The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “How can I tell who they are?” Carlos asked.

  “The real customers have confirmation numbers,” Ana Luisa said. “If you have any doubts, I have the numbers here.”

  “But what about your hair?” Carlos asked. He’d been trying to talk Ana Luisa into dyeing her blond hair red. “You have beautiful skin. If Mother Nature knew what she was doing, you’d have been born with red hair.”

  “No,” Ana Luisa said. “The last stylist cut my hair so badly it took a year to grow out.”

  “But he was fired. I am good,” Carlos said.

  “I know you are,” Ana Luisa said. “But I want my children to recognize me when I go home. And they’re blond like their mother. Besides, we’re going to be too busy for you to fool around with my hair.”

  In the slow times, the salon staff styled one another’s hair the way little girls played dolls. They cut long hair short, added extensions and experimented with highlights. Some experiments were more successful than others. Stylists liked to run their fingers through other people’s hair. They enjoyed the color, the texture, the feel.

  “I’ve always loved hair,” Miguel Angel told Helen. “Even as a little boy, I liked to play with hair. I styled my sister’s hair.”

  “Lucky her,” Helen said.

  “Unlucky me. My father was furious. To have a gay Cuban son was a great shame. He did not want a hairdresser son. It was not a manly thing to do.”

  “I’m sorry,” Helen said.

  “Don’t be. They like my gay money. But they keep trying to fix me up with nice Cuban girls.”

  “They don’t get it, do they?” she said.

  “No,” Miguel Angel said. “I am not going to settle down, no matter how many novenas they say.”

  Helen laughed. “My family doesn’t get me, either.”

  “Vulture alert,” Ana Luisa said.

  The new clients arrived in pairs, as if they were afraid to come alone to the salon. The first two were typical: women from Mississippi with short, curly blond hair and honey-chile accents. One was Luann. The other was Carrie. They were at least fifty, but dressed much younger.

  “Everyone down here speaks Mexican,” Luann said. “I thought this was America.” Her pale blue shirt was a waterfall of ruffles. Her ring had a diamond the size of an ice cube.

  “Where are you ladies from?” Helen asked.

  “Olive Branch, Mississippi,” Carrie said. Her purple muumuu was embroidered with bold yellow flowers. She had matching sunflower earrings.

  “I’m not familiar with that town,” Helen said.

  “It’s the ninth largest city in Mississippi,” Luann said. Her dangly earrings danced and swayed.

  “It’s really a suburb of Memphis,” Carrie said.

  “Now, that city I’ve heard of,” Helen said. “May I get you coffee or some water?”

  “Is there an extra charge?” Luann said. “Because the boys—our husbands—said we could treat ourselves to an afternoon of beauty while they went deep-sea fishing, but these prices are scaring me.”

  “No charge,” Helen said.

  “Do you have sweet tea?” Luann asked.

  “I have iced tea, but you’ll have to add your own sugar,” Helen said. “Are you here on vacation?”

  “We leave tomorrow,” Carrie said. “I thought if I went here, I’d have a story to tell the girls at bridge.”

  Vultures, Helen thought. Miguel had correctly identified these birds. She handed each one a hanger and directed the two women to the dressing rooms.

  She’d just turned around when Carrie said, “Did he do it?”

  “Do what?” Helen asked.

  “Your boss. Did he kill that King guy?”

  “Of course not,” Helen said. “Do I look like I’d work for a murderer?”

  “Oh no,” Carrie said. “But that TV show—”

  “Was wrong,” Helen said, chopping off the discussion.

  She wished the vultures would all flock back to Mississippi, Missouri or wherever they came from.

  The next hour was slow torture. More vultures arrived. The only good thing, if you could call it that, was a five-car pileup on I-95. That accident sent the news vans heading for the highway. The press quit camping outside the salon. Helen dusted surfaces that didn’t need dusting and swept an already clean floor. Again.

