Bad Hair Day 2 - Hair Raiser (3 page)

*Chapter Three*
She was in the middle of doing a coloring when Detective Vail strode through the front door of her salon as though he owned the place. From the set of his wide shoulders and the steely glint in his gray eyes, Marla could tell he meant business. She swallowed at the determined expression on his face. His bushy eyebrows, a salt-and-pepper shade to match his hair, were drawn together in a scowl as he marched forward, jaw resolute as he regarded her. His presence had an immediate effect on her heart rate. He looked as impressive in that suit as any commander in uniform, she thought, unable to temper her reaction. Hoping he couldn't detect her loss of equilibrium, she willed an expression of surprised interest on her features.
"Hi, Dalton, what's up?" she said, smiling brightly. Waiting for his response, she applied the coloring solution to her client's graying hair, working it into the roots. Her fingers moved automatically, which was a blessing considering how her mind discarded all sense of reason when Dalton was around.
"We need to talk." He ignored the heads turned in their direction. After the episode with Bertha Kravitz, most of her staff recognized him on sight and so did many of her patrons.
"Uh, I'm a little busy right now." She glanced nervously at Nicole, who was doing a haircut at the next station. Nicole's cocoa eyes blinked back a reassuring message.
"It's important." His mouth tightened. "I'll wait until you're done."
_Lord save me, now what?_ She squeezed out the last drops of coloring solution from the plastic bottle in her hand, peeled off a stained latex glove, and set the timer for twenty minutes. "You can relax for a while," she told her client. "When your timer goes off, Giorgio can finish you. Is that all right?" she called to the darkly handsome Italian who was sweeping the floor. They were short an assistant and were forced to share chores.
"Okay by me." Giorgio grinned, a flash of white teeth against his tanned skin.
"Is he available?" hissed her client, an attractive widow.
"Nope. The guy's adorable, but he's gay."
"Oh. Tell me, Marla, what should I do about shampoos at home to keep this color from fading?"
"Use a shampoo formulated for color-treated hair. They're more gentle and less drying than other shampoos. If you use a blow-dryer, pick a lower setting. Too much heat will speed up the loss of color. Same goes for water: not too hot. Be careful with a curling iron so you don't scorch the ends. And stay out of the sun; that's the worst."
Aware that Dalton was waiting for her, she gestured to him.
"Let's go to Bagel Busters. I'll buy you a cup of coffee." They could talk out of earshot of her staff there, as long as she kept Arnie at bay. The manly owner persisted in asking her out even though she'd told him their friendship meant more to her. Ma would approve of him, a little voice whispered in her head. But it was Lieutenant Dalton Vail who steamed her blood, not nice-guy-next-door Arnie.
"Have you spoken to your cousin Cynthia since yesterday?" Vail said when they were seated at a table in the deli a few doors down the shopping strip from her salon.
Alarm frissoned down her spine. "Why? Has something happened to her?" The grim look on his face spelled bad news. "Oh no, it's her daughter Annie, isn't it?"
"They're all right. I understand you were with your cousin at a board meeting for Ocean Guard."
"Yes, that's true." She didn't see where this was leading.
"Ben Kline was found dead last night."
Marla's jaw dropped open. Dead? She'd seen the lawyer just yesterday. She turned her stunned gaze on Arnie Hartman, who chose that moment to interrupt.
"Hey, Marla." His dark, gleaming eyes soaked in her companion, and he gave a grudging nod. Vail had questioned him following Bertha's death at her salon. "What can I get for you?"
"Ruth already took our order, thanks," Marla informed him.
Her jumbled nerves must've been evident, because he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong, _shayna maidel?"_
Her heart warmed at the endearment. "Somebody I know has just been murdered. That is why you're on the case, isn't it?" she queried Vail.
"Marla's not in trouble again, is she?" Arnie demanded, his tone fiercely protective.
Vail smiled although the warmth didn't quite reach his eyes. "Not at this time. I just need information. Now if you'll excuse us..." He let his voice trail off purposefully.
"Sure. Marla, if you need anything, just holler." Arnie's mustache quivered as he gave her an encouraging grin.
"Thanks, pal, but I can handle it." Her attention reverted to the somber-eyed detective. "So how was he killed?"
"Bludgeoned to death in his office. That much was in the news this morning. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it."
