Bad Hair Day 2 - Hair Raiser (17 page)

*Chapter Seventeen*
As soon as she got home from visiting her mother, Marla put Spooks on his leash and walked over to Goat's house. "Hey, pal," she said when her neighbor opened the door. A strong scent of pine spray wafted from the interior.
Shirtless, Goat sported a sheepskin cap and wore some kind of jungle-printed fabric wrapped around his hips. A necklace of polished shark's teeth adorned his neck.
"Marla! Bringing your pooch over for a grooming?" Chewing on what looked like a twig, he regarded her closely.
She glanced at his minivan parked in the driveway. The words, The Gay Groomer, were emblazoned on its side in brilliant aquamarine against a background of canary yellow.
"Not today, thanks. I was wondering if you'd seen that blue sedan around here again."
A strange light entered his eyes. First his head bobbed, and then he began undulating his body. _"Ugamaka, ugamaka, chugga, chugga, ush,"_ he sang. "One bird in the heather, one in the bush! Grab it, twist it, until it goes _squoosh!"_
"What does that mean?" Marla asked, squinting. "You chanted those same words before, right after the dead duck landed on my doorstep."
"Squoosh," he repeated, twisting his hands as though wringing out a wet cloth.
Marla caught the note of agony in his voice. "Please tell me, Goat. Did you see something that upset you?"
Reason brought him to a standstill. "He shouldn't have done that. Poor helpless creature. Grasping its neck and then -- "
Grimacing, Goat shut his eyes.
Excitement coursed through her. "You saw someone kill the duck?"
Goat sniffed. "H-He put the remains in a bag."
"Who did?"
"Stupid punk." Anger contorted his features. "He drove by and tossed the bag at your door. What are kids coming to these days?" Slapping a hand to his mouth, Goat glanced over his shoulder. "Sorry, I wasn't referring to your children, Becky." A loud _baa_ sounded from within. A guilty flush rising on his face, Goat snatched the sheepskin cap from his head and clutched it between his hands.
"Don't tell me you've got a real goat in there." At his silly grin, Marla shook her head. "What did this guy look like?"
"Light brown hair with a buzz cut, decently dressed dude. Must have been in his late teens. Drove a blue Chevy. I was too upset to mention it before." He peered at her curiously. "Why do you look so sick? You think you can identify him?"
Slowly, Marla nodded. "I believe so. From your names, you'd think both of you were animal lovers, but I don't think he shares your affinity for furry creatures. His name is Shark. He's more the carnivorous type."
So why would Shark be stalking her while playing up to Annie and hanging around Cynthia's house?
Later, after completing her chores, Marla sat in her small family room curled up on an armchair. Sipping a mug of hot coffee, she reviewed the details from the few times she'd met the youth. _Schmo, isn't it obvious? He's spying on us!_
The more she thought about it, the more convinced Marla became. Shark had seduced Annie in order to get closer to Cynthia and keep tabs on her cousin's movements. He was also responsible for intimidating her. That both of them should be targets told her the saboteur was involved. Whoever didn't want their fund-raiser to succeed was attempting to destroy them mentally, hoping to upset their plans for the big event. Popeye's heir? Presumably. Could Shark have been the person who followed her and David to the Bahamas? Chilling logic followed on this trail. Was he ... Could he be the killer?
She brought the steaming brew near her face, seeking comfort in its warmth. If Shark had pushed Rebecca over the edge of the pool, clearly he was capable of dire deeds.
Afraid for Annie's safety, Marla put down her mug, then snatched up the telephone to call Cynthia's house. Their answering machine came on, inducing a swell of disappointment.
"Cynthia, please call me as soon as possible." Thoughts racing through her mind, she wondered what she could say to alert her cousin without Shark overhearing if he was present. "I -- I need to pick up my clothes, and maybe you'll have those photos ready for me. If you get home late, it's okay to call."
