Murder by Manicure

by Nancy J. Cohen

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  Copyright ©2001 by Nancy J. Cohen

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  To Minnie and Harry

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my agent, Linda Hyatt, and to my editor,

  Karen Thomas, for making this book a reality.

  Chapter One

  "I can offer you a fantastic deal if you sign up for membership now,” urged Gloria, an account executive at Perfect Fit Sports Club. Sitting behind a desk in her office, she gave her customer a patronizing smile.

  "I'm just here to register for the three-month trial membership,” Marla Shore explained. Crossing her legs, she surveyed the girl's svelte figure, coiffed hairdo, and flawless makeup. You'd look better in a layered cut, pal, she thought with the critical eye of an expert beautician.

  "How can you turn this down? Don't you want to save money?” Gloria persisted. “Normally, our contract runs for three years with an initiation fee of two hundred and ninety-nine dollars. But if you join today, I'll give you a hundred-dollar discount off that price. It's a real bargain with the forty-dollar monthly fee."

  Just what I want to do with my money—tie up another monthly payment for three years. Marla wondered how often Gloria worked out, or if she even bothered. Heaven forbid the girl should break a manicured fingernail on one of the exercise machines. Not that Marla was so familiar with the gleaming metal devices. Owner of Cut ‘N Dye Salon, her main form of exercise was to take her poodle, Spooks, for his daily stroll. She felt as out of place in a fitness club as a white hair on a brunette.

  "I'm just interested in the free trial,” Marla replied. “Is there someone who will show me around so I can get started?"

  Gloria pursed her lips. “As a member, you'd receive a tour by a personal trainer. Otherwise, you'll be on your own.” She sniffed. “I might add that people who come in for the free trial period never sign up for membership."

  Why is that? Because you're so rude? “I don't buy anything unless I try it out first,” Marla snapped.

  "If you pay the full initiation fee at the end of the month, you'll be sorry you didn't join today. I'll even throw in a coupon for a free massage if you sign up now."

  "Don't you understand the word no?"

  The girl's face closed like a clamshell. “People like you never come back after the free offer is over.” Opening her desk, she pulled out a form and scribbled her signature. “Here's your trial membership card."

  Grasping her bag, Marla muttered an expletive before stalking out. This place would never get her award for courtesy to customers.

  She began her self-guided tour in the lobby, which held the front desk, a juice bar, and a comfortable lounge with leather armchairs. A glass partition walled off the wet section with its whirlpool and aquatics area. Offices and massage suites branched from the opposite side where a staircase led to an upper level.

  Now you've gone and done it, she thought, glancing around in bewilderment. Coming here had been a gross mistake. She could feel it in her bones as surely as the January chill that penetrated through the green-tinted windows facing the parking lot. Schmuck. You should never have let Tally talk you into this! It's your fault for gaining weight over the holidays. Her best friend couldn't make it tonight, so Marla had decided to get oriented by herself. Then, when she met Tally here on Sunday, at least she'd know her way around already.

  "Is it always so quiet on Friday evenings?” she asked the receptionist, a ponytailed brunette focused on a computer.

  The girl glanced up, her jaw working a piece of gum. “Oh, no, honey. Everyone's at the competition over at Dayna's Gym. I guess you weren't interested in the prize, huh?"

  "What's that?"

  "A date with Mr. World Muscleman."

  "You're right, I'm not interested. Where can I get changed? I came here directly from work but packed a bag earlier."

  Pointing a finger, the girl said, “Walk through the wet area, and you'll come to the locker room.” Her gaze surveyed Marla's denim jumper dress. “Are you new here, honey?"

  "Yeah, how could you tell?"

  A grin split the girl's face. “You have that lost look about you. Don't worry, you'll learn your way around. My name is Sharon if you need anything. By the way, I love your hair. Is that your natural color?"

