Perish By Pedicure

by Nancy J. Cohen

  Tapping her chin, Marla frowned. “How did they know to question you?”

  “Tyler must have told them. But he was there, too. Chris was just as mad at him.”

  She crossed one leg over the other. Something didn’t add up in this equation. “But he’s the one who started it all. Chris got angry at Tyler’s remark in the bar, and she left in a huff. I was witness to that much. You didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes, I did.” Georgia sniffed, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I let him sit next to me. That was enough to put me in Christine’s black book. Listen, Marla,” she began, but just then Sampson swooped down on them.

  “There you are,” the artistic director said, waving his arms. “What is going to happen to us? I am ruined, ruined!”

  Marla shot to her feet. “Calm down. Tell me, who’s in charge of the group now?”

  “Jan would be the logical person to take over.” He shook his head, as though to dismiss administrative duties as beneath his talent. “We’ll have to cancel. What a disaster! Good God, the scandal will destroy me.” His face was chalky white.

  “That’s not true,” Marla said in a soothing tone, while Georgia rose slowly with a dazed look on her face. “I don’t see any reason why the show can’t go on. As long as the sales reps and salon owners manage the counters, you and Ron can proceed with your stage demos. How much stuff got unloaded last night?”

  “All of the heavy equipment.” Sampson had regained his composure and was now glowering at her. “But we’ll be delayed in putting the exhibit together, and we still have to prep the models who are coming by this afternoon.”

  “No problem. Did you pick up your exhibitor badge?”

  “I’ve got mine,” he said, tapping his pocket.

  “Georgia? Do you have yours?”

  Georgia glanced at Marla as though she were from another planet. “Huh?”

  “Come with me.” Grasping Georgia’s elbow, Marla marched her toward the registration desk and pushed her into the line for exhibitors. “Here’s the stuff you told me to bring,” she said, handing over the sack she’d brought from home.

  “Thanks. I’ll wash up in the restroom after we get our badges. I must look like a wreck.”

  Marla turned her attention to the registration clerk when their turn came and gave their names. Then she waited outside the ladies’ room for Georgia to refresh herself.

  Sampson trailed after her, pinning his badge onto his blue cotton dress shirt. He chatted up a storm as though needing to distract himself, asking Marla about her salon and offering advice until Georgia emerged. “Let’s go,” he said, loping toward the exhibition concourse.

  The cavernous hall showed none of the finishing touches that would come tomorrow with the opening ceremony. Carpeting had not yet been rolled down the aisles, and wires trailed everywhere on the concrete floor. Sounds of hammering and the whine of electric drills resounded throughout. Searching for their booth number, Marla picked her way down rows strewn with half-emptied boxes, banners waiting to be hung, and large advertising posters.

  “Clear the decks,” yelled a voice from behind, accompanied by a beeping noise.

  Marla stood aside while a forklift lumbered past, carrying shipping crates on its outstretched arms. This counts as hazardous duty, she thought, bumping into an exhibit table for a hairbrush display. Rubbing her hip, she was glad to spot Amy Jeanne Wiggs unpacking cartons at a large block of counters up ahead. A makeshift stage had been constructed beside the sales area, where folding chairs were stacked ready for placement. They had a good position, right at the intersection of two important junctions.

  “Thank the Lord,” Sampson cried, raising his arms as he rushed ahead. But then he stopped short, surveying the mess that needed organizing. “Incredible. How will we ever put this together in time?”

  “Hi, guys.” Amy Jeanne regarded them with sorrowful brown eyes. “I guess you heard about Christine.”

  “Yeah,” Georgia answered, and the women hugged each other. “I can’t believe she won’t be here today.”

  “I’ve been trying to unpack stuff, but my heart isn’t in it. Chris usually tells us where to put things.” Amy cracked her gum, her mouth constantly in motion.

  “How’s the space behind the stage?” Sampson asked, standing tall. “Will we have room to put a chair there?”

  “Go look for yourself,” Ron snapped, emerging from behind the draped backdrop. “Has anyone seen my extra blow-dryer? I thought I’d put it in with the styling implements.”

