Little Shop of Homicide (23 page)

Before I entered the salon, I took a deep breath, determined to put Jake’s disturbing behavior out of my mind. I needed to have my wits about me in order to find out all the dirt on Joelle. No one knows more about a woman’s secrets than her hairdresser.

Imagination was exactly what I expected—sleek, modern, and featuring shampoo that sold for thirty-six dollars a bottle. Although I didn’t really want to, I was getting highlights. I figured that procedure would give me twice as much time to grill Sarin.

Once I made it through the gauntlet of receptionist, beverage girl, and stylist assistant, who directed me to change out of my sweater and jacket and into a short, silky kimono, I was finally seated in front of a mirror. Before I finished getting comfortable, a glamazon appeared in front of me.

She was six feet tall and reed thin, a platinum blonde with a bone-white complexion, dressed from head to toe in black leather. In a thick Romanian accent, she said, “I am Sarin. You will leave everything to me and I will make you beautiful enough to marry a prince.”

Uh-oh!
“Actually, I just want a few highlights. Nothing too extreme.”

“Of course.” Sarin clapped for her assistant. “Let us begin.”

As Sarin ran her fingers through my hair, holding up what appeared to be random strands, I scanned my surroundings. The salon had an air of luxury. Thick rolled towels were artistically arranged in brass trays, flutes of
champagne sparkled in the clients’ hands, and scented air was puffed from hidden nozzles.

I was shocked to realize that I had forgotten what this kind of life was like, and happy to recognize that I hadn’t missed it. When I quit my job and bought the dime store in order to spend more time with Gran, I knew I’d never regret that decision. But I had been afraid I’d mourn the loss of my huge salary and all the things I was used to buying with that money.

“You have good hair.” Sarin refocused my attention on the task at hand. “You should let me style it for you after I finish the highlights.”

“Not this time.” My sales resistance was extremely high, having used all the tricks myself when I was trying to get people to invest with me. “Although I do like my friend Joelle Ayers’s cut.” I crossed my fingers that Sarin hadn’t heard about Joelle’s death.

“Yes. It is striking.” There was something calculating in Sarin’s tone. “But her hair takes a lot of maintenance. She comes in every other week to keep it up. Are you willing to do that?”

“Not really.” There was certainly no way I could afford that. “Why does Joelle’s style take so much work? It looks fairly simple to me.”

“I can’t really say.” Sarin’s jet-black eyes kept sneaking quick peeks sideways, as if what she was saying was for the record rather than her true inclination. “Client confidentiality.”

Nodding sympathetically, I said, “Of course. I completely understand.”

She dismissed her assistant, then walked around me so that her back was to the mirror, and said in a low voice, “You wouldn’t believe the stories I could tell you.”

“Oh?” Was she asking for a bribe? “Joelle was in last Saturday, right? Did she have anything interesting to say?”

Since Sarin’s Ferragamo sandals probably cost upwards of four hundred bucks, I wasn’t sure fifty dollars would impress her, but I reached into my bra and handed
her the folded bill anyway. Crossing my fingers, I lied. “I promise not to divulge anything you tell me.”

“No. Nothing that stands out.” Sarin tucked the money into her pocket.

“So what stories do you have?” I hoped I hadn’t just wasted my money.

“Joelle demands that no one ever be able to tell that her hair is colored or permed.” The stylist picked up the stack of foil squares her assistant had left for her, and started working on me. “She freaks out if she sees any of her natural shade at the root or, God forbid, a gray hair showing.”

“Wow!” I noticed that Sarin’s accent had disappeared and her cheeks were rosy. “That’s certainly over the top.” The stylist no longer looked or sounded like the queen of the vampires, which was a huge relief.

“And don’t get me started about her extensions and her need to have them be perfect.” Sarin shook her head. “If one comes loose, it’s as if the apocalypse has begun and one of the horsemen is breathing down her neck.”

