by Judy Clemens
I had done my best back home to argue that I couldn’t waste an entire day in Philadelphia—after the past several days I had work to do on the farm (“Lucy’s got it covered, right, Luce?”), the fair was still going on (“Zach’s judging is over, as is the dairy class, the showmanship, and Taylor’s Lovely Miss PA pageant, so what is there left to see?”), and Rikki Raines’ so-far unsolved murder (“Not your problem, and anyway, if you’re so hung up on it, we’ll check things out at the salon. She used to go there, right?”).
I was so not going to enjoy this. Just on principle.
Nick, the weasel, had slipped away to who knew where—dashing out the drive in his Ranger before I could throttle him. For once he wasn’t answering his phone, and Lucy and Miranda weren’t afraid of me as I argued. Tess watched with either shock or disbelief, her eyes darting back and forth between Miranda and Lucy and me, and Queenie made it quite clear she didn’t care what I did, as long as she could stay home and sleep in the shade. Loyal friend, my foot.
Miranda ignored my blatant crabbiness and went on and on—and on—about our schedule for the day. Massages, facials, mani-pedis—which she assured me was something to do with our fingernails and toenails, and not something I would regret later, although I couldn’t imagine not regretting having my nails done—and, finally, makeup and hair. She didn’t need to know I would be refusing the great lot of these adventures.
We were almost to Glenside, eight stations down the line, before she finally took a long enough breath I could say, “This is going to cost a fortune.”
“Oh, no, remember? Daniella is giving us a discount.”
“However much the discount is, it will still be one hundred percent more than I can afford. Or would ever spend on something like this.”
“Oh, Stella.” She slapped my arm. “It’s my treat.”
Holy crap. This Miranda was not the woman I’d gotten to know. And there was nothing I could do about it. It wasn’t like I could kill my future sister-in-law in the middle of public transportation. Then Nick and I would never get married. I couldn’t see his surviving sister or his mother attending a prison ceremony.
I was feeling righteous. “You’ll spend money for a day of personal luxury, but can’t stand it that Nick is spending a few dollars on our home?” Dangerous territory, I knew, but then, if I couldn’t kill her on the train, she couldn’t throw a hissy fit there, either. I knew where to fight my battles.
Her eyes flashed. “This is for your wedding, Stella. How do we know how to dress you that day unless we have a trial run?”
“I know how to dress myself.”
She snorted. “Sure, if you want to wear boots and a T-shirt to get married in.”
So, she was getting to know me, after all.
I stared out the window as we got closer to town, amazed, as always, that the train takes its passengers by the parts of the city that would be best avoided for the sake of tourism. Abandoned townhomes, trashy, overgrown lots, and factories with broken windows and missing bricks. Not exactly signs of a thriving city. But then, we were on the outskirts, where people live and work who can’t afford to live in the pretty spots. That’s why, if you look closely enough in the classifieds, you can find that specific real estate for bottom-of-the-bucket cash. You just wouldn’t want to actually live at those spots, unless you’re used to living in fear, crouched behind the barred windows of your not-up-to-code house.
That took me back to thinking about my own house, and the maintenance it needed, and how it was finally going to get paid for, now that Nick was in. And then I thought of that slimy David Gregg, and the monstrosity he’d built out on the Main Line. That was paid for by the hard work—and debasement—of some of the area’s finest musicians.
“Oh, look!” Miranda exhaled slowly. “There’s the city!”
We scraped around a curve, and the cityscape rose up before us. Even for a country girl like me it was a little awe-inspiring.
Miranda leaned over me to see out the window, and I pushed myself back into my seat, not wanting to plant a facial on the window hair grease, or have my nose stuck in Miranda’s ear.
“It’s been so long since I’ve been here!” Miranda said. “I wish we could stay overnight and go shopping tomorrow.”
Oh, Lord, deliver me from evil.
The city disappeared as we were sucked into the underground tunnels, and Miranda settled back into her own seat. She took a deep breath and squeezed my arm. “Oh, Stella, this is going to be so much fun!”
The train lurched to a stop, giving me an excuse for not responding, and for freeing my arm from her death grip. We started and stopped several more times until Miranda finally jumped from her seat at Suburban Station. “This is it! Come on!” She blocked the aisle, right in front of an elderly man who was also waiting to get off the train.
“Sorry,” I said.
“No problems, young lady. Your friend seems excited.”
“That doesn’t begin to explain it.”
He chuckled, and gestured for me to go in front of him.
Miranda dodged and weaved through the station, like we were in The Amazing Race. I tried to keep up with her, but she ended up waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. She dragged me up to street level, where I just about collided with a woman in a black suit, sneakers, and earphones. The glare she gave me would have destroyed anyone not ready to return it in kind.