  At twelve thirty, she slipped out to order her wedding cake. She noticed a plain white van in a no-parking zone across from the salon. It won’t be there long, she decided. The ever-watchful parking patrol would have it moved. Helen walked to Kakes by Kitty, a tiny store no bigger than a phone booth. Cats abounded in the shop—stuffed toy cats, cat photos, stained-glass cats, everything but live cats. Kitty herself was a motherly woman with blue eyes and yellow hair who resembled a large tabby. Helen remembered her grandmother saying, “Never trust a skinny cook.” By Grandma’s standards, Kitty was trustworthy.

  “A wedding cake reveals a lot about your relationship,” Kitty said. “Do you want a traditional round cake, or something offbeat, like a hexagon or a square?”

  “I’ll stick with the round, tiered cake,” Helen said. “I’d like a chocolate cake with white icing and sugar roses. I love sugar roses.”

  “And what about the cake topper? Do you want a bride and groom, a bell or a pair of doves?”

  “How about more sugar roses?” Helen said. “Can we have one layer that’s carrot cake?”

  “We could do that,” Kitty said. “We could also make a groom’s cake. That’s a Southern tradition that’s being revived. A groom’s cake can reflect your man’s special interests—his favorite sport or hobby.”

  Does sex count as a sport? Helen wondered. Never mind. That wasn’t something she could put on a wedding cake.

  “Does he have an animal he likes?” Kitty asked.

  “He likes my cat, but I don’t think a cat wedding cake is manly,” Helen said. “Wait, Phil loves Eric Clapton.”

  “We can do a Clapton carrot cake with a guitar.”

  “Perfect,” Helen said.

  Helen paid the deposit and gave Kitty the wedding information. She was back at the salon by one o’clock. Strange. That white van was still in the no-parking zone. The van should have been ticketed and towed hours ago. The tinted glass windows gave Helen the creeps. She’d read that kidnappers and killers liked anonymous vans.

  More vultures arrived. Helen caught snippets of their conversations. “He’s very handsome. . . .” “Do you think he’s gay?” “Do you think he killed that man?”

  The afternoon dragged on while Helen made a list of wedding to-dos, including inviting Peggy to be her bridesmaid. How could I have been so negligent? she wondered. Peggy will think she was an afterthought.

  It wasn’t true. Helen wanted to marry Phil, but she didn’t have the obsessive interest in the perfect wedding. I did that last time, she thought. The perfect wedding didn’t lead to the perfect marriage. Now I just want my friends to have a good time.

  Mr. Carmichael, the only noncelebrity regular, arrived for his four o’clock appointment. He was at least ninety, and so thin he was almost transparent. His hair was even thinner. His pink scalp shone through the sparse, gray-white strands. His hair was long and frizzy from the humidity. Helen wasn’t sure why he came to the salon at all, except that his wife, Adriana Carmichael, ordered him there.

  Helen had never met the woman, but salon gossip said Adriana was nearly fifty years younger than her husband, and she’d married him for his money.

  Mr. Carmichael clutched three glossy magazine pages in his blue-veined hands. “My wife wants you to fix my hair like the men in these pictures,” he said, handing Miguel Angel the pages.

  The stylist’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline and stayed there. Helen had seen women bring in magazine photos with their favorite celebrity’s style, but Mr. Carmichael was the first man who did this. She peeked over Miguel Angel’s shoulder and saw photos of three hunks in their twenties. Mr. Carmichael was old enough to be
their great-grandfather.

  The young man in the top photo had a soft face and a long golden fringe over his right eye. “She wants the front of my hair like that,” Mr. Carmichael said.

  The second photo showed a Don Johnson look-alike in profile, complete with beard stubble, stern jaw and sunglasses. “She wants the sides like that,” he said.

  The third showed the thickly waved back of a man’s head. “That’s how the back of my hair is supposed to look,” Mr. Carmichael said.

  The poor man hadn’t a clue that this mission was impossible. Most of his hair—and all of his youth—were gone.

  “We’ll try our best,” Miguel Angel said solemnly.

  “What can I get you?” Helen asked Mr. Carmichael.

  “I’d like hot coffee, black,” he said. “If that’s not too much trouble.”

  “None at all,” Helen said. “I’ll put on a fresh pot.”

  She poured out the sludge in the pot, made a fresh one, and brought him a mug. Mr. Carmichael held it in his shaky hands.