"I was running late, and I had to take Spooks for a walk. I didn't turn on the TV." She hung her head, the attorney's image popping into her mind: his wiry black hair, cunning eyes, and sneering mouth. God, she'd only just met the guy. "What an awful way to die," she commented.
Vail's mouth curved down. "Is there any good way?"
"No, but having your life ended by someone else is horrible. Can't say that I'm surprised. Ben seemed to get a rise out of aggravating everyone, but that's no reason for murder." Their beverages arrived, and Marla paused to take a sip of aromatic coffee. The hot brew tasted strong, so she added a spoonful of sugar and some cream. _With the amount of caffeine that I ingest every day, I could be a catalyst for rocket fuel._
"Would you care to elaborate?"
She could sense his impatience by the way he gripped his mug. "The members of the board were tossing barbs back and forth like a bunch of bratty schoolchildren. Cynthia has her work cut out for her coordinating this bunch."
"You're in charge of the chefs, aren't you?"
"Tell me about it. You know how I got roped into the job." She put her mug down and turned her hands palm up. Thankfully, her injuries hadn't left any scars. "I figured I'd go nuts while my hands were healing. Helping Cynthia seemed a good idea at the time. I like what Ocean Guard stands for and want to support their aims. But if I had met those _shysters_ before, I wouldn't have been so eager to volunteer. Now the chefs are turning out to be more trouble than they're worth."
"Explain."
_That's what I like about you, pal. You're a man of few words._ She related the problems she'd been having with the chefs. "What do you think Pierre meant about a warning and Ocean Guard being cursed?"
His intense, penetrating gaze skewered her like shish kebab. "I'm not sure. I need to hear more about the board members."
"Don't tell me you suspect someone from Ocean Guard murdered Ben?" she scoffed. "He probably had loads of enemies. His practice included criminal defense, and he's been in the news more often than our local politicians."
"We're considering all angles."
"Family?" She examined his ruggedly contoured face, hoping for a telltale reaction, but his features remained as impassive as stone.
"His wife divorced him, moved to California six years ago, and remarried."
"Business associates? Former clients? Current cases?"
A small smile played about his lips. Her eyes inadvertently dropped to his chiseled mouth, and her thoughts strayed in a more imaginative direction. _Bless my bones, if he isn't damned attractive when he's in a stern mood._
"As I said, I'm looking into different possibilities."
"So I guess you want my impressions of yesterday's meeting." Vail nodded, withdrawing a notebook.
Well, maybe if she shared info with him, he'd be more forthcoming. "Babs Winrow, a client of mine, is chairperson. She kept trying to get everyone back on track. Digby Raines is running for mayor. Word has it he's got much higher ambitions. He has aspirations where women are concerned, too, if you know what I mean. Dr. Taylor has a superiority complex. Darren Shapiro is a quiet sort, the respectable banker type you'd expect. Stefano Barletti has scary eyes. They bulge out in his grim face, making him look like a walking corpse. But then, he is an undertaker."
"What else?" He scribbled while she repeated the gist of their conversation. When her story finished, he plowed stiff fingers through his hair. _He needs a cut soon,_ she observed, the prospect giving her a vicarious thrill. She liked feeling the soft texture of his wavy hair.
"You haven't been around for a while," she remarked.
"I've been busy." He stuffed the notebook back in a pocket. "But I've been meaning to ask you ... Brianna wants to see _Rent_ which is playing at Broward Center next weekend. I bought three tickets for Saturday night. I realize it's short notice, but if you don't have any plans yet, wanna go?" A hopeful expression sprang into his eyes as he regarded her expectantly.
Marla's lips parted. This was the first time he'd asked her to do anything involving his daughter. Mixed feelings assailed her. Did this mean he was getting more serious? She met his earnest gaze and smiled.
"Okay, that sounds nice. I'll look forward to it." In the meantime, she'd see what Cynthia had to say. No doubt her cousin would be upset about Ben's demise. Considering the board of directors' animosity toward him, she wondered if anyone else among the group would be distressed by the news. This latest tragedy meant another jinx on their fund-raiser. She hoped Cynthia would provide reassurance that all was well event-wise.
