Murder Makes Waves

by Anne George

  “You know this stuff’s temporary,” the tall, tan girl at the checkout counter said as she rang up my purchase. “You have to put it on every time. It’ll make your hair darker, too.”

  “You got any other suggestions? I’m desperate.”

  “Bernice at the Curl Up and Dye is your best bet. You should see some of the messes she’s straightened out. You want me to call her?”

  I wasn’t sure I appreciated my hair being referred to as a mess, but then I remembered Fred turning his back on me.

  “Call. You’re the second person who’s recommended her. But it’s Saturday. You think there’s any chance she can take me without an appointment?”

  “Bernice loves challenges,” the girl said.

  Which is how a ten-minute trip to the drugstore turned out to be two hours well spent at the Curl Up and Dye.

  Bernice was a plump, grandmotherly woman in her sixties. Her own hair was gray and healthy looking (“Wouldn’t put that junk on my hair!”) and in spite of the fact that it was June and the temperature was hovering in the high eighties, she wore brown corduroy pants and red Tote socks, the heavy ones with traction on the bottom.

  “Do, Jesus!” she said when she saw my hair. “Terri Lee said it was an emergency.”

  “I think it looks kind of rakish,” I said. “My husband hates it, though.”

  “What did you do to it?”

  I explained about the Summer Marigold.

  “That’s pretty good stuff. Shouldn’t have done this.” Bernice rubbed some of my hair through her fingers. “Most gray hair’s hard to color, but I think we’ve got the exception to the rule here. What did the patch test do?”

  “Didn’t do one.”

  Bernice clicked her tongue. “Most people don’t. Makes it good for my business. Here.” She led me to a row of chairs before a long mirror. She and I were the only ones in the shop.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked.

  “I give my girls a couple of weeks off in the summer. Just close the whole damn place.” She flipped a plastic cape around me. “I still run the emergency room, though.”

  “Well, I appreciate it.” I watched Bernice in the mirror as she examined my hair, picking up strands and looking at it.

  “Okay,” she said finally, “do you want dark blond with a few gold streaks like Cindy Crawford or do you want to go whole hog like Christy Brinkley?”

  My mouth fell open. “You can do that?”

  “Of course not. I just wondered. I like Christy’s look, myself. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then hold your nose and let’s get going.”

  “Shouldn’t we do a patch test?” I asked nervously as Bernice led me to a shampoo chair.

  “You’ve already done it,” she said. “Flunked.”

  God’s truth.

  Over the course of the next hour and a half, I learned that Bernice’s blood pressure medicine made her cold, that the beauty shop was paid for lock, stock, and barrel, and that her husband had been addicted to the Weather Channel ever since he decided to ride out Hurricane Opal in their trailer. She, Bernice, had hightailed it to Montgomery with the cat.

  “Three o’clock in the morning, he’s up sneaking looks at the radar,” she said, pouring something cold and foul smelling over my scalp. “Old fool.”

  “That’s sad!” I said when I could catch my breath.

  “Should have gone with me and the cat.” Bernice wrapped a plastic turban around my head.

  “Did you have much damage to your trailer?”

  “What trailer?”

  Over the course of that same hour and a half, Bernice learned from me that my sister and I had found two dead bodies and been to a funeral on our vacation.

  “Millicent Weatherby and Emily Peacock?”

  “You knew them?”

  “How big you think this town is, honey? I did Millicent’s hair. Emily came in with her sometimes.” Bernice set a timer and put it on the counter. “We got twenty minutes. Tell me what all happened.”

  So I did, starting with the meeting at the Redneck Riviera and how good Millicent had looked.

  “The Cindy Crawford look,” Bernice agreed.

  “My sister said she looked like she was in love.”

  Bernice picked the timer up, listened to it, and gave it a shake. “I think she was having a fling.”

  “Who with?” I asked the question as casually as I could.

  “Don’t know. She never said the name. He was involved in that development some way, though. Helping Millicent save the turtles. Crazy, if you ask me, when she had that handsome Fairchild at home.”

