Deadly Blessings Page 6

  I generally don’t mind people asking me that. And sometimes I even have an answer. But this Fenton guy’s very existence grated on my nerves.

  “A hair story,” I said. “Nothing exciting.”

  “I noticed you’re a lot less dolled-up today.” He pulled one of my chairs back and settled into it, his elbows on the wooden arms, his fingers interlaced.

  Give him a point for observational skills. Today, almost back to normal, my hair hung loose, skimming my shoulders, straight. But the wispy bangs Sophie had cut in and the highlights were still there. I had to admit, when I’d checked them out in the bathroom mirror this morning, I kinda liked the change.

  I fixed my gaze on him, hoping to make him wither and leave. Didn’t work. He fidgeted in his seat. Belatedly, I realized he was here because he wanted something.

  “Mr. Bassett told me you had a file on that Millie girl who was murdered.”

  “Milla. Her name was Milla.”

  “Yeah. Whatever. Can I have it?”

  Sometimes I wonder if aliens haven’t invaded our planet after all. This Fenton sure qualified. What else could explain the sort of mindset that allows a person to meet, insult and then ask a favor of another—someone they’ve known for all of twenty-four hours?

  “Tell you what, Fent,” I said, getting extreme and perverse satisfaction from the cringe on his face as I truncated his name, “I’ll make a copy for you in a little bit. Let me just finish up here.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  I shook my head.

  His face started a shift from pale to red as he spoke, “Listen, there’s no reason for you to be difficult about this. I know it was your story, but you have to give me whatever you’ve got. Otherwise Mr. Bassett is going to hear about it.”

  I felt like we were two little kids fighting over a toy, and Fenton was the whiny one ready to break into tears and run to tell his mommy.

  Giving a sigh, I shook my head again. “I’m not being difficult.” Not much, at least. “Look around. I’ve got lots of notes here. In lots of different places. It’s going to take me a little bit to get it together. But I promise you’ll have it. By this afternoon. Okay?”

  Mollified, he nodded. “When you do, can we sit down and go over it then? So you can bring me up to speed? Give me an idea of how to go about putting the story together for the scripter?”

  “Gabriela’s got three women coming in to visit with me today for this other story. Don’t know that I’ll have any free time.”

  “But I’m supposed to have it done by the end of business tomorrow.”

  Of course it had to be finished tomorrow. But I didn’t see the reason for the whiny voice. This story was one that would just about write itself. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” I said.

  “Maybe not for you, but I never …”

  I waited, but he didn’t finish his sentence.

  “You’ve never researched a story before?”

  Making an ‘Ugh, that smells’ face, he shrugged. “I don’t think it’ll be all that tough.”

  There was no more perfect response he could have given to provide me reason to blow him off. In the interest of fairness, and more importantly, to cover my ass so no one could accuse me of sabotage, he’d get his folder. Yup. He would get every single solitary fact about the case. All my suppositions, conjecture, notes, and leads, however—the ones I’d tracked down myself and had hoped to follow—those would stay with me.

  “Well, it’s good to see you have the right attitude,” I said, with a beaming smile. “I’ll get that information to you lickety-split.”

  Jordan knocked at the doorframe. My ten o’clock appointment, one of the hair fiasco women, stood next to her, looking wealthy, polished and terrified at the same time.

  I was thrilled to see her.

  “Duty calls,” I said, gesturing toward them.

  Looking painfully confused, Fenton stood up and walked out without saying another word.

  * * * * *

  After cursory introductions, Wilda Lassiter took a seat across from me.

  “That’s an interesting first name,” I said, just to put her at ease, “Is it short for anything?”

  I’m no detective, though I’ve secretly harbored the desire to be one for as long as I can remember. Probably how I came to work in this particular field of research. My job entails more than just fact-gathering and verification. I have to decide which of the many people I meet are good candidates for on-screen interviews, and who’s going to take a seat beneath the glaring lights, get one look at the camera rolling, and freeze. Conversely, I need to determine which of my interviewees are going to see this as a shot at their fifteen minutes of fame and try to upstage Gabriela. She hates when that happens.

