Lonnie, a youthful forty-five or so—thinning hair, a trim beard, and a wiry body—entered the room wearing designer jeans and a knit shirt that hugged him in all the right places.
“Don’t be a stranger, sweetheart,” Lonnie called outside the door. The woman with Dixie’s fruit followed him into the room.
“Who is
this
lovely?” Lonnie demanded.
“Dixie Flannigan, a new client.” The woman set a beautiful, if skimpy, fruit salad on the counter beside Dixie and handed her a gold fork wrapped in a pink cloth napkin. “Referred by a friend.”
“That lady in the hall looked familiar,” Dixie lied. “What was her name?”
“Opal drives all the way from Victoria to visit us, and we’ve worked a minor miracle, let me tell you.” Lonnie approached Dixie’s chair, whipped the towel from her head, and thrust his hand into her thick, damp hair. “Sweetheart, this is
marvelous.
The angels are smiling on me today, sending this luscious bit of clay to sculpture. We’ll create a
masterpiece.”
Sculpture?
“I believe I know an Opal in Victoria. What was her last name?”
“Shack, Shattuck? I don’t do last names, sweetheart.” He swiveled Dixie’s chair toward the mirror, opened a drawer, and plucked out a pair of scissors.
“Shouldn’t we talk first?” Dixie asked.
“You talk, while I work. Kitchi! We need you in here.”
“You’ll
love
Kitchi,” the fruit woman promised, refilling Dixie’s glass.
The scissors snipped.
“You won’t use color, will you?” Dixie moved her salad bowl away from the falling hair.
“Darling, you’re
years
from needing color. A little shaping, a
tiny
bit of curl …”
The fruit woman slid open a drawer, set jars and bottles on the counter, pinned a fresh towel around Dixie’s shoulders, and left the room.
Hair grows back
, Dixie reminded herself. She lowered her eyes from the mirror and finished the fruit before the door opened again.
“Kitchi, sweetheart, come look at how the gods have blessed us.” Lonnie’s scissors paused while he ran his fingers into Dixie’s hair again, lifted it, let it fall.
He had strong hands and, despite the gushing flattery, a genuine gleam of interest in his eyes that made Dixie glad she’d “blessed” him with her presence. That gleam told her no one else could’ve made such a difference in his otherwise miserable day. With her wet hair and steamed pores, she felt totally gorgeous in his hands, even while the mirror told her otherwise.
Kitchi, horse-faced and dwarfish—certainly not one of the spa’s beautiful people but with her own colorful style—pinched gently at Dixie’s cheek.
“You have good skin, love. Clear and tight, but you neglect it, don’t you?”
“I wash it,” Dixie said. “I use lotion.”
Kitchi patted Lonnie’s arm, still snipping, and plucked one of the jars from the counter. “You go ahead and work, Lonnie, while Dixie and I chat.”
“Do you know Opal’s last name?”
“Can’t say that I do.” Using a small wooden paddle, she scooped a glob of green from the jar and plopped it on a small square tray.
Snip, snip, snip.
Dixie prayed she hadn’t made a huge mistake coming here.
“Skin needs nurturing, love. It isn’t age that ruins us, it’s living in polluted times.” Kitchi measured a tiny spoonful of
white powder into the green paste and stirred. “We’ll send you home with everything you need. Retinol lotion for night care, a fruit-acid moisturizer, and a good sun block—those are the essentials.”
Lonnie worked a conditioner into Dixie’s hair, then wrapped it in a plastic cap. As soon as he stepped aside, a dollop of Kitchi’s green goo landed on Dixie’s face, cool and smelling of cucumbers. Kitchi spread it around with the paddle.
“My friend Edna—” Dixie began, then snapped her mouth shut to avoid the goop. When the paddle passed on toward her hairline, she said, “My friend Edna Pine sang your praises.”
In the mirror, Lonnie’s face went comically sad. “Poor Edna. That poor, poor darling.”
“Did we miss the funeral?” Kitchi looked dismayed.
“Appointments,” Lonnie explained. “Back to back.”
What? Edna hadn’t been buried yet.
“You must mean Lucy Ames’ funeral.” Dixie watched the pair exchange a glance.
“Ames, yes,” Kitchi clucked. “She came here that one time with Edna, Lonnie. Remember?”
“A shock, both of them dying like that.” Lonnie’s strong hands massaged Dixie’s scalp through the plastic bag. “But didn’t they exit in style!”
