“Yes.” Lie number three—sort of. “It gets lonely in a big house, but I can’t bring myself to sell it.” Lies number four and five.
He runs his fingers through my hair.
My head feels five pounds lighter. How much did he cut?
“Let’s blow this out.” He aims a hairdryer at my head and I can’t ask him a single question.
When my hair is dry, he cuts some more—evening ends and snipping stray hairs. He stands back and looks at me. “Before I show you, I want you to promise me something.”
“Oh?”
He wears an expression both serious and encouraging. “You need highlights. If you like what I’ve done, promise me you’ll come in for highlights.”
What had he done? “I promise.”
He turns the chair. Slowly.
My heart rate increases and my palms sweat.
Why am I worried? My hair always looks like I stuck my finger in a socket. There’s no way he could have made it worse.
He’s made it better. Much better.
I stare at the stranger in the mirror. “Wow.” It’s the only word I can think of.
“So we’re on for highlights?” Rick grins at me.
Never in my life has my hair looked this good. “We’re on for highlights.”
I have a problem. A serious problem. When I walked through Salon B’s doors, I wanted Rick to be guilty of the burglaries. Now that he has tamed my hair, I want to visit him once a month for the rest of my life. I want him to be innocent.
I leave Rick a too-generous tip with Mrs. Russell’s money and stop at the front desk to pay for my cut.
The receptionist looks at me and says, “Your hair looks terrific.”
I smile. I can’t help it. Those are words I’ve never heard before.
She schedules my highlights and hands me a new client card and a pen. I write down Mrs. Russell’s address and phone number and step out into the cold.
I pause on the sidewalk. If Al could see me now, he wouldn’t recognize me. Not the makeup. Not the clothes (he’d call them fancy duds). Not the hair.
I don’t recognize me.
I’m still the same Aggie inside. The same woman I’ve always been. The same woman Al married.
Lie number six.
Al’s death changed me. Watching the man I loved brought low hurt me.
And his cancer hurt him.
Al, a man who never said an unkind word to me in all the years we were married, snapped at me. Questioned my love. Told me he didn’t need me.
My head knew it was the cancer talking and I bit my tongue. No smart replies for me. It wasn’t Al’s fault and I had no right to be angry.
Except I was.
I was angry at cancer. I was angry at Al. I was angry at myself.
Sometimes, late at night, when I’m alone in bed and the pillow next to me is cold and untouched, I’m still angry.
I walk—I ought to cross the bridge to the Alameda Hotel where it will be easy to grab a cab—but I walk, warm in the new camel hair coat Mrs. Russell insisted on buying me.
Who am I?
The question stops me in my tracks.
I’m a widow and a housekeeper and a sister and an aunt.
A gust of wind tugs at my new scarf and I tuck it more securely around my neck.
Who am I?
I’m not a woman who feels comfortable in luxury clothing. I like my kaftans and clogs and dangly earrings.
I’m not a woman who wants to spend the rest of her life angry.
I’m not a woman who wants to spend the rest of her life alone.
Who knew new makeup, clothes, and hair could lead to self-reflection?
I’m definitely not a woman who gazes at her navel.
I hail a cab and tell the driver to take me home.
Mrs. Russell opens the front door and looks at my hair. “Aggie, you look amazing.” She doesn’t sound surprised. “Rick did a great job.”
I touch my hair. “He did.”
“Did you find out anything?”
“He asked me a lot of questions about where I lived and if I had a dog. And—” I hate to admit (even to myself) how much I want this “—he insists I need highlights.”
“Highlights?” Mrs. Russell tilts her head and regards my hair. “That will take hours.”
Hours when a burglar could be rifling through jewelry.
“That’s when the burglar will come. I’ll wait for him.”
“You can’t do that,” I object.
“Of course I can.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It is. We should ask Mr. Tafft to sit with you.”
“Absolutely not.” She’s emphatic.
I knew she would be. Now anyone I suggest will be a lesser evil. “Then Mac. Mac can wait in the house with you.
“Fine.” She doesn’t sound happy, but at least she won’t be alone.
Truth is, neither of us are thrilled with the plan, but it’s the only plan we’ve got.
Two days later, I sit in Rick’s chair and pray the burglary victims shared a manicurist or a gardener or an accountant.
Rick chatters about the latest restaurants, the latest movies, the latest books. And he acts as if I am cool enough, hip enough, to have opinions about them too. I’d be having the time of my life if I wasn’t worried someone was burglarizing Mrs. Russell’s house.
Highlighting my hair takes hours.
Finally, Rick turns the chair.
I look in the mirror and see a younger, hipper, cooler version of me.
A woman who eats at the latest restaurants, sees the latest movies, and reads the latest books. And for an instant, I want to be that woman. Or maybe not her. Maybe I want to be the old Aggie with a new attitude.
I touch my hair. My hand is shaking.
“You—” my voice breaks “—you work miracles.”
“My pleasure.” Rick grins. “I’ll see you in a month.”
