Wash, Rinse, Die: Cozy Mystery (The Teasen & Pleasen Hair Salon Cozy Mystery Series Book 2)

by Constance Barker

  It was just vanity though, and she knew it. Betina had no interest in the attentions of Mel or Burl, or most of the men who hung out at the Bacon Up. She’d mentioned to me more than once that she would never knowingly date a married man – I knew she meant it. One time she dated a guy she met in Paudy before she found out he was married. When she discovered that, she not only dumped him, she called his wife and gave her an earful.

  So her complaint was just that she was losing the attention of the men in a general sort of way. She knew it too, and was angry with herself for not being able to stop being catty.

  “There’s far more to it than that,” Lucille Braxton said with an officious air.

  “Okay, that needs elaboration,” Nellie said. “What’s ‘it’ for instance?”

  “I need coffee,” Lucille said. She came out from under the dryer and held out her cup.

  Nellie caught the idea that she expected special attention in return for her news. She grabbed the cup. “This is extortion,” she said as she refilled it for the woman..

  When she had her cup, Lucille took a long, teasing sip. “The ‘it’ that there is more to, is the attention Mel Krisller is paying to Laura O’Finnegan. That it. And while there might be several men paying far too much attention to her, as far as I know only one of them is going with her to Paudy.”

  “Mel?” I asked.

  You could just see Lucille’s chin move but we all knew she was indulging herself in a satisfied nod. “It just so happens that I was in Paudy the other day, visiting my sister, and I saw that that red-headed waitress getting out of a car with Mel Krisller.”

  Pete doesn’t like to think ill of people and ventured a more positive spin on the situation. “Again? Maybe they were test driving another of Mel’s cars, taking the long run over to Paudy.”

  Lucille made a hollow laugh. “I suppose they could’ve been. They could’ve been going out for pizza too, but I doubt it.”

  “A lime-green Ford?” I asked.

  Lucille snorted. “No, not Burl’s car. It was Mel's pale gray Chevy and while I think Mel was trying to make a sale, but I don't think it had a thing to do with any car, lime green or gray.”

  I thought about that for a moment, trying to force myself not to jump to any conclusions. I wasn't sure what it meant, if anything. Mel being seen in Paudy, first with with Dawn Devereaux and then Laura O’Finnegan.

  Nellie paused in mid snip of a nail on Lucille’s left hand. The ring finger to be precise. “Mel seems to be a busy boy, but that doesn't give him any role at all in the murder.”

  That was about my conclusion.

  Just about then the door opened and Sarah came running in. “Mrs. Lejeune said to say hello, and that she can’t stay.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know why. But I had to ask. “Why not?”

  “Apparently Robert Gaddis Lejeune has developed a serious allergy to dogs.”

  “I see.”

  “She doesn’t mind picking me up at school but she says she can’t risk exposing Robert Gaddis Lejeune directly to a room where there is an actual canine animal in residence. That’s what she calls Fin, a canine animal.”

  “That’s accurate, I suppose.”

  “But impersonal. That makes it a somewhat derogatory way to refer to him.”

  “Derogatory?” Betina said.

  Sarah filed that away for reference and glanced about, taking her bearings. When she saw Nellie was doing Angela Ladecky’s nails, the scowl went away. “Can I have a blueberry cupcake?”

  “Just one.”

  “Two wouldn’t ruin my supper if I were to eat a small supper.”

  “This is not negotiable.”

  As she skipped over and took just one, I could see that she had a real knack for pushing the envelope, trying for a little more without making anyone angry. It was quite a skill. I could learn a lot from this third grader.

  * * *

  That evening, after a simple dinner of homemade spaghetti and a reluctant salad (Sarah providing the reluctance) we decided to play Scrabble.. We could have some fun and I could pretend I was being noble and seriously parental.

  Our games tended to go slowly, however, because they involved lots of use of the dictionary. Sarah isn’t shy about challenging what she calls a “can’t-be-real” word.

  “Thwart?” she asked staring at my word with a fierce face. “Really?”

  “That’s when something gets in the way of what you want,” I told her. She looked it up anyway. “That’s only worth twelve points,” she said finally. I think the low score appeased her sense of propriety.

  When things tip the other way she can be rather dismissive. For instance, when I explained that “rubber hose” is two words, no matter how it sounds. English isn’t orderly enough for her analytical mind and she is growing up around the Southern variety which, as my daddy always said, ‘takes liberties’ with what rules there are and isn’t a stickler for consistency.

  She put the letters down for “regret” and sighed.

  “What?”

  “Can I go over to Mrs. Lacey’s tomorrow in the late morning?”

  “What for?”

  “An extra French class.”

  I knew they’d begun studying French at school and I thought that was great. “Classes on Sunday? Since when? And Mrs. Lacey is very religious.”

  “I meant to tell you about it before but I forgot.” She pointed to the word she’d put down. “I r-e-g-r-e-t not mentioning it before. With the double word score that’s fourteen points.”

  “And why Sunday?”

