“So Mr. Winslow wasn’t fair?” she asked Monty after he moved a library table in place behind the sofa.
“He didn’t know the meaning of fair. After I worked for him for four years, he was cutting me loose.”
Now that surprised Caprice. “Altogether?”
“He said they’d be selling the house soon, and he didn’t need somebody full-time. I pointed out he’d still need somebody to cut the grass every week, but he was hiring some kid to do it. He was going to pay him under the table, probably less than minimum wage.”
Caprice wondered if that would be news to Roz too.
“Was that the first you’d . . . disagreed about something?”
“Hell, no! Usually he wasn’t around, and that was fine with me. Mrs. Winslow knew what she wanted, and when I did it, she was happy. But Mr. Winslow . . . He would come home from one of his trips, ask why I didn’t do this or how come I didn’t do that differently. He was a pain in the . . .” Monty stopped.
“I get it,” Caprice said with a smile to show she understood. After all, sometimes she’d had overly critical clients who could be more than a thorn in her side.
There was no easy way to ask her next question delicately, so she just asked it. “Were you on the property at all the day Ted was murdered?”
Monty gave her a long, studying look. “Why do you want to know?”
How much to say? How much not to say? But since Monty liked Roz, and since most people knew the spouse was suspect number one, she responded, “Mrs. Winslow needs someone to help account for her whereabouts that day. I was just wondering if you saw her.”
His body stance seemed to relax a bit. To her dismay, he shook his head. “No, I didn’t see her. I was there that morning early, to dump some mulch in a couple of the flower beds. But I was gone before anybody was up.”
Of course, she couldn’t tell for sure, but he seemed to be telling the truth.
Until he offered nonchalantly, “I did come by the next morning, though. I hadn’t heard about what happened. When I got there, there were police cars and that yellow tape all around. They wouldn’t let me on the property.”
“You mean they wouldn’t let you near the house.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I came up the back road to the place, and I guess they weren’t expecting that. So I was in the backyard before I realized I shouldn’t be. They were doing stuff around the back of the house.”
Caprice suspected that “they” were York County’s forensic team. “Did you see anything different that morning? Different from when you were there the last time?”
“Yeah, I did. It was a break in the side hedge where it looked like someone had pushed through. I know those bushes. I trim them every couple of weeks.”
A break in the hedge. She remembered the evening of the murder and the open back door. Studying Monty now, looking him over from his lank hair to his oversize T-shirt to his baggy jeans, she had to wonder if he could’ve been angry enough with Ted to stab him.
Caprice was attaching a curtain tie-back into place two hours later when her cell phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket, hearing Monty moving around in the kitchen. He was emptying the cartons of place settings, the cookie jar for the counter, and some woven place mats.
When she saw Grant’s number she pressed TALK. “Hi! Are you ready to do some sleuthing with me?” she asked.
Grant’s answer was quick. “No, I’m still trying to talk you out of it, remember?”
“What if I told you I don’t need you to go along to PA Pharm?”
There was a beat of silence. “If you’re determined, we can set up a time. I have my schedule for the week in front of me. But I think it should wait until after the funeral.”
“The funeral? Was Ted’s body released?”
“Roz hasn’t told you?”
“I’m working, Grant. I’m on site. I wasn’t with her this morning. But she hasn’t called me and that worries me.”
“Give her some space, Caprice. She has arrangements to make and a hundred and one things to do. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I can’t go with you out to PA Pharm until later in the week. Roz has asked me to accompany her to the services. I don’t want Jones or anyone the chief might have called in to assist to catch her in a weak moment.”
“She didn’t do it, Grant.”
“I don’t make that determination. I’m just protecting her rights.”
Was he really that cold? Or was this a tough-guy act that he put on for the world so they wouldn’t see what was really inside?
He didn’t wait for a response from her, but added, “My guess is the funeral will be on Wednesday. Giselle is going to rearrange my schedule. If it is, I’ll have about an hour or so Thursday afternoon around three if you insist on going to PA Pharm.”
“I insist.”
“I thought you might. It will probably be easier if I meet you there. I should be able to spot your car in the parking lot.”
Was that sarcasm or a bit of humor? It was hard to tell.
“Three o’clock Thursday is okay with me. You’ve got ten minutes leeway. Beyond that I won’t wait.” She could be as tough as nails if she had to be too.
“Have you always been this . . . strong-willed?” he asked with some irritation.
“I’ve developed that very good quality over the years.”
He made some kind of a noise, but she wasn’t sure what it was supposed to mean. Then he said, “Once funeral arrangements are made, I might have to act as chauffeur to make the situation easier. Roz and I will figure it out. She’ll probably want you with us. Try to stay out of trouble until then.” He hung up.
It was probably good he didn’t know she was going to go to Curls R Us tomorrow to do some questioning. If he knew, he might want to go along there too.
But she doubted it.
The following afternoon, Caprice dropped off a casserole at Juan’s apartment, checking in on him. He was doing as well as could be expected, learning to use his crutches. Afterward, on the way over to Curls R Us, she’d decided to be a walk-in appointment. Curls R Us was one of those salons where a client could call for an appointment or walk in and take the next stylist who wasn’t busy.
