“You said she had an appointment.”
“She did, but she made it early that morning, just about the time Dawn cancelled hers. It was musical chairs and… Esther Evans lost.”
“So Betina was supposed to color Dawn’s hair?”
“No. Nellie was.”
“Why didn’t you mention all this before?”
“I’ve mentioned it repeatedly. It should all be in the statements I gave unless your minions didn’t think it important enough to include. And Dawn being the victim fits in perfectly with someone being in the storeroom the night before the murder.”
Woodley put his elbows on the desk and rested his head in his hands. I was quite sure he wished he had popcorn. “And how is that?”
“Okay, getting the poison would have to be done well ahead of time, right? It wasn’t something everyone has under their kitchen sink.”
“No. So they would have to go to some lengths to get it.”
“Once they had it ready, they would have to wait. They couldn’t actually poison the dye until they knew that the victim, and only the victim, was scheduled to have a coloring. They wouldn’t want the wrong person getting it.”
“Which is, of course is, what happened.”
“But to have any chance of getting the right person they had to be familiar with the way we do things.”
He nodded. “Believe it or not, after you mentioned the noises and Pete losing his key, some of those things did occur to me as possibilities. Not necessarily as emphatically as they did to you, but still, I didn’t miss them completely. Even Chief Tanner thought it seemed funny the girl would be the one killed.”
“So…”
“So, we are going to talk to Mrs. Botowski. I’m interested in finding out if she has any idea at all why someone might want to kill Miss Devereaux. And, before you ask, yes I’ll see if I can find out what she was doing with herself the night before the murder.” He shook his head. “I hate it when you have to check alibis for some time before the murder. We can’t use time of death to narrow down the suspect list easily.”
I grinned. “Well, you have the approximate time of scratching noises from the salon.”
He tipped his head and, after a long while, smiled. “Yes. I suppose we do have that, Miz Jefferies. We do have that. But even if we prove someone was in the back room, that is only circumstantial evidence. After all you, Betina, Pete, Nellie, and Dawn have all been back there off and on as well.”
“Sarah has been too, if you want to be all inclusive.”
“Thank you for that. We do want to be all inclusive.”
“And while you are doing all that, seeing as Pete’s key hasn’t turned up, I’ll get the locks changed on the salon.”
“You might consider getting someone other than Burl Botowski to provide the locks,” he said. “Just as a precaution.”
“You suspect him?”
“It’s smartest to suspect everyone for the moment. And, if someone can poison hair dye in your salon, they might also make keys to the locks that sit on Burl’s shelves.”
“I suppose they could, but why would they do that? The person took Pete’s key.”
He sat up and spread his hands. “Miz Jefferies, I imagine you are correct about Pete’s key, and as to why they might make other keys, I have no idea in the world. I’m still trying to work out why a person would poison hair dye when it’s so much easier to steal a car and run them over with it. For that matter, it would’ve been easier to poison their coffee.”
He had a point. “Paudy has a mobile locksmith. He should be around tomorrow. I’ll get him on it.”
He tipped his head. “Good idea.”
· CHAPTER TEN
On Sunday Sarah helped me do a bit more in the garden. Her assistance is having a gradual but profound effect on the look of the place. She tends to plant things in neat rows. When I asked why she seemed pained. “Miz Jefferies they like it better when their world is orderly.”
“You talk to them?”
She stared at me. “How else would I know what they like.”
And what they liked was her guiding principle. For instance, some junipers I’d planted were looking rather sad. She went over to them and touched the branches. Fin helped by lifting his leg on the smallest one. After a minute, Sarah looked at me. “They don’t like it where they are.”
“They don’t?”
“No.”
“Don’t get enough water? Is the soil bad?”
She shook her head. “They don’t like the view.”
“The view?”
“They can’t see people going by the house from here.”
“So they want us to move them?”
“Isn’t that what you do when things aren’t where they are supposed to be?”
“It is.”
Sarah went to get the shovel and we set about the task of moving them to a spot where the view was better. When we were finished I had to admit that they looked better to me in the new location too. I was sure they’d prosper now.
We decided to make a pork roast and baked potatoes for dinner and then watch a science fiction movie while we finished the last of the peanut butter and oatmeal cookies.
* * *
Monday was a little slow. I think the intensity of the gossip had everyone exhausted. By early afternoon I was facing an empty appointment book. Nellie and Pete had customers and Betina had a new issue of Glamour.
“Bayalage is really in,” she told us.
“It’s been around awhile,” Pete said.
“Not in Knockemstiff,” Nellie said. “I would’ve heard.” Then she looked at me. “Is it? What is Bayalage?”
Betina pointed to some pictures none of us could see. “A technique for sweeping color into hair and giving it nice streaks. You apply the color with a brush and a paddle board.”
Nellie cocked her head. “Like streaking?”
“The effect isn’t as edgy as streaking. It’s softer, and swept.” Betina read from the magazine: “In Bayalage the color is painted on with a brush and paddle board to create natural, sun-kissed looking highs and lows.”
“So read that carefully. If it is easy, we can add it to the menu,” I told her.
“Great,” she said.