I sincerely hope so. It would be a crying shame to send Rick to jail. I stop by the front desk and pay for my highlights.
“Wow,” says the young woman behind the desk. “You look great. Do you have big plans tonight?”
“Plans?”
She nods. “For Valentine’s Day.”
Somehow, with all the burglary commotion, Mac and I have forgotten to make definitive plans. “No. No plans.” Not exactly a lie. Not exactly the truth. Not exactly any of her business.
“Well, your hair looks amazing. If you have a date you’ll blow him away.”
My hair is so different now. Different from the way Al was used to seeing it. I’m different now too. And Al, God rest his soul, would want me to be happy.
I speed home.
There are police cars parked in the drive.
I leap from my Bug and run toward the house.
A uniformed officer stops me.
“Is Mrs. Russell okay?” I demand as I push against him. “What about Mac? Is Mac all right?” Panic makes me squeak.
“You live here?”
“I do.” Lie number I’ve-lost-track.
The policeman lets me through.
I run into the foyer where Mrs. Russell and Mac are glaring at a woman who looks vaguely familiar.
“Aggie.” Mac stares at my hair.
“Who is that?” I point at the woman. “What happened?”
“She broke in shortly after ten,” says Mrs. Russell.
My hair appointment started at ten.
“We caught her going through my jewelry.” Mrs. Russell sounds terribly disapproving. “She was a bit surprised to see us.”
The woman scowls.
I stare at her and then it hits me—Mrs. Russell and I were right about the s
alon, but wrong about the person who’s been sending the burglar. The woman is familiar because she resembles the receptionist at Salon B. The two could be sisters. They probably are.
“It’s the receptionist at the salon,” I tell them. “She’s the one arranging the burglaries.”
The woman’s scowl deepens. “You can’t prove that.”
“The police can pull phone records and—” I spot a blue card index card poking out of her pocket “—and if they look at that card, they’ll know I’m right.”
I point at the piece of card stock.
A policeman plucks the card from her pocket and squints at it. “Who’s Agatha DeLucci?”
“I am. I filled out that card at the salon.”
“You live here?” he asks.
“She does,” says Mrs. Russell.
The policeman’s brow wrinkles. “I thought this was your house.”
“It is.”
He shifts his gaze to me. “But you live here too?”
It dawns on me. I’m dressed like one of Mrs. Russell’s friends, not her housekeeper.
“Officer.” Mrs. Russell claims his attention again. “Suffice it to say Aggie lives here with me. The rest is a long story.”
The police officer looks at the card. “Lady, I got time.”
“This is all so distressing,” she says. “Maybe I should call Uncle Jimmy.”
“Uncle Jimmy?” Mac asks.
“Yes.” She nods. “He’s the police commissioner.”
The police officer looks up from the card. “No need for that.”
A second police officer leads the burglar away.
“You’re cleared,” I say to Mac. “I bet they find the stolen jewelry in no time.”
“Aggie’s right,” says Mrs. Russell. “This calls for a real celebration. I’ll make some coffee.”
Mac stares at her.
“Just kidding. I’ve got Champagne chilling in the fridge.”
Mac steps toward me. He touches my hair. “You did this? You changed your hair for me? To clear my name?”
“I’d do just about anything for you, Mac.” I mean that. I’d color my hair or wear fancy clothes or let go of the anger that’s been following me around since Al died. I close my eyes and imagine the anger is a red balloon tied on a string. My hand clutches that string. So tightly. But I can’t move forward holding the balloon. I loosen my fingers and let it go.
In my mind, the balloon floats up and up until I can’t see it anymore.
I open my eyes and Mac is smiling at me.
Just over his shoulder is Al. He is smiling too. “It’s time, Aggie. Live. Be happy.” Then, like the balloon, Al fades from view.
Mac reaches out and pulls me into his arms. “I thought you were beautiful when I met you. This—” he strokes my hair “—is just gilding the lily.” And then, with Mrs. Russell watching, he kisses me.
It’s Valentine’s Day and Mac is my valentine.
With Mrs. Russell watching, I kiss him back.
About the Author
Julie Mulhern is the USA Today bestselling author of The Country Club Murders. She is a Kansas City native who grew up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie. She spends her spare time whipping up gourmet meals for her family, working out at the gym and finding new ways to keep her house spotlessly clean—and she’s got an active imagination. Truth is—she’s an expert at calling for take-out, she grumbles about walking the dog and the dust bunnies under the bed have grown into dust lions.
The Country Club Murders
Before you go...
Here’s a sample of:
THE DEEP END
The Country Club Murders #1
THE DEEP END: One
June 1974
Kansas City, Missouri
My morning swim doesn’t usually involve corpses. If it did, I’d give up swimming for something less stressful, like coaxing cobras out of baskets or my mother out of bed before ten.
Watching the sun rise over the seventh green is often the best part of my day. I dive into the pool while the water is still inky. When the light has changed from deepest indigo to lavender, I break my stroke, tread water and admire the sky as it bleeds from gold to yellow to pink. It’s a ritual, a metaphorical cleansing, a moment of stolen peace.