  Jason Marley? Had he come in with money and sweet talk and put dreams right in Millicent’s hands?

  “Emily didn’t like him, I know that.”

  Not the way I heard it if it was Jason. “How do you know?”

  “Things she said. One time Millicent was talking about this ‘friend’ of hers and how nice he was, and Emily said, ‘Just don’t turn your back on him, Millicent.’” Bernice set the timer again. “Gave me the creeps when I heard what happened.”

  “You think he’s the one who killed them?”

  “Bet my bottom dollar on it. I get these feelings. You know? I got a feeling about Millicent’s death. I even had a dream about it one night.” She lifted the edge of the plastic and checked my hair. “This beginning to feel warm?”

  I nodded yes.

  “Good. Tell me what else y’all saw.”

  So I did, with Bernice nodding agreement.

  “That’s all?” she asked as I finished describing the scene at Emerald Towers, how Emily had been looking out at the water. By this time Bernice was drying my hair and I had specific instructions not to look in the mirror yet.

  “I guess so. Why?”

  “I’ve already heard all that.” She clicked off the dryer. “Okay. You ready?”

  I steeled myself for the results.

  “Voila!” Bernice said, turning the chair so I could see myself in the mirror.

  “My God!” I squealed. “How did you do it?” My hair was a mass of blond curls with enough gray to look perfectly natural.

  “Practice,” Bernice said, obviously pleased with my reaction. “It’s amazing what women on vacation do to their hair. Sometimes I wonder if it means something. You know, psychologically.” She removed the plastic cape and brushed me off. “I hope you brought your checkbook. I don’t take credit cards.”

  I had, and I was happily writing out a check when Bernice said, “I’m sure the guy was going bald.”

  “Who was going bald?”

  “The man Millicent was seeing. She asked me one time what I knew about Rogaine, and I told her she’d have to ask a doctor. She sure wasn’t asking for Fairchild, was she?”

  I thought about Fairchild’s beautiful white hair. No, Fairchild had no need for Rogaine. But a lot of the men Millicent knew did.

  “He was bald in my dream. That’s for sure.” Bernice stuck my check in her pocket. “You come back, now.”

  As I headed back toward the condo, I mulled over what Bernice had told me about the Rogaine and considered who might use it.

  First, obviously, was Jason Marley. He was bald as a billiard ball and the hairpieces proved he was self-conscious about it. He was involved in the development and was trying not to harm the turtle habitat any more than necessary.

  Eddie Stamps was also involved in the development. He and Millicent had known each other for years, true, but maybe one of the first signs of his illness was an increased libido with Millicent as the recipient. That would have infuriated Laura. Okay, possibilities here.

  Berry West was losing his hair but he was not involved in the development or interested in the turtle rescue program. Besides, he lived in Birmingham. Very vague possibility that he was the “fling.”

  Jack Berliner, though, the man in whose arms Millicent was glowing on New Year’s, was still a very good possibility. Home
a lot, just down the hall. His wife gone much of the time. Even Sophie, whom Millicent loved, would have brought them closer together. But if he did prove to be the lover, that didn’t make him a murderer, in spite of Bernice’s “feelings.” And there had been two murders. Someone had had a good motive.

  The last arc of the sun sank into the Gulf as I crossed the Destin bridge. For a second, the horizon flashed green. I hoped Haley had seen it. I also hoped that Major Bissell and Lisa Andrews would hurry up and solve the murders. Like Bernice, I had a “feeling.” I knew there was a cold-blooded killer among us.

  Fred was pacing the parking lot when I pulled in. “Where have you been?” he asked, snatching the door open.

  “And hello to you, too. I’ve been to the beauty parlor. See?” I stepped out of the car expecting him to be dazzled.

  Instead, I got, “There’s such a thing as a phone, you know.”

  How many times had I said those very words to our kids? Fred had even used the same intonation. I laughed. Big mistake. He turned and marched toward the lobby.