  As do I, actually. Ham interviews are generally not audience-pleasers. But good-looking people who genuinely break down during the telling of their tale of woe, are. Wilda Lassiter, a dark blonde, dressed in at least five shades and textures of pale brown, looked like a tall beige sparrow, moving her head with nervous jerks as her bright dark eyes took in my office, one portion at a time. I could tell she wasn’t actually seeing anything. She was trying to look at ease. Failing miserably. But she had the look of an onscreen winner.

  Startled by the question, she shot her attention my way and gave a small smile. “My grandmother’s name was Wilda. It’s odd, I know, but no matter where I am, I’m always the only one.”

  Wilda looked to me like a woman who didn’t like to waste time. The prim way she held her French-manicured hands atop her Chanel purse (I can recognize Chanel, even if I can’t afford it), and her slightly forward lean, made me jump right in. “Gabriela told me that you had some problems with a salon?”

  “I’ll say.”

  She didn’t expand immediately, but I took it more as a chance to gather her thoughts than an unwillingness to talk. Rather than press, I waited. She studied her hands as they crossed and recrossed themselves atop her purse, then gave a tiny shake of her blond head.

  She didn’t let me down.

  “It was the worst experience of my life,” she said with emotion. Her eyes widened and she pointed her index finger upward. I could see it tremble, even as her face maintained calm. “My regular designer, Bethany, was off on maternity leave. I swear, she picked the worst possible time to take off. I had three formal dinners coming up. Three! And every single one of them was key. I couldn’t afford to miss them.”

  I glanced at my notes. “Did these have to do with your line of work?”

  Her face conveyed the message that I’d asked a stupid question. I get used to that with interviewees sometimes. In this case, I hoped it meant she was becoming a bit more at ease. “No, of course not. I don’t have a job.” I’d never heard “job” come out in two syllables before. “I’m on the board of several philanthropic organizations. And it was Christmastime, just when we all have our end-of-the- year banquets.”

  I started to worry that her story wasn’t going to play well with our viewers. “Okay, so tell me about your hair experience.”

  “Well.” She tugged at her short brown skirt and shifted her weight from one cheek to the other as she settled herself to talk. “Do you have anything to drink? Bottled water, perhaps?”

  She was definitely more at ease now.

  “Of course. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” I said as I hit the intercom button on my phone and asked Jordan if she could oblige.

  “As I was saying … Bethany was off, gone for at least three months, and I was more than a little skittish about trusting my hair to someone else. I’d been with Bethany for about five years, and she knew my hair. Knew it like she knew her own. And when you find a designer like that, it’s like finding gold. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

  I felt her glance take in my straight, though recently highlighted tresses.

  I didn’t want to go down that road, so I just nodded. “So, what happened?”

  “They assigned me to Antonio.” The way she said his name
made me want to laugh. She rolled her eyes in sync with the syllables as she drew them out, long and melodiously. “Highly recommended. Their top designer. Some stylist. He was an ass. A pompous ass.”

  I had another appointment at ten-thirty. I knew I should push Wilda to get to the nitty gritty, but she’d warmed to the subject and I get so much more information when a subject tells me their story in their own way.

  “First off, he gives a look, like I’m the bride of Frankenstein, or something. And he tells me my color is all wrong for my face. That Bethany was a nice girl but she didn’t have an eye for color. That if I followed his advice, I’d look ten years younger.

  “I didn’t like the way he talked about Bethany, but he told me that he’d just come from a seminar that introduced him to all new procedures, things that other salons wouldn’t hear about for six months. Things that Bethany might have learned if she hadn’t left to have a baby. He convinced me to trust him. He said I wouldn’t recognize myself when he was finished.” She made a noise then, that in a woman less cultured-looking, I’d have to call a grunt. “He was right about that.”