  Marla bristled. “Of course it is.” Her brow furrowing, she patted her chestnut hair, curled inward at chin length. Even though her thirty-fifth birthday approached, she didn't look old enough to gray yet, did she? Maybe getting in shape wasn't such a bad idea. “I'm a hairstylist. Stop in at my salon sometime,” she said, handing the girl a business card.

  Glad she had worn rubber-soled shoes, Marla padded through the wet area, treading carefully along the slippery tiles. A whirlpool hissed and bubbled on her left, while on the right an aqua pool smelled strongly of chlorine. At the far end were doors to the sauna and steam rooms. I don't need to go in there to feel the humidity, she thought, perspiration rising on her upper lip. The place oozed dampness like a mangrove swamp.

  In the rear, she pushed open the door to the women's lockers. Cool, citrus-scented air freshened the spacious area. Her quick glance noted polished wood benches, stacks of open cubicles, peach-and-turquoise floor tiles, and mirrored walls. Piped-in music played tunes from a popular radio station.

  At least she was alone and could change in peace. But as she selected an empty cubbyhole for her street clothes, voices drifted her way.

  "You're a murderer! I know what you've done!” a woman cried.

  "I'm warning you, leave me alone or I'll file charges."

  Marla's ears perked up. She recognized that smoky tone as belonging to Jolene Myers, one of her clients. Palm Haven was a small community, even though it counted as a western suburb of Fort Lauderdale, and she often ran into customers around town.

  "I won't rest until you stop that torture,” the unknown woman said. “Do you realize the pain and suffering you're causing?"

  "Give me a break, Cookie. We're talking about laboratory animals here, for God's sake."

  Marla rounded the bend and entered a tiled section with a row of sinks. Hairdryers and various toiletries sat on the counter. In front of a wall-sized mirror, the two combatants faced off. Jolene's eyes widened in recognition as she caught sight of the newcomer.

  "Marla!” she rasped. “Will you tell this pest to get off my case? Our company goes out of its way to use the safest possible research techniques."

  "Who are you?” the stranger demanded.

  "Marla Shore. I'm Jolene's hairdresser."

  "Oh yeah? Cookie Calcone here.” Cookie, a diminutive woman, glared up at her. “Do you know what this twit calls harmless? Her scientists use the Draize irritancy test. They drip caustic substances into the eyes of rabbits to assess damaging effects. The test may last for days, while the animals are restrained to prevent them from rubbing away the chemical. Since their tear ducts work poorly, the stuff won't wash out. Blistering and ulceration of the cornea often occurs. Can you imagine the pain they suffer?"

  "Well, yes,” Marla began, but Jolene cut her off.

  "Those tests are necessary. Better we should find out if a substance is toxic before it's applied to humans."

  Cookie's green eyes blazed. “There are safer methods! What about the skin tests done on guinea pigs? Their t
orture lasts for weeks. Sometimes they kill themselves trying to escape. You can't tell me there aren't viable options.” With a grunt, she tossed a short strand of strawberry blond hair off her face.

  Jolene squared her shoulders. She wore a gray jersey top and matching shorts. With a towel wrapped around her neck, she looked as though she'd just come from a workout. “We've already begun using the Agarose Diffusion Method as an alternative to the Draize test, but sometimes animal trials are the only way to achieve reliable results. In that event, we anesthetize the lab animals when possible. We try to treat them humanely, but proving the safety of our products is paramount. Ultimately, we do what's best for the consumer."

  Cookie snorted. “You just say that to justify the funding. Keep it up, and you'll be sorry."

  Jolene's eyes glittered. “You're hot air without the wind, darling. You can't blow my house down."

  "Oh no?” Cookie hunched forward, revealing the cleavage under her swimsuit. “I'll bet if your friends find out what you do, they'll shy away. You don't condone animal testing, do you, Marla?"

  Fascinated by their conversation, Marla didn't expect to be drawn into it. “Uh, I suppose not. I haven't really given the issue much thought.” Who did? In most cases, you bought products you liked without regard to their origins. She used items in her salon that produced the best results. It just so happened that many of them were botanicals. Would it make a difference to her if a particular brand employed animal testing in its laboratories? Probably not, if it made her clients happy.

