The Brush Off

by Laura Bradley

  Suddenly remembering the abandoned Inez, I scooped up the phone. A mechanical voice told me to hang up the phone and try again. I did, but the receptionist read a message Inez had given her which—because of the obscenities—I can’t repeat here, no matter how much useful Spanish it might teach you. Suffice it to say that Inez considered my priorities skewed, and if I wanted to put my client’s welfare over her gossip, I wasn’t worth talking to anymore.

  So I was left with a stunning piece of unsubstantiated gossip that may or may not have been true and may or may not have had something to do with Ricardo’s murder but most certainly was something I had to investigate.

  It was just after noon, and I was a henna away from lunch, when my first opportunity to clarify Ricardo’s sexual proclivities walked through the door. Sherlyn Rocca, Transformations’ current receptionist, called down the hall for me in her nerve-grinding New Jawzee accent (I’m not prejudiced against Yankees, understand, but she did put more mouth into her words than I did). Now, I have a state-of-the-art telephone system, being of the mind that communication is one of the bedrocks of the beauty business. People on a quest for self-improvement have no patience for busy signals or dense stylists who don’t strive to have she listened and strove to please carved on their headstones. I did my utmost to fulfill that motto (Mrs. Reinmeyer notwithstanding), while paying for the best technology to take care of the former. Or that was the theory, anyway. The weak link in my communication system was the human element, and until the techno-nerds of the world come up with an affordable robot receptionist, I’m sure this will be my cross to bear.

  Oh, I can feel my good Catholic friend begging for forgiveness at my blasphemy. Forgive me, Trudy.

  Anyhow, Transformations has seen ten receptionists in two years, at an average rate of a new one every two months. Now, that’s a lot of time wasted in hiring and training, not to mention the mass of dreaded W-2s every January. I’m not a bad boss, and I pay a little more than the going rate, including a discount on salon services, so there’s no excuse beyond the obvious.

  My luck sucks.

  This was my first thought as Sherlyn, a relative veteran at two months, three weeks, four days, and counting, flounced down the hall, if one can flounce wearing lavender iridescent high-heeled tennis shoes that weigh at least thirty pounds each. Honestly, Sherlyn’s talented that way, so she pulled it off. It’s in other areas she got shorted when God was passing out abilities, brains and common sense being the first two that come to mind.

  There I went, a second blasphemy in as many minutes. Maybe I’d set a world record before the day was over, and then no one could say I was a total failure.

  “Miz Marten Sawyer.” Sherlyn paused to glance at herself in my mirror, running her pinkie nail, which sported a hand-painted nude on fire-engine red, along the edge of her lower lip to fix a renegade bit of purple lip liner. It was meant to match her shoes, I suppose. She smiled at her reflection and rebent a piece of her platinum spiked hair. “There you are.”

  I wasn’t sure whether she meant me or her lock of hair or perhaps that bit of errant lipstick. I didn’t ask, having learned through experience that asking would elicit an explanation I did not need, or particularly want, to hear. I also refrained from asking why she hadn’t paged me instead of flouncing but chalked it up to another waste of breath. I watched the client in my chair work to keep her mouth from dropping open as she took in Sherlyn’s mile- long legs and the orange bandanna tied around her hips that was supposed to serve as a skirt. I suppose the shock could have come from the clashing kaleidoscope of color Sherlyn refracted from head to foot, but more likely, my client was about to go into cardiac arrest over the obvious fact that Sherlyn wasn’t wearing any underwear, unless it was amazingly one-sided. It was my fault, surely, as I did not think to include undergarments in the dress code I outlined when she was hired. Sometimes I give people in general way too much credit.

  “Miz Marten Sawyer,” Sherlyn repeated, insisting on using my middle and last names instead of just my first, despite my clarifications to the contrary. I wasn’t sure whether she was really that formal or whether the four extra syllables were just another excuse to listen to her own voice, as she was its biggest, perhaps only, fan. Cats copulating came to mind when Sherlyn opened her mouth.