* * * *

Marla enjoyed the drive past the main gate into her cousin's oceanfront estate. Framed by a row of malaleuca trees with their papery bark, the packed-earth road wound through grounds as close to a jungle as you could get in this part of south Florida. She slowed the car so she could enjoy the tangle of thick-trunked mahogany trees, sable palms, seagrapes, and gumbo limbos. Among the spreading branches, she caught sight of a spider monkey chewing on a green rose apple. Her eyes narrowed as she peered at the foliage. Cynthia claimed raccoons hid among the palmetto fronds and philodendrons, but Marla had never spotted any. Not that she'd been here that often. Her cousin usually invited their extended family over for Passover. This year, Cynthia and Bruce were doing Thanksgiving instead.

She pulled around a circular driveway in front of the mansion and put the gear into park. Shutting off the ignition, she threw her keys into her purse and emerged into the bright sunshine. She was a little early, fifteen minutes to be exact, but she'd been chomping at the bit all morning to get there. Cynthia had told her to come at two o'clock, but it didn't matter if she arrived sooner. Bruce, a real-estate developer, was abroad on one of his business trips, so she and her cousin could enjoy a private chat.
Her gaze swept approvingly over the Spanish architecture of the main house. The original buildings were constructed by Bruce's great-grandfather who bought the land in the late 1800s. Successive descendants had put their own stamp upon the property, so that now it was fully modernized. The red barrel tile roof complemented the sand color of the house's stucco exterior. Hot pink and tangerine bougainvillea climbed walls shaded by spreading ficus trees. Built around a central courtyard, the bottom floor had windows protected by green awnings. Ironwork on the second-story balcony balustrades came from New Orleans.
When Cynthia opened the door to usher her inside, Marla felt she was entering a museum. Niches held whimsical wood sculptures of brightly painted animals, African masks, and New Guinea artifacts. Standing on a brick path, she overlooked a central garden framing a stone fountain where clear water cascaded into a blue-tiled pool. Welcome to the lifestyle of the rich but not-so-famous.
Marla turned to her cousin, remembering the distress in her tone at their last meeting. Was there trouble brewing in Paradise?
She'd always felt Cynthia had everything: a wealthy husband, beautiful home, attractive children, and a leisurely life. Was it any wonder she felt so distant from this world? Not that she'd want it for herself. She'd had the chance with her marriage to Stan, a rich attorney. He'd wanted a woman he could control. Thankfully, Marla had regained her self-esteem in time to escape his domineering clutches. She needed to be useful, to make a difference. And being a hairstylist was a calling she'd found impossible to resist once she struck out on her own.
Still, she wished she could look as svelte as Cynthia. Her cousin appeared sophisticated in an ankle-length flowered gown with her bleached blond hair teased atop her head. Feeling underdressed in comparison, Marla smoothed down the khaki pants she wore with a white silk blouse and vest.
"You're looking cool and comfortable," Cynthia said, a warm smile on her face. Crinkles appeared beside her cornflower blue eyes, the only lines in an otherwise wrinkle-free visage. For a woman in her forties, Cynthia maintained herself well. "I had a table set up on the back porch. We can talk there before my guest arrives."
"What guest?" Marla thought _she_ was the guest. Who else was her cousin expecting?
"Oh, someone who wants to get to know you. He won't be here until later, and we've got a lot to discuss. Did you hear about Ben? I'm so upset."
"Yeah, I was shocked to hear the news." She peered curiously at her cousin. "How does his absence affect your plans?" Trailing Cynthia, she entered the house past a bamboo-paneled bar and exited through a screen door to the back.
"He'd arranged for a jazz band," Cynthia said, leading the way to a clothed table elegantly set for three with English bone china, sterling silver, and a Baccarat vase of fresh peach roses. "I've got the information, so we should be okay."
Marla wasn't particularly hungry, having eaten lunch an hour earlier, but she took a seat and crossed her legs while waiting for Cynthia to be settled opposite her. "Do you have any theories about who might have killed him?" Thankfully, his demise wasn't putting any crimp in their fund-raiser.
Cynthia leaned forward, her gaze darkening. "I'm beginning to believe what you said about a jinx."
Marla's interest peaked. "Huh?"
"I got a call from Max at the Seafood Emporium. A number of his regular patrons became sick this week, presumably from eating tainted fish at his restaurant. The place has been closed down temporarily while an investigation ensues. Max pulled out of Taste of the World."