  “Wait up, honey,” I said, hurrying after him. “I’m sorry.” I caught up with him at the elevator. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. You just disappear off the face of the earth for hours and expect me not to worry?”

  The light was beginning to dawn. “You had a fuss with Mary Alice, didn’t you?” The elevator door opened and we stepped in.

  “No, I did not have a fuss with Mary Alice. Philip Nachman is here.”

  “Really?” I felt a surge of excitement. “When did he come?”

  “Right after you left. And I tell you, Patricia Anne, that man is too old for Haley.”

  I grinned. “They’re making a big to-do over him, aren’t they?”

  “Like he hung the moon.”

  “Well, just remind yourself he’s an ENT specialist and there is a season, turn, turn, turn for all your allergies. Besides, he’s not too old and you know it.” The elevator opened. “Plus, your daughter loves him.”

  “Your hair looks good,” Fred said. “How long does that smell last?”

  “You’re pushing your luck.”

  Dr. Philip Nachman is the nephew of Philip Nachman, Mary Alice’s second husband, which can get confusing. Consequently, she has started calling him Nephew which has a sort of old-fashioned charm.

  “Look, Patricia Anne,” she said as we walked in. “Nephew’s here!”

  Nephew was sitting in one of the wicker chairs with a beer in one hand and a plate of goodies in his lap.

  “Don’t get up, Nephew,” Mary Alice said, as Philip looked around for a place to put the plate.

  “Hello, Philip,” I said.

  “Hello, Patricia Anne. Your hair looks pretty.”

  “Who did it?” Frances asked from the sofa.

  “A woman named Bernice. Where’s Haley?”

  “Getting dressed,” Philip said. “We’re going out to dinner.”

  “Hmmm. Excuse me a minute.” I knocked on Haley’s door and went in. She was slipping on a navy sundress with white polka dots and she gave me a big grin.

  “Where did that come from?” I motioned toward the dress.

  “The outlet mall. I got it for my date with Major Bissell.”

  I sat on the bed and looked at my watch. “A certain Lieutenant Major Bissell who is due to arrive here in about a half-hour?”

  “I called and told him what had happened. I don’t think his heart was broken. Here,” Haley came over to the bed and turned around. “Zip me, Mama.” Her back was young, lovely, and vulnerable.

  “What’s with Philip?” I asked.

  “Don’t know.” Haley turned and looked at me.

  “Don’t settle for anything less than what you want.”

  “I won’t, Mama.”

  But she would. We all do.

  Mary Alice stuck her head in the door. “What’s going on?” Well, maybe there are exceptions.

  “I like your hair, Patricia Anne,” she informed me. “Who did it?”

  “A woman named Bernice who owns the Curl Up and Dye. She did Millicent’s hair. Told me Millicent was having a fling with a bald man.”

  “Who?” Sister came in the room and shut the door.

  “Bernice didn’t know his name. just that he was bald or losing his hair. Millicent asked her about Rogaine.”

  “Well, that narrows it down to about three-fourths of the men in Destin. Ten thousand men, give or take a few.” Sister sat down beside me. “I wish I’d bought some of that Rogaine stock.”

  “Baldheaded men have more testosterone,” Haley stated. She was at the dresser brushing blush along her jawline.

  “Oh, I already knew that. Remember, Mouse, how Will Alec hardly had any hair? He was by far the sexiest of my husbands.”

  “He was the youngest,” I said. I got back to my story. “Bernice says she has a ‘feeling’ that the baldheaded man is the murderer.”

  “She wouldn’t make a very good juror, would she? Haley, don’t wear those white sandals with that dark dress.”

  “I don’t have anything else except tennis shoes and flip-flops.”

  “Well, as long as you know better.” Sister got up. “I’ve got to get ready for Berry.”

  “Be careful. He’s losing his hair,” Haley cautioned.

  “So are the two men in the living room.” Both of them giggled.

  “Fools!” I said and stomped out.

  Frances had gone out on the balcony and I soon discovered why.