Her anxiety didn't abate through the night as she waited futilely for the return phone call. In the morning, she tried again but received the same response. Perhaps they'd gone out of town, she reasoned. Or Cynthia was just too tired after coming home late. She could always accomplish a few of her chores and run over there.
Mondays were hectic because Marla saved her business errands for this one day off during the work week. She'd taken care of Spooks, done the dishes, and changed the linens when the telephone rang, making her jump. _Bless my bones, you'd better calm down, or you won't help anyone._ Her clammy fingers gripped the receiver.
"Yes?" Hopefully, it would be Cynthia saying everything was okay.
"Marla, this is Babs. I -- I'd like to see you."
"Oh." Her stomach sank. It wasn't her cousin after all. "You want to make a hair appointment?" Sometimes favored clients called her at home.
"No. I mean, I need to see you privately. This isn't easy for me, but there's something I have to say."
Marla's curiosity peaked. "All right. When?"
"How about if we meet at Barnes & Noble? I'll buy you a cup of coffee. Ten o'clock okay?"
Precise and to the point, that was Babs. "Sure. See you later," she agreed.
What could Babs possibly want to tell her? Marla wondered as she finished paying bills. Maybe the businesswoman's guilty conscience had been nagging her, and she was ready to confess her sins. Was Babs sneaking off to Orlando to meet a lover? That's the only thing that made sense, especially if she was hiding these trips from her devoted husband.
At ten o'clock, Marla waited inside the bookstore by a display of best-sellers. A smile lit her face as Babs rushed through the entrance, but it quickly faded at the woman's obvious distress. Dressed in a navy suit with an ivory shell, Babs might have looked her usual sophisticated self except that her blond hair was in disarray and her cinnamon lipstick was smeared. Presumably, she'd completed her toilette in haste, or else she'd been so distraught she hadn't cared.
"What's wrong?" Marla asked after they were seated in the cafe. She sipped a cup of hot coffee while Babs stared unblinkingly at her espresso.
Babs glanced up, her hazel eyes clouded with anxiety. She reached for a paper napkin, twisting it while a range of emotions crossed her face. "I want to tell you about Orlando because you probably have the wrong impression about me. But you must promise never to reveal a word about this to anyone, least of all Walter. I love him, Marla, and I don't want to hurt him."
Marla put her cup down, leaning forward to hear the juicy details. She'd heard so much in her venue as a hairdresser that nothing surprised her anymore.
"You know, Walter and I never had any children. We'd so hoped for a family, but it turned out we couldn't ... _he_ couldn't ... conceive. We swallowed our disappointment, but mine was a lot less than his."
Folding her hands on the table, Babs focused downcast eyes at an imaginary speck on the floor. "I -- I had a daughter when I was very young and gave her up for adoption. She found me, thanks to the lawyer representing her."
"Ben Kline." Marla knew it instinctively.
Babs nodded, her knuckles white. This confession must be torture for her, Marla surmised with a surge of sympathy. "I agreed to meet her where she lived in Orlando. She understood when I said it would destroy my marriage if Walter discovered her existence. He's missed out on having children; I haven't. Not to mention the fact that he thought I was a virgin when we met each other." Her lips curled in a cynical smile. "Poor Walter, he was so naive."
"What's her name?" Of all the confidences Babs might have revealed, a secret baby wasn't on Marla's list.
"Jennifer. She's twenty-seven, single, and works as an office manager. Her adoptive parents are still alive, and she keeps in close communication with them. She hasn't told them about me, so our arrangement suits us both fine."
"Other than fearing Walter's reaction, how did you feel about meeting her?"
Babs lifted her gaze, and Marla noticed her lashes were tipped with moisture. "Wonderful. Amazed. Grateful. I'd never dreamed I would see her again."
"I won't give away your secret, but I'll bet Walter wouldn't be as upset as you'd think."
"Thanks, Marla. It's helped me just to talk to you about this. I didn't want you to think I was cheating on my husband when you found out I was sneaking off to Orlando."
"Did you hold a grudge against Ben because he was the one who brought you and Jennifer together?"