  “Someone needs to get the posters up,” Amy Jeanne said. “Where’s the rest of the gang, bro?”

  “I’m right here, querida,” Miguel hailed them as he danced a few salsa steps in their direction. The sales rep wore an embroidered Guayabera shirt and khaki shorts, in addition to a set of earbuds wired to his pocket-sized music device.

  “Now what?” Georgia asked, spreading her arms. “We can unpack these boxes, but where do we put the stuff? Jan should be here to direct us.”

  “She’s doing her workout routine,” Ron remarked, yanking a hand mirror from a carton and holding it up while he ruffled his hair. “Speaking to the cops upset her, so she wanted to work off her energy. If she works off any more, she’ll disappear.”

  “That woman eats rabbit food,” Amy Jeanne agreed. “I can’t get her to scarf down a decent meal. She’s way too thin.”

  “Never mind that,” Ron said. “If she’s to take charge, she’ll have to learn how to cope with last-minute setbacks. She should have been the first one here this morning.”

  “Oh, like you’re so perfect?” Sampson sneered, peeking out from behind the curtain. “We’re all out of whack because of Chris’s death. Who wouldn’t be? Hey, where’s Tyler? Is Pretty Boy still getting his beauty sleep?”

  “He hasn’t come down yet,” Georgia offered in a meek tone.

  Marla realized the others were just going to mope around unless someone took command. “Amy Jeanne, why don’t you and the sales reps unpack the products and arrange them on the counters? Set out the cash registers, the order forms, and whatever else you need to get started with sales. Meanwhile, I’ll help Sampson and Ron with the stage work. Has anyone seen Liesl?”

  Georgia raised her hand. “She went back to sleep after the police woke us.”

  “We’ll get started without her. Let’s go to work, folks. If you put your best effort into this show, it’ll be the most rewarding tribute you could give Chris. You know it’s what she would want for the company.”

  Dispersing to their different duties, they left Marla to trail after the master stylists. Sampson seemed obsessed with the stage, gazing with dismay at the array of cartons.

  “This will never do,” he said, waving his hand imperiously. “Has anyone unpacked the lighting? I need my model’s chair set over here under the spotlight. Will we have enough electrical outlets? Technician!” he hollered.

  Stepping around the curtain, Marla offered to help Ron find the styling accoutrements. “Did you bring the products you’re intending to use on the models? I could organize them into one container.”

  “Everything should be labeled,” he said wearily. He kicked at a carton. “I still can’t get it through my head that Chris is gone.”

  “I know.” Needing to keep busy, Marla ripped open one of the boxes. A sharp cutter would be handy, she thought after chipping her nail polish. “What’s this?” She pointed to an assortment of business cards, promotional pamphlets, a calculator, scissors, duct tape, a folded easel, and a glass fish bowl packed in foam inserts.

  “That’s Chris’s stuff. She runs a contest to give away samples. People put their business cards in the bowl, and she draws half a dozen at the end of each day. Amy Jeanne adds the names to the company’s mailing list. That’s how we gain customers. We always notify people about new product releases.”

  “Clever idea. We can probably use the scissors and tape to put up our signs.” She paused, curious about his personal background and w
hy he’d chosen to work for Luxor. “How long have you been doing these shows?”

  Stooping to tear open a carton, he spared her a glance. “Six years. I’m from L.A. Maybe you’ve heard of my salon—Ron’s Hair Emporium?”

  Marla grinned. “Not really, but I don’t keep up with other parts of the country. So you have your own place, huh?”

  “We specialize in hair design, not your weekly wash-and-blow. My average tab runs about four hundred dollars.”

  Marla gaped. ‘You must be well-known on the West Coast. What do you gain from being in the shows?”

  His eyes sparked, making Marla surmise that his enthusiasm helped draw patrons to his chair. “As I told you before, I like to teach,” he said simply. “Being in front of people lets me share my vision. When I create a style, it’s the perfect complement to a certain facial structure and personality. You have to consider what’s inside the person that wants to come out. It’s more than just a look—it’s a form of self-expression.”