Ted’s memorial at the funeral home and his graveside service was scheduled for tomorrow. Fitting in this visit today had seemed to be the best idea. Hairstylists liked to talk. They talked more freely in the course of a hairstyling than they did if someone came in off the street and asked them questions.
Bella had told her about the sign-in sheet as well as some of the stylists who worked there. Their shifts varied, and sometimes they covered for each other.
As Caprice parked in the small side lot and approached the salon, she hoped this was Valerie’s day off. Bella had told her Valerie usually didn’t work on Tuesday.
The salon wasn’t fancy. The hours on the door were painted in black block lettering under CURLS R US. The heavy glass door pulled hard.
As soon as she walked in, she could see the whole shop. There were about ten black vinyl and chrome chairs. Two of the stations were special cubicles for washing hair. To the right, a wall holder held books with all different kinds of hairdos for both men and women. There were magazines too, scattered on a low table under the front plate-glass window. To the left were shelves of styling products—mousses, gels, shampoos, and conditioners from at least two different suppliers. Bella had told her there wasn’t a receptionist per se. Each stylist checked her own customers in and out. Whoever was free and nearest the phone picked it up. It was definitely a low-overhead shop.
Caprice spotted the clipboard on the black Formica desk with its pencil attached by a string. No one waited in the reception area. Seven out of the eight stations—four along each wall—were occupied. One client was having her hair frosted or highlights added, however you wanted to look at it. The tinfoil wrapped in her hair made her head look as if she were going to receive signals from outer space. Another woman was having a full colo
r treatment. One was getting a perm. The others were in various stages of the wash, dry, and style process.
Caprice didn’t particularly want a strange stylist cutting her hair. Yet just a wash and dry wouldn’t take enough time. And with a hairdryer blasting, they couldn’t talk. If she asked for just a slight trim, she should be safe enough. The bottom line was that Bella had her hair trimmed here, so they must do a good job. Bella was a perfectionist, and she wouldn’t keep returning if she didn’t like the service.
The stylists all wore black smocks. The patrons were covered in pink aprons. She could certainly tell who was who. She just wished—
In some ways she wished she didn’t have to do this investigating. She wished she could just comfort Roz, support her through this ordeal, and not have to deal with more. However, Roz herself couldn’t figure out what had happened. She was too deep into lies and betrayal and love and memories and grief. Now that she had to plan the funeral too, Caprice could see that. When she’d come home to check on Roz yesterday, the first thing Roz had said to her was, “I played with Dylan outside and I fed Sophia. You don’t have to worry about them.”
Caprice had said, “I’m worried about you. Grant called me. Are you okay?”
“As okay as I’m going to be. I spoke with the representative of the funeral home. And the minister came over while you were gone. I hope that was all right?”
“Of course it was.”
“I have to spend some time today deciding on readings for the service. I just have such mixed feelings about all of it.”
“But you did love Ted.”
“Yes, I did.” Roz’s voice had trembled and tears had come quickly.
“Do you want me to stay here with you? I can finish up at the Gentrys in the morning. Afterward I’m going to Curls R Us and question a couple of the stylists.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this for me.”
“If I were in the bind you’re in, I’d want someone to look out for me. I’m just trying to find the answers, Roz. That’s all.”
And now Caprice wondered what those answers might be as she studied the clipboard and the form there. She could probably get more information out of everyone who had worked around Valerie, rather than Valerie herself, whom she didn’t see anywhere. She could be in a back office. Or she could be off. Caprice wanted to hear the buzz, the rumors, and the facts as Valerie’s employees saw them. She guessed those would be very different than what came out of Valerie’s mouth.
A young stylist who had to be younger than twenty-five, her blunt-cut, chin-length hair swaying against her cheeks when she walked, came toward the desk and smiled at her. Caprice knew where she was going to start. “Hi! A friend told me I could just walk in, get a trim, shampoo, and style. Is that true?” The name tag on the stylist said YVONNE.
“Yes, that’s true. Did you have anyone in mind?” In a lowered voice, she confided, “If you did, you’ll have to wait.”
“My friend said I should try to get Valerie. She owns the place, right? My friend said she’s very good.”
Yvonne gave a little sniff. “Valerie’s good because she owns the shop. Her rep gets gossiped about more than ours. But the rest of us are talented too.”
“So Valerie isn’t here today?”
“She hasn’t been in since last week.”
“Vacation?” Caprice asked innocently.
“We’re not sure.”
Thinking she better dial it back a notch, Caprice asked, “So you’ll be my stylist?”
“If you’re okay with that and don’t want someone else.”
“Let’s give it a try. I just want the barest trim, wash, and blow-dry.”
“Then come on,” Yvonne said with a smile. “I’m your girl.”
At the other stations, hair dryers blasted and women gossiped about whatever the hottest topic of the week was. Many of the conversations were personal. It seemed like these stylists took an interest in their clients’ lives. She heard one stylist ask, “So Cindy has decided what college she wants to go to?” At another station Caprice overheard, “Now he wants our kids every other weekend. I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”
Yvonne led Caprice to one of the two sinks designated for hair washing and motioned for her to sit in the chair. She attached the pink apron.