  “She has started teaching us French in class and she has some French movies she thinks we might enjoy and learn from. She said anyone who wants to can come over after church and see them. Bobby Gaddis is going and Mrs. Lacey asked Miz. Lejeune to come by and get me. Miz. Lejeune speaks French and wants to see the movies too.” Clearly Sarah Jameson wanted to see the movies as well.

  “What about lunch? If you are watching a couple of movies you won’t be back in time for lunch.”

  “Mrs. Lacey is making pizzas and we will eat while we watch the movies. We have to learn the French for the ingredients.”

  I saw the look in those sparkling blue eyes and knew that if I said no, I’d better have a very good reason for it. And there I was without even a bad reason. “I suppose that’s fine. I was going to make it a power gardening day — see if playing catch-up will make up for neglect.”

  She shook her head. “I doubt that very much. Gardening is a matter of coaxing plants, working with them over time, not trying to cram everything into one day.” She drew her replacement letters and wrote down her score.

  I glanced at the score pad. She was winning again. I looked at my letters and put down “over,” which made her snort derisively, which was a word I had enough letters for but hadn't thought of.

  Sarah loves killer words—the ones that give you enough points to more less decide the game. She had no interest in wasting letters and she was wracking her brain for words that would use both “x” and “z” when the phone rang.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you by calling this late.”

  It was Woodley and he was being polite. “Not really. I’m getting clobbered at Scrabble so this is a nice respite. What third grader do you know who can come up with ‘thelemic’ off the top of her head?”

  “None. No adults either. What does it mean?”

  “Letting people do what they like.”

  “Well I can understand why she’d remember that one.”

  “There is that. Now what can I do for you?”

  “Actually, I called to see if you were free and willing to go on a picnic lunch with me tomorrow, Sunday.”

  That set me back. “A picnic?”

  “I know that is kind of out of the blue, but this town is shut down on Sundays. I realized I don’t really know you. We’ve talked and spent time together but we haven’t really talked except about murder. I thought it might be nice to spend some tim
e together — away from crime scenes and police stations.”

  “And diners.”

  “My 'interrogations' over coffee don’t lend themselves to getting to know someone properly.”

  I caught my breath. Investigator Woodley wanted to get to know me. “Hold on a minute,” I said. “Sarah, what time are you going to Mrs. Lacey’s tomorrow?”

  “Around ten.”

  “I’m free after ten,” I told Woodley. “What should I make?”

  “Nothing. I’m taking care of it.”

  “Even better.”

  “What about your gardening?” Sarah asked as I hung up. The teasing grin on her face told me she knew I wasn’t going to be sitting at home.

  “I’ll get to it. Mr. Woodley invited me on a picnic.”

  Sarah nodded. “You're going on a date.”

  “I am?”

  “I’m glad. You should get out more; spend time with other adults.”

  “I suppose I should.”

  “If I had a ‘g’ I could use the ’t’ in regret to put down a word that describes Investigator Woodley.”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Agelast.’”

  “I don’t know that one.”

  “It means a person who never laughs. Why doesn’t he laugh?”

  “Why doesn't who laugh?”

  “Investigator, not Inspector, Woodley.”

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t he laugh?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “I've seen him laugh.”

  “Good.” She looked at her tiles. “Can we use French words?”

  “Nope. Not in this town. Just English words.”

  “How about southern? Can I use ‘ya’ll’?”

  “Not unless you’ve got an apostrophe to put in there.”

  “I have a blank letter. That’s supposed to take the place of anything you don’t have.”

  I sighed. “Then have at it, little darlin’.” Sometimes you are better off making minor concessions and saving the ‘I’m the adult’ stuff for important things.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “I need your help,” Woodley told me as we spread a blanket out on the grass of the park. He sat the picnic hamper on one corner to keep the breeze from lifting it back up again.

  “Do tell,” I said. “I thought we came on this outing to get together to get to know each other better.”

  He blanched slightly. “Yes. I want to do that -- get to know each other better. That doesn't mean we can't discuss the case.”

  “I mean, I thought you wanted to meet and not talk about it.”

  He grinned. “That was my original intention. I just can't turn off my brain.”

  “I know what you mean. Proceed.”

  When we sat down, he opened the hamper. “I understand investigations and wild rumors can be disruptive. At their worst they can panic people. I need your help containing this one before it does some real damage.”

  “I haven’t heard anything but speculation about who the killer was, and who the victim was supposed to be. What rumor are you talking about?”

  He smiled. “It's about this rumor that ‘bolicals’ are behind the death. It seems to be gaining credence and there are two of them at least. Apparently these are creatures thought to kill using hair dye in much the same way that cobras and copperheads use venom.”

  “I can see how that might unsettle people. I assume you have no leads on these creatures.”

  “So far we don’t even know if we are talking about a single group of these creatures or a swarm of them.”

  “But you don’t think they are responsible?” He took a bottle of wine and a corkscrew out of the hamper and handed them to me as he fished out two glasses.