  “There’s a woman out front who says she wants to be worked in, but it looked to me like you’re full for the day, so I told her to take a hike.”

  Both the client in the chair and I cringed. Praying this was a figure of speech and not a direct quote, I willed control into my voice. “What did this lady need done?”

  “Hey, I didn’t say lady, cuz that woman out there sureazhell ain’t no lady.” Mercifully, Sherlyn pulled up at the horrified look on my face, but not without a pout. “Anyhows, she wouldn’t tell the lowlife help what she wants, she gotta talk to you.”

  “I don’t have the time for anything today,” I confirmed as Sherlyn’s pout was replaced with a smug smile. “Did you offer her another day or time?”

  “The only thing I was offering her was a knuckle sandwich.” I opened my mouth to intercede, but she’d soldiered on. “But then she starts some lame story about being desperate cuz her hairstylist got killed, or some such crap. Like I’m gonna believe that. Right! I mean, the dog ate my homework is a helluva lot better sob story, and it’s like so not happening!”

  Pushing past Sherlyn, who’d found an ear in my henna client (I’d have to remember to give the poor woman a discount) and was continuing with her critique of acceptable excuses, I rushed to the reception area. A tall, wide, yet flat-bodied woman with heavy, straight black hair blunt-cut just above her last rib stood eerily still, her eyes focused on the center of what Trudy calls my Indian-from-India rug (I think Oriental covers the style in general, but Trudy went shopping with me when I bought it and wants people to know it’s a real homemade import with hand-tied tassels and all). My visitor was dressed in what uncharitably could be called rags, but on closer inspection was a collection of vibrant silk scarves sewn together into a tiered dress that was very likely bought from the window of a hip (and pricey) boutique in Alamo Heights. Neckwear had graduated from accessories to stand-alone apparel without my knowledge. Or approval. Imagine that. Mr. Blackwell, where are you when we need you?

  “I’m Reyn Sawyer,” I said, perhaps a little too forcefully as I hurried up, hand out. “Can I help you?”

  She looked up quickly, her black curtain of hair falling back to reveal a lovely, ageless face, her skin glowing and unwrinkled, either proof of youth or belying decades. I’ve always wondered why Asian women never look anywhere near their age. The children look like ultra-wise miniature adults, and the adults look twenty when they’re sixty. I’ve never been able to figure out if they are blessed with more inner peace than I am or just better skin.

  Probably both.

  Her only mistake seemed to be in wearing more makeup than she needed. Midnight-blue kohl lined her eyes, a complementary powder shadow covered her surgically created double eyelids, sculpting blush highlighted her already well-defined cheekbones, and subtle rose-colored gloss emphasized her perfectly outlined bow-shaped lips. Even overdone, she was lovely.

  Taking my hand with an enviable grace, she squeezed lightly, then let it drop, leaving me with the hope some of her self-possession had rubbed off on me. She appeared to be the epitome of the psycho-babble term centered.

  “I am Bettina Huyn. I understand you have no time for me today,” she said, her voice completely unaccented and thus unique, especially in San Antonio, where East meets West meets North meets South. Hardly anyone here has the same accent, but we all have accents. Fleetingly, I wondered if she was an actress, having had her speech sanitized by a voice coach.

  She seemed a perfect lady to me; what would’ve made Sherlyn think otherwise?

  “What is it you need done, Ms. Huyn?” I’d already calculated the time it would take me to wash, trim, and blow-dry her simple cut at thirty minutes.
<
br />   “I need a style only,” she answered. “But an intricate one. I need it today, by three P . M . My stylist died without warning, and now I have no one to do my hair.”

  Who besides Dr. Kevorkian’s patients have warning of their impending death? I know fatally ill people know to expect it, but certainly not the day, definitely not the hour. Besides, it wasn’t like Ricardo was ill; he was murdered! Because I couldn’t read her emotions very well, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps no one had told her.

  “Ricardo was your stylist?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “Educated guess. He was murdered this morning.”