  It was nearly five o’clock when Miguel Angel finished clipping and snipping the old man’s hair. Mr. Carmichael paid his bill without a murmur and tipped generously.

  Helen thought his hair looked a bit thicker. Miguel Angel had treated it to bring out the silver, but the man looked stoop-shouldered and tired as he left the salon.

  “What was his wife thinking?” Helen said. “Does she even see that man?”

  “She sees a lot of men,” Miguel Angel said. “In her dreams. I doubt if she looks at any part of Mr. Carmichael but his wallet.”

  Helen swept the gray hair from the floor, cleaned the coffeepot and washed the single cup. It was five p.m.

  “Unless you need me, I’m leaving now,” Ana Luisa announced.

  “You can go,” Miguel Angel said. “So can Carlos and Helen. I need to stay and work on some accounts.”

  Helen left for the Coronado, feeling low. That strange van was still sitting in the no-parking zone. Odd. A pizza delivery car pulled up behind it. The red-and-blue uniformed driver got out and carried a pizza box to the passenger-side window. A minute later, the pizza car drove away. The white van remained.

  Something was wrong.

  Helen started running. She arrived at the Coronado, sick from the heat. Phil looked impossibly cool stretched out, shirtless, on a chaise by the pool. He was reading a news magazine and drinking a Diet Coke. His skin was bronzed by the evening sun, and his thick silver hair shone.

  “Are you okay?” he said. “You look pale.”

  “The heat got me,” Helen said.

  “Then sit in the shade and I’ll get you some water.”

  Helen sat at an umbrella table. Phil came back with cold water and a ham sandwich on whole wheat. “I bet you forgot to eat, too,” he said.

  “I was ordering our wedding cake,” she said. “I absorbed a lethal dose of calories looking at the sample photos.” She bit into the sandwich. “Mm. Just the way I like it.”

  “Why were you running?” Phil asked.

  “There’s a strange van parked across from the salon,” she said. “It’s not a news van. It’s in a no-parking zone. Someone delivered a pizza to the passenger side.”

  “Finish your sandwich,” Phil said. “Then let’s take a stroll on Las Olas. We could go to Kilwin’s for a chocolate-covered strawberry, and I could check out that van.”

  Ten minutes later, they were back on Las Olas, threading their way through the slow-moving tourists, who called everything from a cat sculpture in a gallery to a display of men’s underwear “cute.”

  Kilwin’s had the intoxicating perfume of chocolate. Helen passed the tubs of ice cream and sherbet and the slabs of fudge. She felt virtuous choosing a fat strawberry dipped in dark chocolate. Phil bought a milk chocolate one. They strolled by the van, talking about their wedding plans and nibbling their treats.

  “I got extra sugar roses for the wedding cake,” Helen said. “It’s chocolate with white icing.”

  “What about my carrot cake?” Phil asked.

  “I wouldn’t forget that,” Helen said.

  When they were in front of the van, he grabbed her and kissed her soundly, which gave him a good view of the vehicle over her shoulder. It gave whoever was inside a good view, too.

  Phil guided Helen toward the alley behind Miguel Angel’s shop. “Definitely a surveillance van,” Phil said. He rang the back doorbell. Helen knocked three times, just in case Miguel Angel thought they were reporters. He answered the door, a cup of Cuban coffee in his hand. Phil and Helen mimed silence and slipped inside the salon.

  “I think your shop is under surveillance by that white van across the street,” Phil said. “It may be the police.”

  “Why? I didn’t do anything,” Miguel Angel said.

  “I’m guessing the cops don’t have enough to arrest you, but you’re a person of interest in the King Oden murder,” Phil said. “Until they arrest someone, be careful. And don’t use your cell phone. They can track you with it.”

  Helen saw the folded wheelchair in the corner. “I have to deliver my sick old auntie to her Jeep,” she said.

  Miguel Angel slapped on the black, curly wig and a little makeup, then put on the dowdy blue blouse. Helen and Phil wheeled him through the alley to the hotel parking entrance. The valet brought the Jeep. Helen and Phil helped Miguel Angel inside. He tipped the valet and drove away.

  “Good-bye, Aunt Angela,” Helen called, waving at the Jeep.