  “We’ve no recorded cases of bolicals hurting people in the great State of Louisiana. I’m keeping an open mind however. The only real problem is the pressure I’m getting from a segment of the public, the elementary school group, to explain their presence.”

  “I’ll see if I can’t do something to calm those troubled minds.”

  “And you can soothe mine by opening that bottle.”

  “I'm surprised, pleasantly, that you brought wine.” I held up the bottle. It was a Chilean merlot. “A moderately upscale effort as well.”

  “I take my leisure as seriously as my work.”

  I opened the bottle and smelled the tannin. He held out the glasses and I poured. When I recorked the bottle and put it down he handed me a glass and raised his. “To solving this fool crime soon.”

  “Are you in such a rush to get back to New Orleans?”

  He shaded his eyes and stared at me. “What do you mean?”

  “You said soon. It isn’t like you need to find the killer to stop a crime spree. This seems to be a one-off killing.”

  “Ah. I suppose you’re right. Well, I have to admit that I’m enjoying my time here in your little town. The thing is that whenever I’m on a case I feel like a clock is ticking somewhere. I feel the pressure to catch the guilty party as quickly as possible.”

  “There are treatments for that.”

  “You’re right. If the killer wasn’t some passing stranger, the odds are that he or she is still right here and not going anywhere. I suppose that’s why I can justify taking time for this picnic.”

  “That and the fact that no one else will talk to you on Sunday.”

  “That too.”

  I sipped my wine. “So let’s compare notes.”

  He shrugged. “We have a suspect in jail who had motive, opportunity, and was found toting the murder weapon.”

  “And neither of us thinks she did it. Partly because a wife who thought her husband was cheating would make certain she got the right person.”

  “Point taken. And partly because she had many better ways to do in her rival and is too smart to have gotten caught with the murder weapon. Although she is smart she doesn't have the kind of imagination it would take to carry out a murder by hair dye.”

  I rolled my eyes. “True. I don’t even think she had a motive. The affair was over.” I told him what I’d heard in the hardware store. “I’m sure he was trying to get her to come back and she was telling him to get lost.”

  “If that’s true and Hildegarde knew it, I’ll admit that weakens the motive part.”

  “And it’s a bit much to think that she’d come in early for her appointment to get us to move Dawn’s back, which calls attention to her by the way, and then poison the yellow dye. Why not poison the dye on Monday?”

  “She could’ve done it that way to make sure she had access. If she made certain Dawn would be coming in on Wednesday, then poisoning it on Tuesday would be more certain.”

  I had to ponder that. Unfortunately there was some truth in it. “I can see the scenario in my head but it seems wrong when I plop Hildegarde Botowski in the murderer role.”

  He finished his wine. “I agree.”

  “You do?”

  “And if she didn’t do it…”

  “Who else wanted Dawn dead?”

  “Exactly.”

  He smiled. “Maybe no one at all.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t the intended victim either? Then who? The girl who was killed?”

  He shook his head. “Unlikely, for all the reasons you’ve given me to doubt that.”

  “So we need to step back a little.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think we know too much about what happened. I think we know more than the killer did or does.”

  He picked up the wine bottle and I let him refill my glass. “I’m looking forward to hearing how that can be. But I’m not in a rush for that either.”

  “It has to do with my theory that things are simpler than we are making them.”

  “I’m listening.”

  So I told him, carefully showing how a murderer might think of a plan that seemed obvious and simple and certain and have it go astray.

  “But perhaps with beneficial side effects.”
r />   “If they don’t mind writing anonymous notes to the police in order to ensure they come to the right conclusion.”

  Woodley beamed. “I think you’ve got something there.”

  “I do?”

  He opened the picnic basket. “And here we've got roast chicken,” he said. “And potato salad.” Then he grinned. “No bacon today.”

  “A day without bacon…”

  “We’ve got another bottle of wine and a beautiful day.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tomorrow, Monday morning, if you get Nellie to open for you, we can visit a couple of people that will have answers for us even if they don’t know it yet.”

  “We?”

  “I’d like to suggest your scenario to them and see how they react.”

  “I can’t prove anything.”

  He laughed. “If we just hang around stubbornly, sooner or later the guilty person gets overwhelmed with the desire to confess, or brag, or just do something stupid. And you have a fair amount of stubbornness to contribute.”

  “And you'll get the credit for solving the crime anyway.”

  He handed me a plate. “Naturally. That’s what I call accidental forensics.”

  The chicken was already sliced and he put a lovely piece of breast on my plate. “Here’s to accidentally solving the case.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “How?”

  “Maybe we’ll learn who the bolicals are.”

  “And once we do, it’s well known that bolicals wither under interrogation.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Early Monday James Woodley and I were on Dawn’s doorstep, knocking on her door. The scowl she gave us made it clear that she wasn’t pleased to see James Woodley and I standing on her doorstep. She was dressed in frumpy sweats and it irritated me that she managed to look great in them. You have to hate some people.

  “We need to talk with you,” Woodley said.

  The news didn’t thrill her either. “How am I supposed to get any work done?”