  "That's the problem,” Cookie agreed, nodding vigorously. “Most people don't think about it. But if I tell them what your company is doing, Jolene, you can bet the media will be down your throat."

  "Heck, I don't need this. I've had a bad day already. Dancercize class just wound me up tonight, and then I had a snack afterward—which didn't help. I'm going to relax in the whirlpool after my massage."

  "Which massage therapist do you recommend?” Marla queried, rubbing the knots of tension stiffening her neck.

  "Don't make an appointment with Slate Harper,” Jolene advised. “The guy asked me out and refuses to take no for an answer. He even showed up at my door one day. I've half a mind to complain about him to the manager."

  "So why don't you?” Marla asked curiously.

  Jolene glared at Cookie, who maintained a hostile stance, arms folded across her chest. “Because unlike this lady here, I don't like to make waves. I just avoid Slate, that's all."

  Striding to a locker, Jolene grabbed a canvas bag sitting in an open cubicle. “You should take gelatin supplements, Marla. All that shampooing can weaken your keratin. I always take a dose before going into the whirlpool, and I had a manicure today, so it's doubly important.” Scraping aside some yellow powder at her feet, she opened her sack and withdrew an unlabeled bottle.

  "You know, we've gotten a new manicurist,” Marla said, aware that Jolene hadn't liked their previous one. “Why don't you give her a try?"

  "I'm happy with Denise at the New Wave. Hmm, that's odd, the cap is loose,” Jolene murmured when the lid popped right off. At the sink, she downed two capsules with a palmful of water. “I've got to run. See you, Marla.” Pointedly ignoring Cookie, she thrust her turquoise bag back into the cubbyhole and fled.

  Left alone with Cookie, Marla felt acutely uncomfortable. The woman's gaze followed her around as though she were the quarry in a hunt. Changing quickly in a bathroom stall, she realized it would be necessary to bring a lock to secure her belongings in one of the lockers. For now, she'd take her stuff with her upstairs.

  "What kind of products do you use in your salon?” Cookie demanded, trailing her to the staircase.

  "We carry most of the popular brands. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find a trainer."

  Cookie's expression darkened. “Those animals will get their revenge, you know. Jolene's days are numbered. She just doesn't realize it yet.” Leaving those ominous words hanging in the air, Cookie turned on her heel and headed for the pool.

  Upstairs, Marla approached a reception area in the center of the workout floor. Behind the counter stood a tall young man with dark hair, slicked back from his forehead, and deep-set brown eyes. He grinned widely at Marla's appearance, undoubtedly glad to see another soul. No one else was visible in the aerobics studio, exercise stations, or free weight section.

  "Guess you didn't want to see the competition over at Dayna's,” he said in a pleasantly modulated voice. Wearing the club staff uniform, a green knit shirt, and matching shorts, he displayed his musculature under a healthy glow of tanned skin.

  "I'm Marla Shore, and this is all new to me. Are you one of the personal trainers?"

  "No, they've left for the day. I'm Keith Hamilton, one of the fitness consultants here.” He held out his hand for a brief, firm shake. “Is this your first session? I can help you, but I'll need to see your membership card."

  Marla showed him her trial authorization. “I'd like an introduction to the equipment, if that's possible.” Since he wasn't busy, maybe he'd be kind enough to accommodate her even though she wasn't a true member. Giving her most disarming smile, she tilted her head suggestively.

  Apparently, he liked what he saw in her toffee eyes, because he took her arm and guided her to the cycle machines. “If you were a full member, you'd be entitled to a tour, body fat analysis, and free one-hour session with a trainer. But seeing as how you're on your own, I'll do what I can for you."