“Lucy’s funeral was yesterday afternoon,” Dixie said, closing her eyes as Kitchi came at her with another concoction.
“Yes, that’s the one I read about—but you had that seminar, Lonnie.”
“Too late to cancel.”
“And we mustn’t both be away at the same time.”
“Did Lucy or Edna ever bring another woman here? Or meet someone here?”
Kitchi shook her head. “Edna visited us weekly. How long, Lonnie?”
Dixie eased her eyes open.
“Awhile.” Lonnie’s hands slowed their gentle massage. “I remember she mentioned her son was taking her to the ballet, and she wanted to look smashing. It
was
the ballet, Kitchi?”
“The Nutcracker.”
Kitchi examined Dixie’s hand.
“Nobody
wears nails cut at the quick anymore, sweetie, not with solar
gels, silk wraps, linen wraps. You have strong nails, but you must feed them … vitamins, calcium, a good protein—”
“The Nutcracker,”
Dixie prompted. “Around Christmas, Edna’s looks improved remarkably.”
“Sweetheart, for Edna Pine, it took more than a snip and a curl. A lovely woman in her time, I’m sure, but she
had
let herself go, hadn’t she, Kitchi?”
The facial technician pursed her lips and nodded dourly.
“We gave Edna a full makeover for a New Year’s party,” Lonnie added. “She longed to be a
new
woman for the
new year.”
“Don’t we all?” Kitchi dabbed brown oil on Dixie’s nails.
“And, sweetheart, Edna didn’t
renege
on her New Year’s resolution like …
some
of us do.” Lonnie shot a disdainful glance at Kitchi.
“I saw pictures, before and after,” Dixie gushed. “What a difference you made!”
“Oh,
I’ll
take credit where credit’s due. We created a minor
miracle.
But, sweetheart, that woman worked like a
demon
on herself—sweating with the oldies, I suppose. Lost a
ton
of
weight.”
“Was something special happening after the new year—?
Ow!”
Kitchi’s nail file had slipped under a cuticle.
“Sorry, dear. Now, don’t talk … your face will crack.”
Dixie studied the woman’s solemn demeanor, imagined a brown wig covering her gray hair, and wondered if the slip of her file had really been an accident. Had the new year promised an event more exciting than
The Nutcracker?
Armed robbery, for instance?
And how much of Lonnie’s act was just that—an act?
He clicked on a hair dryer and aimed its heat at Dixie’s plastic-wrapped head. Over the roar, she couldn’t hear their conversation. Had the pair exchanged another furtive glance? She watched them, wondering how many friends Edna had made here and whether any had come into money in the past week. Tomorrow would be too soon to return for another treatment.
She consoled herself that at least she wouldn’t have to
worry about gussying up for the singles party tonight. New hair, new face. With a different blouse, her black funeral suit would look fine for cocktails. Or maybe she’d spring for a sexy new dress to go with her new image. Shock city.
Minutes later, she found herself on the massage table, the lavender robe down around her middle and a strong-fingered woman working on her back muscles while Lonnie massaged her feet. He had discreetly turned away when the robe came down, although Dixie felt no embarrassment. Alcohol
did
lower one’s inhibitions.
Or maybe she actually enjoyed the way Lonnie complimented every inch she exposed. “Look at these, Kitchi. Have you ever seen such feet?
These
toes have not been pinched into shoes too tight or too high. She could
model
these feet. Carmine—he’s our reflexologist, Dixie—Carmine will
lust
for these feet, Kitchi.”
Dixie closed her eyes and imagined being twenty-five years older, widowed a year ago, and starved for human companionship. Though she believed only one out of every five words Lonnie uttered, the barrage of appreciation worked like a tonic. She felt prettier, sexier, happier. She felt loved. People who hadn’t known she existed a few hours ago knew more about her aging body than her own husband had after years of intimacy. And through their eyes, she was not a worn-out sixty-six-year-old; she radiated potential.
Dixie opened her eyes. Except for the age distinction, was she really so different from Edna? Not widowed, of course, never even married. But alone. By choice—she’d always considered “I do” the world’s longest sentence. Now the one man in her life she could imagine marrying had recast her as a good buddy. A pal with a lovable dog.
“Cellulite
, Kitchi.
None, nada.
Can’t find a single lump of cottage cheese. But too much dead skin. This body needs a dry brush massage before the mud. Use the spicy mud, sweetheart, I want this skin to glow like
moonlight
on Maui.”