“I wonder why?” I mused, thinking that even for a woman hiding her identity, Joelle’s obsession had been a bit much. “Who cares if people know you dye your hair or add to it? In this day and age it’s no big deal.”

“It is to her boyfriend.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Sarin’s smile was mean. “He’s some kind of hotshot doctor, and he made a big deal about being honest in a relationship. He told her that plastic surgery and fake hair were a lie.”

“I didn’t realize Joelle was so insecure.” Interesting. Everyone had said Noah was wrapped around her little finger, but Sarin’s information suggested otherwise. “She seems so confident.”

“Maybe in other matters.” Sarin shrugged. “But she told me that she doesn’t feel like this guy’s true love. More like a fill-in.”

“Who is she a fill-in for?”

“Some old teenage crush.” Sarin finished painting the highlighting solution on my hair and set the timer. “Before he asked Joelle to marry him, he told her that he had to be honest with her. He knew he could never get this high school chick back, but he’d love her forever, and Joelle would always be second in his heart.”

I
walked out of Imagination in a state of shock. Both Sarin’s bombshell about my ex-boyfriend and the cost of her service had stunned me. I wasn’t certain which was more disturbing, but a hundred and fifty bucks for highlights that I wasn’t sure I even liked was edging out the news about Noah’s declaration.

The beep of a horn jerked me back to the present, and I saw Jake’s truck double-parked in front of the salon. He waved, then leaned across the seat and opened the passenger door. My first inclination was to ignore him and grab a taxi. His cold-shouldered attitude on the ride in had upset me more than I cared to admit, and I wasn’t ready to face him.

Too bad I had already blown through the money I took from the register. That meant twelve dollars and change was all I had left. Taking a taxi to the hotel would leave me close to broke. Since I had shredded my debit card, an ATM was out of the question, and because I’d kept only one credit card—which currently resided in the dime store safe—for emergencies, Jake was my only way home.

Pride warred with common sense, and for once common sense won. I grudgingly stomped over to the Ford, climbed into the cab, and buckled up.

Jake flicked a quizzical look at me, then pulled into traffic.

When he kept glancing my way, but remained silent, I said, “What?”

“You seem different.”

“Duh.” After finishing the highlights, Sarin had somehow managed to form my curly hair into a waterfall of ringlets. “I just spent an hour and beaucoup bucks in a salon. I’d better look different.”

“Oh.” Jake shrugged. “I thought you’d just get a trim or something.”

I didn’t bother explaining my motive to him. Instead I said, “Don’t be concerned. The color will grow out in a couple of months, and the style will be gone as soon as I shower in the morning.”

“I wasn’t worried.” Jake’s appreciative smile and sexy dimples almost made me forget I was ticked off at him. “It looks good.” Under his breath, I thought I heard him mutter, “Too good.”

“Thanks.” Since I couldn’t think of anything more to say on that subject, I demanded, “Guess what I found out?”

“The beauty shop gal killed Joelle because she used the wrong shampoo.”

“I wish.” I bit back a giggle. Jake’s good cop, bad cop routine wasn’t about to work on me. I was determined to hang on to my mad until he explained himself. “Joelle’s hair was as phony as her identity.”

“So?”

So, indeed. Did her fake hair have anything to do with the murder? The only one who would have been upset by her deceit was her fiancé, and since I wasn’t sure I wanted to share the information Sarin had revealed about Joelle being a fill-in for me in Noah’s eyes, I kept silent.

While I pondered, Jake turned the pickup into the entrance of the hotel’s parking garage. He rolled down the window, plucked the ticket from the machine, and
when the gate lifted, drove into the darkness. It took a while, but he finally found an empty space on the top floor. Grabbing my tote bag and his duffel from the backseat, he met me by the elevator and punched the DOWN button.

The doors opened immediately and we stepped inside. When we arrived at the ground level, Jake took my hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm.

I tried to draw away, but he murmured into my ear, “Try to act like we’re in love. Remember, we’re supposed to be sweethearts.”

