talk more later,’ he said. ‘Miller.’ Johnny nodded slightly as he brushed past me.
Wait, I thought. What’s happening in three days?
Caitie Conklin headed straight to me. She stopped, folded her arms across her chest grandly and studied my head. Without asking permission, she reached out and pulled at my hair. ‘I figured you’d show up sooner or later.’ She had a voice sharp enough to cut brick.
Why? Did she think I was on to her? Maybe I should watch my step. ‘You did?’
She nodded several times and took a step back as if to assess me further from a distance. ‘Yeah, with that rat’s nest I knew it was only a matter of time.’
‘What?’ My hair? She was talking about my hair! Why was she talking about my hair? My fingers went to my long red strands. What was wrong with it? I cut it myself. If I’d been clutching a pair of Kamisoris I’d have taught her a thing or two about hair and the many uses for scissors.
‘How long’s it been?’
I pinched my brows together. ‘How long has what been?’ Was she asking about the murder? Killer or not, she knew the answer to that question.
‘Since you got a decent cut.’ She reached for my head again and I pulled back. ‘Five months? Six?’
‘It hasn’t been that long.’ A couple of weeks at most. ‘I cut it myself.’
Caitie laughed. Somewhere, I think I could hear bricks breaking. ‘Hey, Belinda. Get this – this one cuts her own hair!’
The young girl in the smock was plucking curlers from her client, her back turned to us. ‘You know what they say,’ she shouted back, ‘a lawyer that represents himself has got a fool for a client!’
She suddenly swung around. ‘I mean, no offense or anything, ma’am, but I don’t even cut my own hair!’
No offense? She’s just called me ma’am and I couldn’t have been a decade older than her. I drew myself up. ‘I used to be a hair stylist myself back in Phoenix,’ I said to Caitie.
‘What happened?’ She pulled a pair of reading glasses from the front pocket of her smock and squinted at me. ‘Eyesight go? You gotta get glasses. That’s what I did.’
If only to end this bloodbath, and at the risk of causing a new one, I said, ‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’ I tugged at my locks. ‘So, do you think you can squeeze me in?’ I smiled hopefully.
‘Sure,’ Ms Conklin said. ‘You go on back to my chair. I’ll be with you in a sec.’
Not only had I been made to swallow my pride, but now I was going to be shelling out over fifty dollars or more that I could ill-afford. But if I wanted a chance to question the former Mrs Rick Wilbur about his death, what better opportunity than sitting in here getting my hair cut by my suspect?
I was a bit nervous, truth be told, partly about what she might do to my hair and partly that she’d slit my throat with those scissors if she thought I was on to her, but I expected I was safe as long as there were witnesses around.
‘Well, I’ll be going now!’ shouted the young woman as she pulled off her smock and hung it over her chair.
My head swung around. What happened to the silver-haired woman? Had she snuck out already?
The young woman disappeared out the back. I was alone with Caitie Conklin. I bristled as she tightened the ends of the smock around my neck.
She swung the chair around and lowered my head to the sink. ‘Sorry about the heat. I’ve got the door open but I’m not sure if it’s helping or hurting.’
I nodded as best I could as I felt the stream of water hit my skull.
‘The air conditioner is on the fritz again. It’s been sputtering and stopping for a week now. But I guess you probably know that, seeing how you’ve got the café next door.’
‘So, you know me,’ I said, feeling Caitie’s hands massaging shampoo deep into my scalp. Strong fingers. Strong enough to hold a rolling pin and swing for the cheap seats.
‘Sure, you’re Miller, right?’
I nodded. I wasn’t hearing so well though because my ear canals were
filling with soap. It smelled like chamomile and neroli and tickled my nose.
‘Anyway, the AC’s normally the kind of thing Ed would take care of, but …’ Her voice trailed off as she hosed me down. ‘Water temp OK?’
I nodded and picked up where she’d left off. ‘I know. I heard all about his stroke. In fact, I’ve been taking care of his cat for him.’
‘Carol Two.’ Caitie Conklin rinsed out my hair and expertly applied a cream rinse.
‘You know her?’ I cracked open an eye and looked up at her. A drop of soapy water fell in it and I blinked.
‘Sure, heck, I knew the original,’ clucked Caitie, ‘Carol One.’ She held up her index finger. ‘A fine woman, that one.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘Died young. Car accident, as I remember.’
Once again, my heart went out to Ed Teller. Maybe I’d stop and pick up something special for Carol Two. Maybe some canned tuna.
She toweled me semidry then got to work on my hair.
‘I hear you and Rick used to be married.’
Scissors froze in the air, mere inches from my nose. I gulped.
‘That’s right,’ she answered. Her hand started moving again and I breathed more easily. ‘It’s no secret. Why?’
I shrugged. ‘I was wondering if you had any ideas who might want to see him dead.’
Caitie spun the chair around and faced me. ‘You shouldn’t go sticking your nose into places it doesn’t belong. Table Rock is a small town. Folks around here don’t like it much when you go getting in their business.’
I stared her down. ‘Do you think that’s what happened?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, do you think your ex-husband, Rick Wilbur, was getting his nose in somebody else’s business and that person didn’t like it?’
‘And killed him, you’re saying.’ Caitie pulled my hair up in a comb and clipped the ends. She repeated this on the other side.
‘I was married once,’ I said. ‘I know what it’s like to have to deal with an ex-husband. Of course, mine is down in Phoenix.’ At least, he should be. Why couldn’t he stay there? ‘I can’t imagine him living here in Table Rock with me.’