Miranda pulled out her phone, where she’d programmed in a walking path to the salon. We sweated our way just a few blocks—wouldn’t that be lovely for the folks at the salon—until we arrived in Rittenhouse Square. Miranda practically ran the last half of a block until we arrived at Serenity Salon and Spa.
Miranda looked up at the building and said, “Here we go, Stella! I can’t wait to see what you look like by the end of the day!”
Give me strength.
Chapter Thirty-eight
A cloud of odors enveloped me as we walked in the door. I gagged, then acted like I was holding back a sneeze when Miranda glared at me. I took my hand away from my nose and tried to breathe normally. What was that smell?
“It’s heavenly,” Miranda low-toned into my ear, “and if you don’t wipe that look off your face, I’m going to poke you with a nail file. Believe me, I won’t have to go far to find one.”
“What look?”
“The look like you’re about to throw up.”
“But—”
“Hello!” A waxed and shined receptionist popped up from behind a high counter, her smile on high beam. For a second I was transported back to the food tent at the fair, when we’d been assaulted by Summer and her gigantuous boobs. This woman had been plucked and shaped and colored and pulled just about as much as the pseudo-teenager, although this one couldn’t hide the fact that she was at least, well, some years older than the LM Pennsylvania contestant.
She clasped her bejeweled and painted hands and said, “You must be our nine o’clock!”
“We are!” Miranda galloped around to meet her halfway, and shook the woman’s hand.
The woman batted her eyes at Miranda. “My name is Misty, and I’ll be getting you started. You must be the bride. I’m so thrilled for you!” The woman’s smile escalated to an even higher wattage.
“Oh, uh, no,” Miranda said. “That would be her.”
The two women swiveled slowly toward me. I held up a hand. “Hi.”
Misty’s smile dimmed just a smidgen, but she quickly bucked up and hustled my way to shake my hand so hard she would have torn the arm off a weaker specimen. “So glad to have you here…Stella, right? I understand you’re a personal friend of Daniella’s?”
“Well, I just met her—”
“She is!” Miranda gushed. “Daniella thought it would be wonderful for Stella to have a practice day here at the salon, and worked her magic to get us in. We can’t wait to see what this salon has to offer.”
“We are a full-service spa,” Misty said, “which of course you know, since you�
��re starting out the day with a massage.” She gasped, in an excited, you-won’t-believe-this and look-what-time-it-is way. “And speaking of that, we need to get you started! Come this way, ladies.”
Ladies. Uh-huh.
Miranda pushed me to follow Misty through gauzy yellow curtains into a waiting room filled with gold and cream couches, glass-topped coffee tables, ankle-deep white carpet, and gooey music. The windows were swagged with thick gold curtains, and antiquey-looking lights drooped from the ceiling and perched on shiny gold stands. Again, the fragrance was almost more than I could take, and I concentrated on taking shallow breaths.
“If either of you needs to wait for the other at any point today, this room is for your use,” Misty said. “There are snacks and hot drinks or cold water over here, and you are welcome to them. Of course, you will be having your catered lunch at noon, so you don’t want to fill up too much!”
Catered lunch? What the—
Miranda beamed at me.
“So now,” Misty said, “if you two would like to come this way, I’ll show you to your room. Our massage therapists are wonderful, and I’m sure you’ll—Stella?”
I’d stopped listening, because I’d noticed a wall of signed photos. Famous people who had taken advantage of the salon’s services, I supposed. I didn’t recognize all of them, but there were famous television personalities, movie stars, singers, athletes. And Rikki Raines. There she was in her cowboy boots, fringed vest, and bright white hair.
“She was a regular here, right?” I pointed at the picture.
“Oh, yes, it’s so sad about her, isn’t it?” Misty came over to stand by me, and her eyes grew…well…misty. “She was such a sweetheart, always with a smile, always kind words to say. She was a beautiful girl, but also very real. Everyone loved working on her.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“A week ago Wednesday.”
“You remember that clearly?”
“Certainly. She’s been coming in every Wednesday and Friday this summer, because those are the days of the Lovely Miss Pennsylvania pageants, for the most part. Every once in a while there’s a change, but they try to keep it fairly regular. Rikki came in each time to have her hair and makeup done. She wanted to look good for the girls, you know, and since Daniella is so involved, we were glad to help out however we could.”
Yup, I was sure the publicity and star-power had nothing to do with it.
“You take care of a lot of the girls, too, don’t you?”
“The ones who live in the area, yes. Those who live out of the region go to their own salons, but since we are the official salon of this area’s pageants, we get the majority of them.”
“You take care of a girl named Summer?”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Summer…”
“Fake everything, boobs out to here.”