  “Inconvenient,” she acknowledged in a mildly irritated tone.

  “Yeah, especially for Ricardo,” I couldn’t help saying as I carefully watched her inscrutable face. If Bettina was one of the select clients, she was a suspect—in my book, at least.

  Sherlyn’s clomps forewarned her return to her post. She and Bettina Huyn glared at each other as Sherlyn flopped into the chair at her scarred, 1850s mahogany desk. I made two mental notes to talk to Sherlyn about her dress, or rather lack thereof, and about her altercation with Bettina, even though she was indeed proving to be less of a lady by the moment.

  “So?” Bettina asked, her brutally plucked bird’s-wing eyebrows rising no more than a millimeter.

  I couldn’t resist the chance to interrogate, even if it meant I’d miss lunch—leftover taco salad, to be exact. For someone who loves food (especially jalapeños) as much as I do, that’s one big sacrifice.

  “I’ll work you in after my henna.” I paused to watch Bettina shoot a triumphant look at Sherlyn. So she wasn’t so centered that she was above flaunting her success at getting an appointment. Interesting. Sherlyn, for her part, proved more mature than I’d have expected. Instead of sticking out her tongue, she pretended not to notice Bettina’s arched brows, dropping her eyes to study a peeling nude on her thumbnail. I did note, however, her lower lip puffed out in a pout.

  I spoke to Bettina before Sherlyn could open that mouth of hers. “Come on back and put on a smock while I rinse out a color.”

  After the henna had departed (out the back door, preferring to brave the dogs rather than risking another conversation with Sherlyn), Bettina Huyn sat and pulled a photo out from under her smock, leaving me to wonder where she’d been keeping it. Gingerly, I took it from her upstretched hand.

  It showed the most striking woman I’d ever seen, overtly sensual even through the two-dimensional print. Her makeup was dramatic, a perfect complement for the figure-hugging gold, silver, and bronze spandex sequined dress she wore, the entire package framed by her mountain of cascading blue-black curls in an erotic style that left me in awe of the hours of work put into it, as well as its knockout effect. Madonna and Cher stood behind the woman, who was the focus of the photo.

  I smiled as I handed it back. “Incredible.”

  “That’s it,” Bettina said, waving her hand at the photo in my hand. “That’s the magic Ricardo made for me.”

  “This woman must be a star,” I mused, considering the company. “He gave you her style?”

  “That is me,” she said with a smile that held secrets.

  I did a double take then, seeing some similarity in the bone structure but none of the smoldering sensuality in the print that was very nearly smoking in my hand, not to mention none of the curves, decidedly missing from the woman in front of me. Maybe Ricardo was more talented with a brush than I’d thought. Bettina looked more Voguey vamp than his usual Pekinese.

  “This is you?”

  “Yes,” she answered, rose lips spreading in a full-blown smile. “A tuck here and some padding there can do wonders.”

  Where she’d expertly padded prior to the photo was obvious, but I wondered what she’d need tucked. But that wasn’t my problem; the two hours it would take to do her hair was. I needed to get busy if I hoped to nose around in Ricardo’s life that afternoon.

  “And you know Cher and Madonna?” Wow, I was getting kind of excited about the possibility of having a star-connected client. People magazine would be calling any day now.

  “No.”

  I looked again at the photo. They were pretty chummy, maybe not best friends, but certainly they’d been introduced before the flash. Bettina let me entertain a few more fame-and-fortune fantasies before she burst my bubble.

  “I perform at Illusions,” Bettina answered as my mouth dropped open.

  “I see you know it.” Bettina laughed at least three octaves lower than she talked. Of course, that didn’t shock me as much as it might have before she’d mentioned her work at the city’s infamous drag queen club. A couple of boneheads on the city council had fought a well-publicized battle to close it down as “injurious” to the city’s reputation as a family tourist destination. All the hoopla had succeeded in doing was to make tourists aware of something that was, up until then, an underground transvestite club. From what I’d heard thanks to the publicity, they were packing it in. RuPaul had nothing on the performers at this northeast hot spot. I sneaked a more pointed peek at Bettina-whose-name-was-probably-Bert to try to see what I’d missed, but I couldn’t find anything masculine except perhaps in his/her hands. No matter how smooth, buffed, and nailenhanced, it was nearly impossible to turn a man’s hands into a woman’s. To think I was envying her for being so centered. She was centered, all right, straddling both sexes, so to speak.