I wasn’t sure that Bayalage would become the rage, but sometimes Betina doesn’t feel we take her seriously and it’s only fair to encourage her more moderate ideas.
“You look bored,” Nellie said.
“I’m confused.”
“I’m confused most days.”
“Is Rudy still bringing you flowers?”
“Like the blossoms themselves, the grand effort is beginning to fade somewhat. To tell the truth, I was enjoying it, but this is kind of a relief.”
“Would you mind closing today? I think Fin and I should take a walk before I pick up Sarah. It might be possible to shed some of that confusion.”
“No problem.”
Finnegan thought that was a great plan. He’d been looking rather sullen although I doubt he was upset about the murder. It was more likely that I hadn’t been giving him the exercise he probably wanted. So I figured that a nice, aimless walk would be good for us both. It was a delightful day out. The air was cool(ish) and fresh.
Naturally Fin is a good companion for a head-clearing walk. Although he’s prone to pointing out the odd squirrel that we pass, even getting into rather robust discussions with the ones who sit just out of reach and chatter at him, he doesn’t really care if I acknowledge his discovery, and he doesn’t insist on me sharing my rambling thoughts. In fact he isn’t much on conversation, especially if it starts with ‘no’ or ‘bad dog.’
I like walking and don’t do it nearly enough. It's too easy to let my life get complicated and myself get out of shape. Even when there isn’t a murder I can get involved in worrying about things that probably aren’t really my business, like why Rudy was being so romantic toward Nellie. That always led to me worrying that she’ll get hurt. Or I start wond
ering why Betina wanted Pete to go on some sort of odd double date with her. My thoughts can get as jumbled as jumbled can be.
Whenever I’m having trouble thinking things out, I find it’s really helpful to walk. If I don’t try too hard, I can let the thoughts untangle themselves. Once my brain relaxes, insights and new ideas can pop up. Trying to force them into making some sort of sense doesn’t work. Often enough, a fair share of the stupid thoughts, the ones that have no business being in my head in the first place, drift off all by themselves. That makes room so that all the others can start comparing notes, trying to see how they can all work together.
And I just walk and let it all happen.
One of the many attractions of Knockemstiff is that it is an excellent walking town. Without the traffic they get in the cities you aren’t breathing toxic fumes or having to worry about walking in front of a car. Most people drive so slowly that if you do walk in front of someone they’ll easily stop. In fact the only drawback to walking in Knockemstiff when you want to think is that everyone knows you. It is hard to walk very far without bumping into people you know, people who aren’t content to smile and say hello, people who want you to stop and chat. Unless you have a well-developed rude bone, it’s hard to just ignore them. So both the walking and sorting out take longer than they should.
In this case I hadn’t walked more than half a thought before I ran into Nadine Hines, Chief Tanner’s chatty secretary. She was all abuzz over current events, of course. While Fin sniffed her shoes far more thoroughly than I would’ve thought necessary, even for a dog, she ran through a laundry list of things I already knew before she said something that made my ears perk up.
“And the note was anonymous too.”
“Wait! There was an anonymous note?”
“Just this morning. About the murder.”
I’d guessed that much. “Was it sent to the Chief?”
“It just showed up in the mail addressed to the police. It’s kind of a ‘to whom it may concern,’ note really. The chief opened it though. Well, I opened it. I always open his mail and scan it before I put it on his desk. And when I saw what it was…”
“I hope it was a confession.”
She scowled. “Can a confession be anonymous?”
“Probably not. That wouldn’t work very well. What was it?”
“I’d call it more of a suggestion than a confession.”
“Everyone is making those.”
“Aren’t they though? This person, and it was a typed note, so we can’t tell if it was the handwriting of a man or woman…”
I had to interrupt that thought. “If men and women have different handwriting, what would the handwriting of a transgender person look like?”
That stopped her. “Why, I have no idea. What an interesting question.” She frowned. “And would a man who wanted to be a woman see his handwriting change when he changes the… uhm, other things?”
“Or would he have a woman’s handwriting from the beginning?”
She scowled. “We don’t have anyone like that in town, do we? It certainly confuses things.”
“I have no idea. If so, they aren’t getting their hair done here in town.”
“Well, this person, this typist, thinks that the affair provides the motive for the killing.”
“The affair?”
“Burl Botowski and Dawn Devereaux, of course. I mean, I assume that’s the one — the affair everyone thought he was having with August.” She paused. “The note just said something about, ‘if you want to know the motive, look into the affair.’”
“I see. Did this… cryptic typist… provide any reasons that an old affair might provide a motive for this killing.”
“The note says that the affair, whatever affair it refers to, is going hot and heavy.”
“And so that makes Mrs. Botowski the killer?”
She looked blank. “The note didn’t say that.”
“It sort of does — by implication.”
She brightened. “I suppose it does. If it is still going on, then Hildegarde is the victim of the affair, and that makes her the one with a motive to kill.”
“To kill Burl or Dawn maybe, but not the girl. Does that mean our note writer, or typer, agrees that the girl wasn’t the intended victim?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s involved somehow too. Anyway, the Chief is taking this note seriously.”