“Have you worked here long?” Caprice asked, seemingly making small talk.
“Two years now. Usually I work evening hours. I have a two-year-old at home. But we were short-staffed this week, so here I am.”
“Easier to get a babysitter in the evenings?” Caprice asked.
“My husband watches Linda then. More economical if we don’t have to pay for day care . . . or night care.”
Caprice was glad that Yvonne seemed forthcoming. It would be much easier to elicit information.
For the next few minutes, Caprice gave herself up to the lovely sensation of having her hair washed, her scalp massaged a bit with the shampoo, and then a nice-smelling conditioner smoothed through her hair. She loved the idea of being pampered. She didn’t indulge herself often. When she thought about Bella and how she liked having her hair trimmed every six weeks, Caprice realized a gift certificate from here could be a great present.
As soon as Yvonne was finished with the washing and conditioning process, she squeezed the excess water out of Caprice’s hair. After she expertly wrapped a towel around it, she directed, “Come on over to my station.”
Once Caprice was settled, Yvonne removed the towel and pulled a wide-tooth comb through her hair. “You have beautiful hair. It’s in great condition. Ever think of adding a few red highlights?”
Caprice had thought about it, but she just didn’t want to process her hair. To Yvonne she said, “I’ve considered it, but I really like it to look natural.”
“Oh, it would look natural. I wouldn’t put in streaks or anything like that. I’d just bring out your hair’s natural color.”
Caprice’s natural color was dark brown, and she intended to keep it that way. Yvonne was probably working, in part, on commission. The more processes she did, the more she made.
“I’ll think about it,” Caprice assured her. She would think about it. She just wouldn’t have it done.
After Yvonne sectioned off her hair with clips, she began snipping.
“I suppose this is your busiest time of year.”
“It’s busy. Everyone wants summer cuts,” Yvonne responded.
“It’s a shame you’re short-handed. Do you know when Miss Swanson will be back?”
“She hasn’t called in, which is unusual for her. She’s constantly watching over our shoulders.” Yvonne looked a bit sheepish. “Please don’t tell anybody I said that.”
“Of course, I won’t. Other than that, is she a good boss?”
Yvonne shrugged. “Mostly she just wants to make sure her clients are satisfied so they come back. I guess in the long run, she’s really looking out for all of us.”
“I guess,” Caprice agreed, giving the nod for Yvonne to tell her more.
“The thing is—” Yvonne looked around and saw everyone was busy. She trimmed a little more, then went on, “Valerie doesn’t seem to care about us as women. She doesn’t really want to hear what’s going on in our lives. Probably because hers is too full.”
Caprice could see Yvonne was making excuses for an employer who might be a little cold.
“You mean if you’re late because your little girl is sick, she doesn’t really care?”
“Something like that. Really, I think it’s just because she’s in love.”
“Love can do funny things,” Caprice murmured. “A girl could lose her good sense.”
Yvonne laughed. “That’s for sure. I know I did. And Valerie, well . . .” Yvonne leaned a little closer to Caprice. “She’s dating a married man.”
“Really?” Caprice didn’t want to seem too shocked or Yvonne wouldn’t go on.
“Lots of sneaking around,” Yvonne said. “She often leaves wor
k early, leaves her car in the parking lot, and gets into this big, black one with tinted windows.”
Caprice could feel her temper rising on Roz’s behalf. But Yvonne was just repeating what she knew. “So all of you know about this?”
“We talk when Valerie’s not here. We don’t know who the guy is, though. She’s kept that part a secret. My guess is she’s on vacation with him right now on some island.”
Or not, Caprice thought. Valerie might be holed up with the blinds drawn. She could be hiding, hoping nobody found her out. If she’d killed Ted. Or she could be curled up in a ball, crying because he was dead.
“About how long has Valerie been dating this guy?”
“At least the past six months. That’s when she got that extra spring in her step. Not so long ago, she told us he was going to divorce his wife and marry her.”
When Caprice had walked into the salon and passed by the other clients, a gray-haired woman in the stylist’s chair directly across the room from her had given her the once-over and was staring now. Every time the stylist turned her chair around toward Caprice, the woman studied her more closely. It was making Caprice vaguely uncomfortable.
The hairstylist put the finishing touches on the older woman’s hair and gave it a last coating of hair spray. Then the woman stood and, instead of going to the cashier’s desk, came toward Caprice. “Aren’t you that home-stager who takes in animals?”
A couple of months before, the Kismet Crier had printed a story on her and her occupation as home-stager and had mentioned that she took in stray animals. It had been a well-written article. A few Kismet residents had even stopped Caprice on the street when they saw her. She’d also gotten a couple of calls for jobs and had been pleased with the splash the article had made. She’d sent a thank-you e-mail to Marianne Brisbane, the reporter who’d interviewed her.
Staged to Death (A Caprice De Luca Mystery) Page 13