"Hell, yes. He should've contacted me privately first. But you can take that speculative gleam out of your eye. I didn't kill him. And in the long run, I'm extremely grateful. Anyway, I'm glad you know about this now. How are you doing with the fund-raiser? Everything okay with the chefs? I've sent the recipe booklet to the printers. I think our guests will love getting one for a table favor."
Marla sighed. "No one has resigned this week yet. I'm still wondering who was responsible for chasing away Max and the others. Either it was Alex Sheffield being spiteful, or whoever stands to inherit the mangrove preserve. I can't shake the feeling that Ben's murder is mixed up in all this."
"You may be right. It's all such a tangle. Probably what you need is a single clue to unmask the culprit. I gather you're no closer to identifying Popeye's heir."
"I did learn one piece of news that may interest you. Were you aware Darren gave a weapon from his knife collection to Ben in return for a favor? The killer used that weapon to murder the lawyer."
"Yes, I'd heard that tidbit."
Leaning forward, Marla lowered her voice. "I went to Darren's house, and I saw the long, curved knives that he owns. They're really heavy. Darren has muscles, too. He could easily lift one and swing it. A neighbor said Darren goes out every weekend without his wife. There's a lot of shouting coming from their house. Marital discord can be a source of hidden rage. Do you think Ben was involved in divorce proceedings between Darren and his wife?"
Babs waived a hand in dismissal. "Your imagination is running wild, dear. Darren has a perfectly good reason for possessing those knives. I couldn't believe it when he told me." Her lips curved in a sly smile. "You want to know where the man goes on weekends? Check out the show at the Polynesian Revue."
Marla puzzled over this remark, but she didn't have long to think about it. Errands kept her busy the rest of the morning until her stomach rumbled in protest. Her itinerary led her to Alex Sheffield's restaurant for lunch. After requesting to speak to the chef, she ordered a chicken Caesar salad. She'd just finished lunch when Sheffield came out to greet her.
"I'm Marla Shore," she said, rising.
Outfitted in a white chef's uniform, he accepted her brief handshake. His eyes, brown and hard as acorns, stared into hers. Irrelevantly, she thought his limp hair could use a bit of mousse and a shorter trim.
"I thought I made it clear during our phone conversation that I want nothing to do with Ocean Guard," he stated coldly.
She smiled in what she hoped was an appeasing manner. "So I understand, but I have some concerns I'd like to share with you. Pierre Chevalier had an accident during his cooking class last month. Someone added a volatile substance to the bottle of rum he was using for a flambe dessert. Later, he told me that his assistant, Felipe, used to work for you. Pierre dropped out of Taste of the World, and so did Max from the Seafood Emporium. Someone's been scaring off our star chefs who've signed up for the fund-raiser. This has to stop."
His scornful gaze raked her. "And you think it's me?"
"The idea has crossed my mind."
"I wouldn't be so stupid. For your information, I learned Felipe was being paid to spy on me."
"Paid by whom, a rival chef who hoped to discover your secret recipes?" she joked.
"Someone wanted to make sure I stayed out of Ocean Guard's path," he said soberly. "Felipe was feeding me information about Jerry Caldwell, the organization's president."
Alex gestured for her to take a seat, then he lowered his brawny body into a chair opposite her. "After you called me, I phoned Jerry Caldwell myself to clear the air. It's true that Ocean Guard supports legislation to regulate commercial fishing, but Jerry denied he'd been the one who ratted on my menu practices. I realized it must have been Felipe who'd substituted a cheaper product for mahimahi and then cast the blame on me."
"Did you find out who'd paid Felipe?"
"Nope. I've asked my colleagues about him, but no one's seen him recently. I'll bet he's skipped town."
Collecting her purse and the bill which the waitress had left on her table, Marla stood. "Well, thanks for the info. I'm sorry you won't be joining us for Taste of the World."
He rose agilely to his feet. "I've been a real _schmuck._ I realize it's short notice, but if you get an opening, give me a call. Otherwise, count on me for next year."