“How could I forget?” I sneered. “You’ve been so pleasant all afternoon.”

It wasn’t a big surprise when he only grunted.

The Parkside was a boutique hotel, which meant it was small in comparison to a Hilton or Hyatt, and its decor made a statement. No cookie-cutter furnishings or predictable artwork was allowed. Instead, uncomfortable-looking chrome chairs were grouped in pairs, trios, and foursomes throughout the ultramodern lobby.

The exposed redbrick walls and burnished-steel light fixtures reminded me more of a warehouse than a luxury hotel. And the wrought-iron reception desk seemed like something that might be found in a torture chamber rather than in downtown Kansas City. I sure hoped the rooms weren’t furnished the same way.

As we waited for the clerk to finish speaking on the phone, I whispered to Jake, “When do we meet your contact?”

“His shift starts at eight.” Jake lowered his voice. “He’ll come to our room when he’s ready to talk.”

Once Jake had handed over his parking ticket and credit card, he signed on the dotted line and we were given a paper folder containing a single plastic key card. I guess since we were in the honeymoon suite, the clerk figured we’d never leave the room without each other and didn’t need two cards.

Jake put his arm around my waist and said, “Ready, darlin’?”

“Of course, love muffin.” I bared my teeth in a fake smile. “Lead the way.”

The suite turned out to be one cavernous open space, and I had to hide my dismay. I had counted on a separate bedroom and living room, figuring I could sleep on the couch. Clearly, Cupid was conspiring against me.

I tried to think optimistically. One—Jake hadn’t insisted on carrying me over the threshold, which would have revealed how much I weighed. Two—maybe the maintenance man would give us the info we needed and we could check out early. And three—in his present mood Jake didn’t seem interested in getting me naked and having his way with me.

Jake shed his hat and shearling jacket and began prowling around the suite with a “do not disturb” expression on his face. Happy to leave him alone, I took off my coat and studied the massive room. Black leather and chrome Barcelona chairs and an unframed oil painting of a matte red sun against a shiny ebony background carried out the lobby’s minimalist motif.

The stainless-steel wet bar, sleek black-lacquer entertainment center, and übermodern TV also went along with the industrial theme, as did what I guessed had to be the sofa—although that particular piece of furniture resembled the examination table in a doctor’s office more than a comfy couch.

A pair of doors led to a small terrace. It was too chilly to stand outside, but I did slide open the glass and take a deep breath of the cold air. In the early-evening darkness, only the illuminated downtown buildings were visible. They obscured the twinkle of the stars, and having thoroughly transformed back to a country girl, I found that I preferred the view from my porch in Shadow Bend.

Lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t notice Jake’s approach
until he startled me by saying, “Did you discover anything else at the beauty shop?”

“Well…” I explained what Sarin had told me about Noah’s dislike of artificially achieved beauty, then paused. I still wasn’t sure whether to tell Jake about Noah’s supposedly undying love for his high school girlfriend. Jake knew enough about Noah and me and our history to realize that I was probably that old flame.

“What are you leaving out?” Jake demanded, reading my no-doubt guilty expression.

Sighing, I told him, then asked, “What do you think of that?”

“I think,” Jake answered without hesitation, “that we now have another solid motive for the good doctor.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he continued. “And if Underwood wasn’t already at the top of our suspect list, he sure is now.”

“You mean if he found out that not only was Joelle’s appearance fake, but everything else about her was bogus, too?”

“Exactly.” Jake stroked his chin. “Joelle’s murder was a crime of passion. Sticking a champagne bottle down someone’s throat and driving a stiletto into her chest are not the acts of a burglar. They’re the behavior of a murderer with a very personal motive, which points to the doc. He discovers her secret, goes berserk, and attacks her with whatever is handy.”

“Which is unfortunate for me, since one of those weapons was part of the basket I made.”

“Yeah. That is a piece of bad luck, unless…”