  I didn’t want to be that centered, thank you. Good thing I’d been so blasphemous earlier, or God might have been listening to my wishing. Yikes.

  After one more glance at the photo in which I tried to hide my continued amazement, I passed it back to her and watched it disappear into an undergarment beneath a fold on her dress. I couldn’t help wondering if it was Hanes Her Way or His Way under there. Suddenly, my hand that had held the photo itched to be washed. I led Bettina to my wash basin, wishing the shampoo was antibacterial.

  “Did Ricardo know about your, um…” I paused, searching for the politically correct term. “Career?”

  “It’s not a career,” she corrected, and I expected her to brush it off as merely a job. Wrong again. Her lofty tone should’ve been a tipoff. “It’s a divine calling.”

  “I’m glad you heard the ding-a-ling,” I said impatiently, coloring as I heard my unintentional play on words. I rushed to cover the silence. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I can’t see what Ricardo knew or didn’t know, did or didn’t do, is any of your business.” Scythe had nothing on Bettina-Bert when it came to a poker face.

  Refusing to be stonewalled by a wannabe woman who wore a fake brick house, I pulled her head back into the sink, poising the spray nozzle over her carefully made-up face, my finger on the trigger.

  “Listen to me. You better answer or else.”

  seven

  “STOP!”

  I turned toward the hysterical soprano voice, although it was entirely too familiar to me and not especially welcome at the moment. Trudy had an incredibly keen sense of timing, warned divinely to pay me a visit before I cemented my trip south after death. Trudy insists God still writes my misdeeds in pencil. I’m not so sure, and if he does, he goes through a lot of erasers. It’s great having such an optimistic friend, nevertheless.

  Trudy, resplendent in a sleeveless fuchsia, lime, turquoise, and lemon floral rayon dress that ended with a ruffle at mid-thigh, looked no worse for wear after her morning over-the-phone faint, except for her menacing frown.

  “What are you doing now?” she demanded, more exasperated than angry as she looked from Bettina to me to the spray nozzle in my hand. “This is not the best time to be threatening your customers, especially since you’re a murder suspect.”

  “Murder suspect!” Bettina’s voice began alto and dropped to tenor. Trudy cocked her head to one side to study Bettina as Bettina studied me with decidedly more respect. Hey, maybe this bad rep would be worth something aft
er all.

  “Well, I wouldn’t really call myself a suspect,” I began mildly, moving my trigger finger on the nozzle and feeling a shot of juvenile satisfaction when Bettina jumped.

  “Why not?” Trudy said. “The TV is.”

  “The TV is what?”

  “Calling you a suspect. Not by name, but everybody’s going to know it’s you. I was watching the noon news with that stylish Amethyst Andrews. I just love her. Guess what she had on today?”

  I glared. Unfazed, she looked to Bettina for encouragement and got it.

  “She is tres chic. I never miss the news to see what she’s wearing. Except today.” Bettina shot me a look out of the corner of her eye as if it were my fault she had missed seeing the insipid broadcaster’s fashion of the day. So much for my bad rep intimidating her.

  “Well, maybe everyone will be so dazzled by Amethyst’s couture that they won’t remember I’m accused of killing a man,” I offered facetiously.

  “Maybe.” Trudy nodded thoughtfully. “It was the most gorgeous dove-gray suit with a raw silk shell of baby pink and this scarf that—”

  As Bettina oohed and aahed, I cleared my throat and brandished my water nozzle weapon. “Before I rack up another victim, maybe you’d better tell me what I’m accused of doing to the first one and why.”