  Jordan came in with two bottles of Crystal Spring water and two glasses. Wilda and I both thanked her as she left and opened our drinks simultaneously. I drank mine from the bottle. Wilda used the glass.

  “Gabriela said that you took to wearing hats. Is that right?”

  “Wouldn’t you? He learned some new procedure all right. But he learned it wrong. He used the wrong chemical on my hair. When the girl rinsed me off, I knew something was wrong. She tried to keep me seated, but I ran to the mirror. My hair was blue. Bright blue. Like a Popsicle.”

  My eyes widened and I tried to picture Wilda sporting wet blue hair, staring furiously into a mirror.

  “But that wasn’t the worst of it. Antonio tried to get me to believe that this was simply step one, and that everything was going according to plan. I knew better, I could tell by the look on his face that he’d screwed up and was just too afraid to say so. But what was I going to do? I couldn’t very well go home looking like that.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I demanded to talk to the manager. She came out, and was less than sympathetic I might add, as though things like this happen all the time. And she tells Antonio that he better fix it or he’s out on his ass. I swear, that’s exactly what she said. She whispered it but I heard every word. And this Antonio winks at her and makes like he’s sorry, but he talked to her real close and says something about her ass and I caught him rubbing her butt. Like I wouldn’t see that!”

  “Did he fix it? Your hair, I mean.”

  “I didn’t want Antonio to touch me again, but he insisted. Told me I was overreacting and that everything would be fine after another twenty-five minute processing. I was blue, you know? What else could I do? And none of the other stylists there wanted anything to do with me at that point.”

  Wilda took another long drink of her water before continuing.

  “So, I’m a little worked up, to say the least, but Antonio assures me that I’ll be back to a real color in no time. So I wait. And I have this cream all over my head, and it’s wrapped in a plastic bag. I’m under the dryer now because he says that will make the natural blonde take better. This time, when they go to rinse me out, I’m watching the eyes of the girl real close, and I’m telling you there’s nothing so ... frightening as seeing a person’s reaction when something horrible is happening. Especially when that horrible thing’s happening to you.

  “My heart about stopped beating, I think. And she calls over Antonio, except her voice is almost screaming. I grabbed my hair and I … I felt my scalp. My scalp! I shouldn’t have been able to feel that! And little bunches of hair, like lumps. I ran over to the mirror— “ Wilda interrupted herself then. She was reliving it as she spoke. Her face suffused with pain and the tears poured freely down her face. “My hair was gone. Almost all of it. There were only some patches left. Like … like … one of those Japanese trees. Chunks of blue hair stuck out, but otherwise my head was completely bald.”

  * * * * *

  I was beginning to think there might be more to Gabriela’s story than I originally assumed, as I logged my impressions in my trusty handheld voice recorder. Wilda’s attempts to sue the salon had netted her hours of anguish from continuances, and though the case was still pending, she had clearly lost her steam. Her hair had grown out and her attorney warned her repeatedly that costs were mounting and there was no guarantee she’d win. She stormed out of the salon that day without paying. While that move was completely understandable, she had no receipt and Antonio conveniently didn’t remember the incident.

  She left several pictures with me. I knew they’d make effective close-ups with her retelling the tale in a voice-over. I hoped this William was a decent scriptwriter. The blue tufts of hair sticking out all over her bald head were truly pitiful. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

  Prickles of inspiration started moving forward in my brain. I could work with this. And I had contestant number two due here in a few minutes.

  In the meantime I remembered I needed to call my Uncle Moose. I was moving out of Dan’s on Saturday and could use some able-bodied help.

  Aunt Lena answered on the second ring and we exchanged quick pleasantries. Uncle Moose was out, playing cards with his buddies down at the gym. A former semi-professional wrestler, Uncle Joe had taken on the name Moose way back in his heyday, before I was born, when he’d held the title of North American Wrestling Federation Champion, which was a Very Big Deal on the South Side of Chicago.