  “I see.” She could tell Ron genuinely wanted to mentor others and felt herself warm toward him. “I can’t wait to observe what you do with the models.”

  “You’ll be blown away,” Ron said, grinning. “But taking center stage is nothing compared to my big plan. Someday I’ll have celebrities seeking me out. That’s when I’ll take my stage name, Rinaldo.”

  “As a platform artist?”

  “Hell, no. As owner of Rinaldo’s Hair Emporium of Beverly Hills. The time isn’t ripe just yet, but you’ll see. One day I’ll be famous for my artistic creations.”

  Just don’t let your ego get too inflated, pal. The aroma of warm baked cinnamon rolls drifted into her nostrils. “The food court must have opened. I’m hungry.” As her stomach rumbled in confirmation, she reached for a piece of paper wedged inside the glass fish bowl. Unfolding what appeared to be a bank check, she deciphered the handwriting. The draft was made out to Christine Parks and signed by Sampson York.

  Clanging noises sounded from around the corner. Still holding the check, Marla straightened and rounded the stage. She saw a guy setting up lighting tracks while Sampson yelled orders to another man hanging publicity shots of models against the black backdrop.

  “I found something of yours,” she said, approaching the artistic director.

  He glanced at her. “My chair?”

  “No, not that.” She could understand his obsession, since the chair would be the focal point for his stage action. “I imagine it’s packed with the bigger equipment. All of the crates haven’t been opened yet. Anyway, that isn’t what I’m talking about. This check belongs to you,” she said, handing it over.

  Viewing the handwriting, he paled. “Where did you get this?”

  “I found it among Chris’s things and figured you’d want it returned. Five thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

  He looked as though he’d choke on his tongue. ‘Thanks,” he muttered, crushing the paper into his pants pocket “Where the hell is Liesl? She should be here by now. Chris would never let her sleep so late. Why don’t you go and kick her out of bed? Oh, and Marla,” Sampson added, just as she shifted her foot to turn away, “I know you’ll be a sport and won’t mention this check to anybody.” He patted his trousers, giving her a distinct glare. “We wouldn’t want your first experience with Luxor to be your last. Understand?”

  Chapter Five

  Marla spotted the blond stylist in line at the food court. Waving, she hastened over. “Liesl, I’ve been looking for you. We’re getting set up for the show.”

  “Hiya, luv. I ran into Janice outside. She said the cops wanted to ask me some more questions. Do you know how early that detective chap woke us?” She yawned for emphasis.

  The aroma of brewed coffee made Marla eager to get in line, but first she had a question for the other stylist. “Do you remember what time Georgia came in last night?”

  Liesl shrugged. “I’d called the front desk so she could get her own key. I must have been conked out because I wasn’t aware of anything until the police rapped on our door. Why do you ask?”

  “Tyler went up to Chris’s room last night to apologize for something he’d said earlier in the lounge. Georgia accompanied him for moral support.”

  “So?” Liesl moved up her place in line, while Marla glanced at the fruit cups and yogurt on display.

  “I’m trying to get a sense of the timing. Georgia indicated that Tyler had left Chris’s room first, while she lingered behind.”

  “Did I hear my name?” Tyler drawled, tapping Marla on the shoulder.

  She spun to face him. “Where have you been? We need help at the booth.”

  “No sweat, sweetheart. I’m on my way.” He didn’t look too energetic, with dark circles under his eyes and an unshaven jaw.

  “Tyler, can I get you a Danish?” Liesl said in a suggestive tone, her pout indicating she’d rather offer something more personal. Dressed in a tight-fitting amethyst sweater and jeans, she was attracting envious glances from other females.

  Hello, did I suddenly turn invisible? Marla thought. You could include me in your breakfast offer. I’d like a Bagel.

  “No thanks,” Tyler replied, “I lost my appetite, after what happened to Chris and all.”

  “What did happen last night?” Marla asked, her hunger fleeing. “Georgia said you both went up to Chris’s room. Chris threw you out, but Georgia stayed to argue your case.”