  She could swear her sweet old aunt flipped her the bird.

  Chapter 16

  “How did you know that was a police van parked across from the salon?” Helen asked Phil. They walked hand in hand through the warm June night. Helen wished they could keep walking forever.

  “Because no vehicle could park that long on Las Olas without being towed,” Phil said. “When we walked by—”

  “We didn’t exactly walk by,” Helen said.

  “When we were standing by the van,” Phil said.

  “And you were kissing me,” Helen said.

  “I saw shadows behind the tinted windows,” Phil said. “Plus I saw the lighted dial of a cell phone. And someone inside was definitely smoking. I could see the glowing cigarette end.”

  “You noticed all that while you were overcome with passion?” Helen asked.

  “An ordinary man wouldn’t have,” Phil said. “But I’m experienced at undercover work.” He winked. Helen kissed him again. “Besides, you noticed that pizza delivery to the van. That was a major tip-off. Someone isn’t taking this stakeout seriously.”

  “Is that good news?” Helen asked.

  “No, Miguel Angel still needs to be careful.”

  “Why don’t they arrest him?” Helen asked. “They caught him with a little heroin.”

  “Drug dealers are a dime a dozen,” Phil said. “King’s murder is high profile. I’m guessing his hair sample came back clean and they’re buying the story that he was set up—for now.”

  “Thanks for helping him,” Helen said.

  “I like Miguel Angel,” Phil said.

  “He’s doing my makeup and hair free as a wedding present,” Helen said.

  “That’s nice. But what’s in it for me?” Phil said.

  “He can do your makeup, too,” Helen said. “I wouldn’t let him cut your hair, though. I like it the way it is.” She gave his silver ponytail a playful yank.

  “And I like you better without makeup,” Phil said.

  “Don’t say anything to Miguel Angel. You’ll hurt his feelings. What are we doing about dinner tonight?”

  “How about Ferdos Grill? They have good kibbe. They’re about the only place in town that still serves it.”

  Helen made a face. “I don’t know how you can eat raw lamb. But their chicken kebabs are good.”

  “Cooked meat is so conventional,” Phil said.

  “Only circus geeks eat raw meat,” Helen said.

  “It’s a little far to walk,” Phil said
. “Let’s take my Jeep. I’ll have to stop by my apartment for my car keys.”

  Margery Flax flagged them down from her front door. Their landlady looked like a giant eggplant in her dark purple dress. “Helen, your sister Kathy is on my phone,” she said. A lit cigarette dangled from her lips.

  “Cool shoes,” Helen said. “Wish I could wear purple gladiator sandals.”

  “Nobody’s stopping you,” Margery said.

  “I don’t think they’d look good on me,” Helen said.

  “You’ve got great legs. You’re too conventional,” Margery said.

  “Phil just told me that,” she said.

  “Well, listen to the man,” Margery said.

  “I am not eating raw lamb,” Helen said. “He thinks I’m conventional because I don’t like raw meat.”

  “Will you talk to your sister, please?” Margery said, handing her the phone. “She’s waiting.”

  Kathy gave Helen a subdued hello.

  “What’s wrong?” Helen asked.

  “Mom went ballistic, just like you predicted. She says you’ll burn in hell.”

  “I probably will,” Helen said. “But I won’t be lonely. All my friends will be there.”

  “Helen, this isn’t funny,” Kathy said.

  “Mom lives in another century, Kathy. I’m sorry you had to listen to her.”

  “You don’t sound upset that she won’t be at your wedding,” Kathy said.

  “I’m not,” Helen said. “I’d be more upset if you disapproved—but I would have still ignored you. I asked Mom because I didn’t want to perpetuate a grudge. I’ve done my duty, and so have you. Thank you.”

  “Mom isn’t herself these days,” Kathy said. “She’s getting a little strange.”

  “Mom has always been strange,” Helen said.

  “No, I mean strange even for her,” Kathy said. “She’s so spooky religious, she’s starting to worry me.”

  Helen could hear a child wailing in the background. “Is that my niece, Allison?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’d better go,” Kathy said.

  “Thanks again,” Helen said. “I can’t wait to see you.” Helen hung up the phone.