  “He’ll be there Saturday, Alex, don’t worry. I’ll make sure.”

  “Don’t you want to check with him first? Maybe he has plans.”

  “Let me worry about that. He’s usually just wandering around here on Saturdays anyway, getting into my hair, or into trouble.” Aunt Lena took a breath, like a wind-up noise, leading me to believe that whatever came next was going to be important. “Trust me, honey, he’s gonna be thrilled to help you move back home.”

  I stared at the phone for a few minutes after we hung up. Nobody in my family had ever liked Dan. Polite folks, they didn’t slam him too badly behind his back, but I always sensed an undercurrent of “eeyoo.” Even my sister Lucy didn’t much care for him, and Lucy liked everybody. That reminded me. I needed to call her and tell her I wouldn’t be there Saturday after all. I could almost picture the disappointment on her face when I broke the news.

  I’d call her later.

  It was almost eleven. This next chick was late. I drained the rest of my water and decided I’d better hit the little girls’ room before my next appointment showed.

  I wondered how it was that Gabriela had so many acquaintances who had hair issues. Was it just a string of exceptionally bad luck, or what? I hadn’t had a truly terrible hair experience ever in my life. But then again, I could go months without stepping foot in a beauty shop. I guess the law of averages was on my side.

  “Alex?”

  Jordan met me in the doorway with the second friend. I’d have to hold off the potty stop till later.

  “Your appointment is here. This is Tammy Larken.”

  “Hi,” I said. She looked vaguely familiar. But I couldn’t quite place her.

  “You’re Alex?”

  Surprised both by her question and her tone I shrugged. “Yeah.”

  She didn’t try to hide her displeasure. “I thought Alex was a man.”

  Ooh, I could feel myself not liking this chick already. “Nope. Sorry to disappoint you. I’m Alex St. James.” I extended my hand. She shook the tips of my fingers and let go, as though I’d handed her a fish. “Come on in. Would you like anything to drink? Water, coffee?”

  She laughed at that, a light chuckle. I had no idea what was funny. “Uh … no.”

  “Have a seat.” She did.

  “When will I be filmed?” she asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The filming of the show,” she said
, enunciating her words. In her early thirties, she had to be the thinnest person I’d ever encountered. Not attractive-thin, she was emaciated. With short wavy brown hair she wore cropped close to her head, and sucked-in cheeks that showed off every bone of her jawline, I felt that nagging feeling again that she reminded me of someone. I couldn’t believe her bony hands, even as they dug a cigarette out of her purse. “You mind?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Regulations. This isn’t a designated smoking area.” It was the truth. But I knew that Bass looked the other way whenever we had someone in our offices who just had to light up to get their story out. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with second-hand smoke. Especially not from this broad.

  She slammed the cigarette back into the pack so hard that it bent and then accompanied the resulting movements with several well-chosen expletives. Finally, she looked up again.

  All of a sudden it hit me. Jane Hathaway. From the old Beverly Hillbillies show. I watched the reruns as a kid. Except Mr. Drysdale’s secretary was a much gentler soul. And much prettier—which wasn’t saying a lot for old Tammy here.

  “What?” she asked me, and I swear, she sneered.

  “I was just going to ask you about your experience at the salon,” I lied.

  “Yeah—and you never answered my question about when you’re going to need me for filming.”

  “To be frank, Ms. Larken, we haven’t decided yet who will be interviewed on camera and whose stories will be used as background.”

  “You mean I drove down the friggin’ Edens all the way here for this goddamn interview and you’re telling me that you might not be using my story?”

  “I won’t know till I hear it, so why don’t we begin?”

  “Why the hell should I? Gabriela told me I’d be on TV and that’s what I came here for. I’m not about to spend my time with some little peon like you who doesn’t know her ass from a hole in the ground.”