  Tugging her elbow, Tyler drew her aside. “Chris accused us of having an affair behind her back. It made her furious to see us together, and she hadn’t been feeling well to begin with.”

  “How so?”

  “Remember in the lounge, she’d complained of a headache? She looked really bad when she opened her door. Very pale, her eyes kinda glazed. I thought she’d drunk too much.”

  “Did you know of any medical problems she might have had?”

  “Are you kidding? I tried to steer clear of any personal business between us. Not that she didn’t keep trying,” he added bitterly.

  “Okay, so she wasn’t receptive to your apology last night. What did Georgia say in your defense?” Marla asked.

  “She tried to reason with Chris, but the more she said, the angrier Chris got. They ended up shouting at each other.”

  “That couldn’t have helped Chris’s headache.” Perhaps the guests in the neighboring room had heard their raised voices and reported the incident to the police. “Did you tell the cops about your disagreement? They knocked on Liesl’s door to question Georgia this morning.”

  He shifted his feet. “Hey, they questioned all of us, ya know?” Gesturing at Liesl, who’d emerged from the line holding a croissant in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, he said, “You heading over to the booth? I’ll go with you. Man, this is going to be a crappy day.”

  Realizing she still lacked a clear sequence of events, Marla decided to report to Jan. The regional manager might need help making arrangements for Chris’s body after it was released. Pulling her cell phone from her purse, she exited the exhibit hall and dialed her salon. It would be easier to hear out in the main lobby, away from the construction noise.

  “Luis,” she told her receptionist when he answered, “please tell Nicole that there’s been a setback. I’m not sure we’ll make it into the salon today. The company director died in the night under strange circumstances.”

  “Ayie, that’s horrible.”

  “They’re going to continue with the show, but I don’t know if anyone will be able to focus on the models. We’ll have to get them done somehow, I suppose. Anyway, I may not get there until much later, if at all. Were there any calls for me that I have to return?”

  After receiving her messages, she hung up and punched in the code for Palm Haven’s police station. “Lieutenant Dalton Vail in Homicide,” she told the operator. Then, “Dalton? Sorry to bodier you at work. Just wanted to touch bases and let you know what’s going on. I met Justine and Larry this morning. I hope they can entertain themselve
s until you pick them up later, when Brianna comes home from school. I’m stuck at the convention center all day and don’t know if we’ll get to my salon to do the models’ hair. The company director was found dead this morning.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Actually, I’m not. The cops think she may have had a seizure. Do you think you can find out anything from your buddies in Fort Lauderdale?”

  After a pause to digest the news, he said, “I’ll give them a call. Give me the victim’s name.”

  “Christine Parks. Uh-oh, I’ve got to go. Here comes the regional manager, and I need to talk to her. I’ll get back to you later. Love you.” Stuffing her cell phone back into her purse, she hustled toward Jan.

  “Morning, Marla,” Jan said, looking svelte in a black turtleneck sweater and a leather miniskirt. Her hazel eyes shone with clarity of purpose, while her hips swung with confidence. She looked the consummate professional, ready to take charge.

  “Is that your breakfast?” Marla asked, pointing to the bottle of yogurt fruit shake in Jan’s hand.

  “Yep. You should try one of these drinks. They’re rich in nutrients.”

  “That’s okay. I need solid food for energy in the morning.”

  “Exercising helps, too. I get sluggish if I don’t do my morning routine. Where’s the rest of the crew?”

  “Everyone is inside setting up the booth,” Marla told her. “I’m so sorry about Chris. This must be very difficult for you.”

  Jan tossed her sleek red head. “I’m not surprised that Chris worked herself into a frenzy. She micromanaged everyone’s job. I won’t be like that if I get her position.”

  “I see,” Marla said, taken aback by Jan’s callous attitude. Taking advantage of the opportunity presented, she threw out a probe. “Were you surprised when she promoted you to regional manager? I understand Tyler would have liked the job.”

  “He was really in line for it. Tyler wouldn’t give her what she wanted, though, so she passed him over. You learned quickly not to cross the boss lady, but trust was another issue. I came by that lesson the hard way.”