  He winked, making Marla regret her flirtatious glance. She didn't need any amorous complications right now, not when Detective Lieutenant Dalton Vail was getting more possessive about their relationship. It didn't matter to him that commitment wasn't in her vocabulary at this point. She remembered the reason why every time Stan showed up to harangue her. After Dalton met her ex-spouse, he understood the basis for her fierce independence, but it didn't undermine his determination to pursue her. Unfortunately, every time their paths crossed, a murder was involved.

  Focusing her attention, she concentrated on Keith's instructions as he introduced her to the StairMaster and Life Cycle machines, treadmill, and simulated rowing device.

  "That looks like fun,” Marla said, pointing to a Tectrix Virtual Reality bike. Like a computer monitor, a viewscreen mounted in front of the bike showed an animated scene of a road snaking up a hilltop.

  "You can choose your own scenario. I like Tank, a military combat game. How fast you go depends on how fast you cycle, and you've got to steer around obstacles."

  She raised her eyebrows. “I'll give this machine a try when I'm here Sunday with my friend. At least you have something to watch while you're pedaling.” Reluctantly she admitted to herself that this might not be so bad after all.

  "You're entitled to join any of the classes,” he said, handing her an aerobics schedule. “Dancercize is popular with the ladies and not as strenuous as some of the other techniques. Now if you're interested, I can get you started with the body fat analysis."

  "Sure, why not?” Marla knew she had nothing to worry about on that score. Tally was the one who always complained about her weight, even though the girl had a perfect figure to model the stylish clothes in her boutique, Dressed to Kill. Her friend's downfall was a craving for chocolate, whereas Marla's vice was caffeine. At least hers didn't add calories.

  "This is the circumference method,” Keith said, approaching her with a tape measure. “When you come back next time, ask Dave to do a bioelectrical impedance test. The fat machine, as we call it, is more accurate. Lift your chin."

  Marla held still while he measured her neck. He stood awfully close, leaning inward until she could smell his lime aftershave. His face hovered a few inches away, his mouth teasingly within kissing distance. The hairs on her arms prickled. Did she just now realize they were alone together, and barely anyone else was in the building?

  She held her breath until he finished, then squirmed when he wound the tape around her waist, tightening it at the back so his fing
ertips rested on her derriere.

  "Shouldn't that be placed a bit higher?” she squeaked when he aimed for her hips. He'd twisted the tape around the biggest part of her butt. That wasn't her hip measurement, was it? And why was he pinching the tape so tight in front while staring down at her bared thighs?

  "You're a thirty-four waist, thirty-seven hips, and thirteen neck,” he stated, unabashedly ogling her.

  Get real, pal! I'm not that big. You don't know what the hell you're doing. “So what's next?"

  He put the tape away. “Take your shoes off and we'll get your height and weight on the scale."

  Feeling oddly vulnerable in her tank top and shorts, she followed him to a corner and stepped onto the unit. His hand accidentally—or not—brushed her breast when he reached to move the lever.

  "Watch it, pal. My boyfriend is a police officer,” she muttered.

  "Sorry.” His grin displayed his lack of concern. “Five feet, six inches, one hundred and twenty pounds."

  "Wait a minute, my scale at home says I weigh one-eighteen."

  "This one may be better balanced."

  Marla put her sneakers back on while he did the calculations at his desk. He seemed to take an overly long time, confirming her opinion that this wasn't his customary job. Maybe he was faking it just for an excuse to put his hands on her.

  "Your body fat percentage is thirty-one,” he said, glancing at her. “The recommended percentage for a woman is twenty-two. What's your activity level at home?"

  "I take my poodle for walks and work in a salon all day."

  "Any regular form of exercise? Aerobic workouts?"

  "That's been enough for me. I don't have time for anything else."

  A frown creased his brow. “Would you say you walked your dog for thirty minutes, three times a week? I'll put you down for a moderate activity level then.” At her nod, he did a further analysis. “Your lean body mass is eighty-three pounds, meaning you need to eat ten blocks a day."

  "Huh?"

  "One block contains ten grams of carbohydrate, seven-point-five grams of protein, and three-point-three-three grams of fat. It translates to about one hundred calories."