“And does Chief Tanner think it makes sense for Hildegarde to poison the girl from Delhi because Burl is still having an affair with Dawn?”
“What he thinks is that it is Investigator Woodley’s headache. I don’t think he likes the Investigator and he isn’t too keen on Hildegarde either, for that matter. She’s been on the top of his list as suspects from the beginning. He told Investigator Woodley that he’s been waiting for something like this to happen ever since she went after Burl with the chainsaw.”
“That’s hardly fair. All she did was cut a hole in his door when he tried to hide in the office — we just thought she intended to dismember him. And Dawn told me she isn’t carrying on with Burl anymore — that Hildegarde has him on a tight leash.”
Nadine looked confused. “Why would someone want to make us think it’s still going on then?”
I smiled. “It’s a mystery.” It didn’t seem to occur to Nadine that Dawn might’ve lied to me. I’d been quite sure she was lying when we talked — I just wasn’t sure what she was lying about. Her matter-of-fact attitude had seemed convincing, but I’d felt something was off. Maybe that was it.
Nadine nodded sagely. “It’s a complicated situation. Things are too complicated and there are too many secrets. Why don’t people lead simple lives any more?”
I wasn’t sure they ever had. “Without secrets we wouldn’t have much to talk about.”
She smiled. “That’s true enough.”
“There are other questions that are just as interesting.”
“What’s that?”
“Who wants the police investigating Hildegarde? And why? If we knew who and why we might learn something useful.”
Nadine was pleased. “Can I pretend I thought of that myself?”
“Be my guest.” I was happy to have some of the prodding come from another mouth than mine. Clearly Investigator Woodley took any ideas I had at something less than face value. Of course, in all fairness, he heard what I said and remembered it. So it was more that he didn’t want to acknowledge that I might see things, think of things he didn’t.
As I resumed my walk I marveled at how clues sometimes just seem to fall from the sky. I wondered if that happened in other places or if it was just another unique feature of our little town.
I checked my watch. I decided to swing by the school. We had time to save Sarah from the clutches of Mrs. Lejeune and her clan.
As if he knew we were going to get Sarah, Fin ran ahead of me, looking a lot perkier. He likes Sarah and I was beginning to think that maybe he was looking off his feed simply from sitting in the salon listening to gossip all day. That reminded me that I still hadn’t addressed the possible no animals edict at school with Mrs. Lacey.
Sarah was popping out of the door as we approached. “I saw Fin coming to get me,” she said happily as the dog stood and put his paws on her shoulders while she scratched his ears.
“How did the patterns come out?”
She looked puzzled. “What patterns?”
“The mushroom art.”
“Oh. We don’t know. Billy, the part time janitor found the mushrooms sitting out and didn’t realize they were a project. He took them home and put them on his pizza.”
“So they became food art.”
She scowled. “We are still waiting to learn if they were an edible variety.”
“Is a doctor running tests?” I knew it could be serious.
“No. Mrs. Lacey says we’ll know they were edible if Billy doesn’t call in sick.”
I supposed that worked in it’s own way.
She han
ded me her book bag and ran off toward home with Finnegan at her heels and me lagging behind, lost in my thoughts. Periodically they did a tangled somersault with Sarah giggling almost like a little girl. Watching them play, unconcerned about hair coloring jobs or murder, or even whether mushrooms were edible, was soothing and on the way home I managed to untangle a few more of my thoughts. Then, of course, my curious mind insisted on weaving in some that had to do with anonymous notes subtly, or explicitly accusing Hildegarde of murder.
For some reason, the note made me think more seriously of Dolores Pettigrew’s random killer theory. What better way to disguise a random killing than to make it seem as if there was a motive for killing that person? I still didn’t like it, but you had to try and fit all the pieces together without prejudice and see what turned out, not try to make things fit your own vision of how they should be.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Have you noticed that no one seems interested in getting their hair colored these days?” Betina asked me on Tuesday. “We are doing lots of manicures and pedicures and cuts, but no coloring. And now we have our new supplies just sitting in the back room.”
At times like that I wondered about Betina. “With all that's happened, it isn't surprising that people are coming in more for gossip than hair coloring,” I said.
Nellie laughed. “Yes, you could say we are having a run of slow dyes here at Teasen and Pleasen.” I made a loud groan so she’d know the pun was properly appreciated.
I glanced over at Hildegarde Botowski and Dolores Pettigrew. Neither of them had an appointment that day. They'd wandered in just after we opened for a fix of gossip and free coffee. Pete had arrived with a big box of some nice samosas from the Paramabets’ shop but somehow they’d disappeared — gone in a New York minute, as my Daddy used to say.
“But if you need your hair colored...”
I wanted to reassure Betina. “They're just postponing for a while. I’m sure everyone is spooked. It’s rather weird to think of someone being killed that way and right here. Until the killer is caught and we know exactly what happened there probably won’t be any at all. It will take time until having your hair colored doesn’t seem like you are taking a risk.”
Wash, Rinse, Die: Cozy Mystery (The Teasen & Pleasen Hair Salon Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) Page 10