Covered in mud to her chin, green goo on her face, Dixie dozed in a shallow tub, sipping mimosas and feeling like royalty.
Gorgeous
royalty—otherwise, why would anyone treat her
so swell? Had Edna felt seduced by the attention? Never mind that she paid for it. Dixie couldn’t recall anyone quoting a price—and at the moment, could think of no reason not to max out her credit card.
She’d worry later about whether she’d bought any worthwhile information.
Officer Ted Tally shoved aside his empty coffee cup and picked up the tab. His turn to pay.
“Nine days fishing and camping,” Dietz coaxed. “So deep in the Thicket you need a compass to find your way out.”
Sounded tempting. First thing Ted Tally did every morning, after pouring his caffeine hit, was tie a new fishing lure. He’d practiced tying them all, bay bugs, chuggers, paddle-tails, deciding which was fastest, neatest. Which could be tied in the brush with materials at hand. Had a boxful going unused. Fishing sure sounded better than three days of desk duty while IA finished their report.
“Don’t have nine days’ vacation coming,” he told Dietz. “And no comp time.”
“I hear there’s a big bad flu going around, friend.” Dietz pushed his two hundred-plus pounds out of his chair. “Takes about nine days to shake it. Don’t you feel sick?”
“Sick of listening to your bullshit.” Dietz wouldn’t lay out sick anymore than he would, not with a cop killer to be found. Ted stood and dropped tip money on the table. “Besides, you saw that new pickup I’m driving. Think I want to scratch it up on those backwoods trails?”
Dietz angled toward the door, but hung back. “Tally, think
about it.” His voice had gone serious. “Being a cop in this town right now might not be healthy, forget the flu.”
Talking about Art Harris now. Harris, who’d sat right here, drinking his watered-down joe—claimed the chemicals in decaf would kill you—ten minutes before Ted caught the Pine squeal. Harris, too keyed up from the first shooting to sit still, never mind this wasn’t his beat, never mind he was thirty miles west of where he oughta be. Harris wanting to make it right, take this actor down with no killing. Harris, who should’ve stayed out of it. Maybe the Pine shooting had nothing to do with Art catching a bullet, but what a rotten day to remember as you’re sucking in that final breath.
“I’ll think about it,” Ted lied. “Maybe join you in a couple days.”
“We’ll notch the trees, so you can find us,” Dietz called.
Also lying. Dietz might be worried, might even seriously consider taking the trip he’d been planning for weeks, but Ted knew he wouldn’t go. Like every other officer in town, Dietz would hang in—fishing trip be damned—until they nailed this motherfucking cop killer.
At Fit After Fifty, instead of lavender doors, Pachelbel, and heavenly scents, Dixie stood at a check-in desk furnished in chrome and leather, listening to Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock,” and studying before-and-after pictures of prized clients. Pages and pages of flab-turned-fit.
She’d stopped first at the Unique Boutique, which turned out to be right next door. A sign in the window had said,
BACK IN TEN MINUTES
, and Dixie decided to use that time efficiently.
“I remember Edna Pine,” the FAF attendant told her. “One of our ‘believe it’ cases.”
The
FIT AFTER FIFTY
emblem embroidered on his shirt didn’t convince Dixie this man was half a century old. Twenty percent body fat, a hundred sixty pounds, all sinewy strength. Graying at the temples, but no wrinkles showing. Thirty-eight, maybe.
“Believe what?” she asked.
“Most of these people come because their doctors tell them to take off weight or expect to drop dead tomorrow. Others wake up one day feeling old and want to turn back the clock—”
“I’d say Edna wanted to turn back the clock,” Dixie agreed.
“And she did it! Came here overweight, tired, depressed. You should see her now—” The realization that Edna’s
now
was over froze his smile. “I mean, you know, before …”
“I saw the pictures.” Dixie nodded toward the album. “Impressive. But you said she came here depressed?”
“Yeah, well … like most people … unhappy about being fat.”
“Then she lost the weight. How, some special program?”
“Every program is custom. We can design one that’ll put you in top condition, working out only forty minutes, three times—”
“Were you Edna’s trainer?”
He shook his head. “Wish I could take that credit. She enrolled in a self-monitored program, and then she must’ve invested in home equipment. Started coming only once a week—”
Dixie’d seen no exercise equipment at Edna’s house.