  “Deaf as a post in my left ear,” Fred was saying to Dr. Nachman. “Couldn’t hear it thunder. So I got some of that wax removal stuff at the Big B, but every time I put it in my ear, it gave me a coughing fit. I mean I coughed like I had the whooping cough. The kind that makes you gag stuff up.”

  I went back to Haley’s room. “Better hurry. Your future’s at stake.” Then I joined Frances on the balcony.

  “What time did Philip show up?” I asked.

  “About five. Seems like this has been the longest day.”

  I agreed. A lot had happened: the rainy funeral, the disastrous party at Jason’s, my hair debacle and the rescue at the Curl Up and Dye, as well as the appearance of Philip Nachman just to name a few.

  “I wonder how Jason’s doing in that big pink house all by himself,” Frances said wistfully.

  Which reminded me of Bernice’s feeling about the baldheaded man. I discovered in the retelling that it was becoming more and more farfetched.

  But Frances disagreed, saying intuition should not be dispatched lightly. “My grandmother never would go to Kansas,” she said. “She always had a feeling that she would die in Kansas. Really believed it.”

  “Why Kansas?”

  “God knows. The farthest the woman ever got from Ramer, Alabama, was Montgomery.”

  “Maybe she saw The Wizard of Oz.”

  “Could be.” Frances was silent for a moment. “The thing about it, Patricia Anne, is that if she’d ever gone to Kansas, she really would have died. And not from fear, either. There are some things we just know are true.”

  I thought about the moment on the bridge when I knew the killer was close to us, and I shivered.

  “We’re gone,” Haley said, coming out on the balcony.

  “You look beautiful,” Frances said. “Turn around and let me see that dress.”

  Haley swirled and I noticed that Philip Nachman had come to the door and was smiling at her. The look on his face was that of a man deeply in love. Surely, I thought, they could work things out.

  In a few minutes, Berry West knocked at the door.

  “How’s Jason?” was the first thing Frances wanted to know as he came in.

  “He seems okay. He and some lady have gone for a ride on his boat.”

  “Oh.” There was no disguising the disappointment in Frances’s voice.

  “I’m ready,” Sister said, sailing into the room.

  “And you look very pretty,” Berry said admiringly.
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  Sister bought it. She smiled down at Berry as if she could eat him with a spoon. “You look mighty spiffy yourself.”

  He looked baldheaded and Bernice’s theory of the baldheaded murderer popped right up.

  “Sister,” I said, “why don’t y’all stay here. Berry, don’t you like to play poker? We could call Steak ’Em and have dinner delivered.”

  “We’ve got reservations, Patricia Anne.” Berry looked at Sister. “Unless you’d rather, of course.”

  “Of course not.” She gave me her have-you-lost-your-mind look and stepped out into the hall. “Hold that elevator!” she screeched to someone.

  And they were gone.

  “What was that about?” Frances asked.

  “He’s baldheaded. I told you about Bernice’s dream.”

  Frances gave me her version of have-you-lost-your-mind.

  “Well, you said to trust your intuition.”

  “True. But Berry was in Birmingham when Millicent was killed and besides we’ve already got the motive, Blue Bay, and neither Mary Alice nor Berry has any connection with that.”

  “Just Jason, Eddie, and Fairchild. And Laura.”

  “And it absolutely could not have been Jason.”

  By this time we were back in the living room on the sofa. “Frances,” I asked, “have you considered cutting down on your estrogen?”

  Chapter 18

  After such a busy day, we welcomed a quiet evening. And that was what we had. After Mary Alice left with Berry to go dancing, Frances and I went to Delchamps and picked up salad and sandwich stuff. Fred went next door to see if Fairchild wanted to join us and reported back that Fairchild was surrounded by women who seemed to be hand-feeding him all sorts of delicacies including smoked oysters that had looked delicious. But didn’t Fairchild have high blood pressure?

  “Not as high as it’s going to be,” I said.

  “When I’m widowed, I want to be living down here,” Fred declared. He caught the olive I hand-fed him through the air. “Ahhh, olives!”