Marla felt the color drain from her face. "Why didn't he call me? I just saw him last weekend."
Cynthia grimaced. "Probably was afraid of your reaction, so he called me instead. What's the difference? He thinks someone in his kitchen staff substituted contaminated seafood."
Like someone on Pierre's staff added an explosive substance to the rum bottle? Now it would be even more difficult to find chefs willing to participate in Taste of the World. Was rumor going around that the event was cursed?
She focused on her cousin's troubled countenance. "If this is a conspiracy against Ocean Guard's fund-raiser, who do you think is behind it?"
"Not Ben, he's dead."
Footsteps sounded behind them, and Cynthia fell silent, plastering a polite expression on her face.
"Would you like tea served now, madam?" asked the butler, suited rather formally for a warm afternoon, Marla thought.
Cynthia's clear blue eyes locked on hers. "We'll wait until my gentleman friend arrives. Marla wants to see the beach first. Right, darling?"
Getting the hint, Marla sprang to her feet. "Oh, sure." At last they'd be alone to exchange confidences. Eager to hear what Cynthia had to say, she tossed her purse onto the chair before joining her cousin along a gravel-strewn path leading toward the lagoon. Its murky surface made her shudder. Unprotected bodies of water were hazardous to small children. She'd become even more nervous when Thanksgiving approached. Her young niece and nephew needed close watching, and Cynthia's house had a pool as well as the lagoon. But those worries weren't warranted right now. Other priorities took hold of her mind, and she quickened her pace.
A spicy scent tickled her nostrils as she descended ancient steps hewn from coral and headed for the plank bridge ahead. Lilies floated on the water, disturbed by darting schools of fish. On the opposite bank, acres of forest stretched east to the shoreline. Adjacent to the estate on the south side was the natural habitat preserved under Popeye Boodles's trust.
"Cynthia, tell me again how you and Bruce ended up living next to the preserve. I'm still fuzzy about the details." She watched her footing as the path skirted a lofty fig tree.
Her cousin's gaze narrowed. "Let me see, Bruce's great-grandfather and his friend, Angus Fairweather, were on a trip to Florida in 1898 when their boat blew ashore during a storm. They liked the territory here so much that they bought over three miles of land along the coast for less than one dollar per acre."
Cynthia brushed a strand of blond hair off her face, flushed from the heat. In the dappled light of the woods, worry lines on her face became pronounced. Marla noticed with concern that once her cousin relaxed, she appeared more tired and less carefree. Her chin sagged, and the corners of her mouth drooped. Perhaps not everything was golden in the land of the rich, Marla thought with startled realization. For the first time, she wondered if Cynthia's normally disdainful attitude was genuine. Could it be a cover-up for feelings more profound? She sensed Cynthia's concerns went deeper than problems with a fund-raiser.
"Go on," she encouraged.
"Angus passed his portion to his daughter, who bequeathed it to her son, Popeye Boodles. Popeye never had any children."
Marla tripped on a root on the gravelly path and stumbled forward. Regaining her balance, she continued onward, her shoes crunching on dead leaves, twigs, and brown pine needles. "Popeye founded Ocean Guard, right?"
Cynthia nodded, gesturing at the surrounding trees.
"He loved the sea and used his fortune to promote conservation. Except for building a boardwalk, he never developed the land. Popeye remained in contact with Bruce's family, who built our house on the adjacent property. Bruce became caretaker for the preserve sort of by heredity, if you get my meaning."
Black ironwood trees mingled with mangroves as they neared a slough. Marla caught sight of a green heron sitting on a log. Something stung her arm, and she swatted it away. Mosquitoes. Annoying pests. They were supposed to be gone by November, but the cool air from up north hadn't swept in yet. At least it wasn't as humid now as in the summer, or this place would be a steamy jungle. Dense vegetation blocked the sunlight as they proceeded farther into the woods.
"Who did you say inherits Popeye's territory if Ocean Guard fails to meet its commitments?" she asked.
"I don't know. Whoever established the trust would have that information."
"Meaning the attorney who drew up the agreement?"
They both halted at the same time. Marla knew her face must have registered the wild direction of her thoughts.
"N-No," stuttered Cynthia. "You can't believe -- "
"That Ben Kline was murdered because his firm's name is on that trust agreement? I'd say it's a distinct possibility."