“Oh.” Her face went blank. “Yes, she is one of our clients. I believe she and her mother were just here last week. Now, if you’ll come this way, you really need to get started.”
I followed her to the nearest door. “You take care of people from the recording studio, too, right?”
“You mean Sunburst? Yes, we’re their official stylists for album covers, videos, press conferences. Whatever they need us for. It’s quite exciting. We even get the men. They’re helpless when it comes to makeup, of course, but they need it for their camera work. Sometimes we even get to go on-site where they’re shooting.”
“I suppose that means you’re in touch with David Gregg.”
She hesitated. “Of course we deal with Mr. Gregg. He is in charge of Sunburst’s production, after all.”
“So he’s in here a lot?”
“Stella…Ms. Crown, I really shouldn’t be talking to you about other customers.”
“Was he ever here when Rikki Raines was getting done? Did you see how they interacted?”
“Stella.” Miranda grabbed my arm. “Misty has a job to do.”
Misty swallowed, and wouldn’t meet my eyes. The gauzy curtains over the door parted, and two women came in. They looked surprised to see us.
The first one, a short, pleasantly plump, middle-aged, used-to-be-redhead smiled. “Not ready yet?”
“Sorry,” Misty said. “We were checking out our Wall of Fame.”
“Of course. We can take it from here, Misty. Thanks.”
Misty threw me a quick glance, then scurried back out to the front lobby.
“You are such a bully,” Miranda muttered.
“I was only trying to find out what she knew about Gregg and Rikki.”
“Exactly.”
The short woman gestured to the door that said “Massage Therapy.” “If you’ll please come this way.”
We followed her and the other woman, a younger, African-American woman with stick arms, into a dimly lit, smelly room. Smelly in that overripe garden way again. There were two tables set up head-to-head that looked sort of like the ones at a doctor’s office, except these were covered with sheets and blankets, rather than paper. One of those tiny water fountains gurgled in the center of the room, and some kind of New Age-y music played so quietly I almost couldn’t hear it. Besides the tables, there were two soft chairs, one at each end of the room, a table with bottles and towels, and what looked like a bathroom through an open door.
“My name is Sondra,” the shorter woman said.
The other woman smiled. “And I’m Petra.”
“We’ll be doing your massages. So, if you want to leave your clothes on those chairs, we’ll be back in a few minutes. Feel free to use that restroom, and go ahead and lie on a table, covered with a blanket. We’ll begin with you lying on your backs. Any questions?”
“Our clothes?” I said. “What do you mean leave them there?”
Sondra blinked. “Is this your first massage?”
“By someone other than my fiancé, yes.”
“Sorry,” Miranda said. “I didn’t know. I would have told her.”
“It’s not a problem.” Sondra waved Miranda and Petra away, and led me toward the chair in one corner of the room. “From the appointment book, I see that you are a bride, and you are having a spa day with your maid of honor.”
Maid of Honor? That Miranda. After our day of pampering, I was going to kill her.
“The first thing on the schedule is this side-by-side massage. For that, you need to undress, placing everything but your underwear on this chair. You can leave your panties on.”
I coughed a laugh. “Seriously?”
Sondra smiled. “Don’t worry, whatever body part I’m not working on will be covered, to keep you warm.”
“I’m not worried about staying warm.”
She leaned toward me. “Believe me, I won’t be looking where I’m not supposed to. And remember, I’ve done hundreds of these massages. I won’t be seeing anything I haven’t seen before. Please, try to trust me.” She watched me. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“All right, then. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She left. Miranda’s girl, Petra, was already gone. Miranda was almost done stripping, and was down to her bra and underwear.
“We’re going to be naked in here together?” I said. “Really?”
“Oh, Stella, stop being such a prude.”
“Prude? I’m not a—”
“Then shut up and take your clothes off.” She tossed her bra onto a chair and lay on the table, pulling the blanket up over her. “They’re going to be back in a minute. I promise I won’t look.” She made a show of squeezing her eyes shut.
I huffed, and kicked off my shoes. This was ridiculous. I could have had Nick give me a massage, and it would have been much more fun. And less embarrassing. I pulled off my jeans and shirt, and dropped them onto the chair.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Not ready yet!” I yelled.
“Trying to relax, here,” Miranda murmured.
I threw my bra on the chair and dove
under the blanket. “You’re going to owe me after this.”
“Right,” Miranda said. “We’ll see who owes whom when this is all over.”
I didn’t have to see. I already knew. This was going to be the single most bizarre thing I’d ever done.
This time when they knocked, Miranda called out a welcome. The door opened, and the women came in and began their work.
You know, there are some times when I’m happy to be wrong.
Chapter Thirty-nine