After all, I have a teenage daughter, a mother with strong opinions, a Weimaraner named Max who plots to take over our house on his path toward world domination, and a husband. Much as I’d like to, I can’t leave him out.
I kicked off my Dr. Scholl’s, tossed my husband’s button-down onto a deck chair, dove into the dark water and gasped at the sudden, encompassing cold. That shock of chilly water against my skin is better than coffee when it comes to waking up. Maybe not better. Faster.
My legs kicked, my arms sliced, and I settled into the comforting rhythm of the Australian crawl. My fingers knifed through the water, anticipating the smooth parting of liquid. They found fabric and the horrific touch of cold flesh.
I watched the sunrise from a deck chair. It was not cathartic or peaceful. It was awful. The police swarmed around the pool like industrious ants, pausing only when someone jumped into the water and floated the body to the side. They fished it out and laid it at the edge of the pool.
I turned my head away. I didn’t want to see.
A man wearing a truly unfortunate pair of plaid pants broke away from the ants and sat on the deck chair next to mine. “Are you all right? Do you want a glass of water?” He had nice eyes. Brown. Like coffee.
“Coffee,” I croaked.
He waved at the ants and a moment later one of them appeared with a thermos. He poured some caffeinated ambrosia into the red plastic top and handed it to me.
“Thank you.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have cream or sugar.”
“Black is fine.” I took a sip to prove it.
“I’m Detective Jones. Can you tell me what happened this morning?”
“I was swimming.”
“Without a lifeguard?” I could hear the disapproval in his voice. Detective Jones, purveyor of thermos coffee, wearer of plaid pants, was a follower of rules. I used to like that in a man. There’s something comforting about someone who colors within the lines. Problems arise when a strict follower of rules decides to forsake them. He doesn’t just jaywalk. Nope. A lifetime of good behavior gives him the right to sleep with other women. Or, if he’s slightly more powerful, order a break-in at Watergate. Goes to show, you can’t trust anyone these days. Not husbands. Not presidents. Not cops.
I sipped my coffee while the warmth of the cup thawed my fingers. “The club knows I swim in the mornings. I do it at my own risk.”
His lips pinched together. Clearly, he took a dim view of swimming alone. “What time did you get here this morning?”
“Around five-thirty.”
“Why so early?”
“I like to be in the water at least twenty minutes before sunrise.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
Just a dead body. “No.”
“What about other people? Cars in the parking lot?”
I shook my head. “No. No people. There’s usually a car or two in the parking lot. If someone has had one too many, they leave their car here overnight.”
“So you parked your car then came straight to the pool?”
What else would I do? “Yes.”
“And?”
“I dove into the water and started swimming. I’d gone maybe half a lap when I...” I shuddered, “when I touched the body.”
Detective Jones offered a smile that managed to be both sympathetic and encouraging. “And then?”
“I screamed. One of the groundskeepers from the golf course heard me. He called you.”
I took another sip of coffee and gl
anced around the pool. The morning light still looked delicate enough to break. The weeping cherry tree had lost a few leaves and they skittered across the pool deck in the soft breeze. The police conferred around the body. Then they stepped away and I saw it. Saw her. In that second, my morning went from plain dreadful to the worst ever.
I stared at the ruined dress. Halston. Couture, not off the rack. Everyone who was anyone in Kansas City had heard about how she bought it from Halston himself.
My expression must have reflected my shock because Detective Jones sat up straight in a chair designed for lounging and his nose twitched like a bloodhound’s with a fresh scent. His eyes didn’t look quite so nice anymore. “Who is she?”
I could have told him she was my husband’s mistress. But that word—mistress—it connotes more than an exchange of fluids. Money. Or emotion. Or something.
On the other hand, the woman screwing my husband sounded far too harsh. Like I was angry. I got over being angry months ago. The woman my husband ties to a bedpost and flogs with a cat-o-nine tails offered more information than I was willing to share. “Her name is Madeline Harper.”
“How do you know her?”
He would find out about Madeline and Henry, eventually. No doubt about it. I ought to tell him, but to talk about it, to say the words aloud, would be like ripping off a well-affixed Band-Aid. “I’ve known Madeline forever. We went to the same preschool, the same grade school, and the same high school.”
“Not the same college?”
“Madeline went back east. I went to art school.”
“You didn’t like her.” It wasn’t a question.
“How can you tell?”
“You don’t seem upset.”
“I didn’t like her.”
“Why not?”
The Band-Aid had to come off. It was going to hurt like hell. That little bit of mental plaster had been hiding all the things I didn’t want to see—the things that constituted marriage to Henry. I certainly didn’t want to explain any of them to a policeman. I stared at my feet, long, bony, and resting on damp concrete. I had to tell him. I opened my mouth and chickened out. “We have...had...different values.”
Diamond Girl Page 3