Her conversation with the chef reminded her of David's recent request for Mustafa's phone number. Tuesday morning, after checking supplies in the storeroom, she opened the drawer containing the envelope Ben had scribbled on. Grasping it in her hand, she checked her watch. Nine-thirty. Maybe David would be in his office. Removing the business card he'd given her, she dialed his number.
"Hi, I'm Marla Shore, and I'd like to speak to David Newberg please," she said to the secretary who answered.

"Sorry, he's not in the office right now. May I take a message?"
"He requested some information from me, but I'd like to give it to him personally. Is Mr. Newberg still at home? I can call him there. We're friends," she explained.
"Oh, I don't know, miss. I'm new here, and he seems to come in at different hours each day depending on his appointments."
"I see." David hadn't mentioned hiring a new secretary, but then he never discussed his work with her, Marla realized. "Well, I'll try again later, thanks."
Hanging up, she stared at the envelope in her hand. Slit open at the top, it held a return address from Morton Riley. A letter from Popeye's trustee addressed to Ben?
She pried it open and her fingers had just grasped the folded paper inside when the phone rang. It was Cynthia. Dismissing the letter, she stuffed it into her purse for later examination.
"Where the hell have you been? I've been worried about you," Marla rasped.
Cynthia's voice sounded sleepy. "We went to a party last night and got in late. What's the matter?"
Marla expounded her theories concerning Shark. "Did you get the investigative report back about him yet?"
"No, but I'll give the man a call today. Did you want to stop by and pick up your clothes? My maid washed them, but they're still soiled. I'll reimburse you, Marla. Whoever attacked you is Ocean Guard's enemy, and you're working for us. Regarding the preserve, I have the photos you requested."
Marla did some rapid calculations. "I'm tied up all day. Will you be home around six? I can swing by after work."
"Okay. Bruce is hunting down a copy of Popeye's trust agreement. There must be one in Ben Kline's office. His legal assistant is still there helping to straighten things out. But if that's not successful, Bruce will go to Morton Riley's colleagues to plead his cause."
"Good, maybe we'll get some solid information for a change. I called Charlene earlier. Rebecca is home and doing well. Thank goodness, we averted a potential disaster."
"You did, Marla. I haven't forgotten about the pool fence. A man is coming to measure the patio tomorrow."
"Good move. Well, let's hope your photos shed some light on who's dumping medical waste on the preserve.
In the meantime, please keep an eye on Annie."
Marla's first client walked in the door, and she pushed aside her worrisome thoughts to find comfort in routine. Her busy schedule didn't permit any further phone calls until a quick break in the afternoon.
"I have Mustafa's number if you need it," she said to David, who'd left a message earlier.
"Did you find Ben's envelope?" he replied in an oddly strained voice. "We could have dinner later, then I'll relieve you of the burden."
"Yes, the paper is here. I put it in my purse, so I won't forget it next time. Thanks for the dinner invitation, but I have to run over to Cynthia's house after work. She took some photos of the stuff that's being dumped, and I'm hoping that will help identify the culprit."
"Great, I'll meet you there."
"No, that won't be necessary. I've got some other things to do afterward."
"When can I see you then?"
"Probably this weekend. How about if I call you later in the week and we can make plans?"
"Okay. Anything else new that I should know about?"
"I feel as though I'm getting closer to learning the identity of Popeye's heir," she confided. "I've spoken to Babs and have pretty much eliminated her from the list. It can't possibly be Cynthia, so that leaves the men. Remember, it was a man who assaulted me in the mangrove preserve."
She didn't mention Shark's role, because she couldn't be certain who'd hired him. Probably the attacker from the swamp, Ocean Guard's saboteur.
"That leaves Stefano Barletti, Darren Shapiro, Digby Raines, and Dr. Russ Taylor. Oh, and you," she added with a chuckle.
"Well, we know it's not me," he snapped. "What have you got on the others?"
"Besides the possibility that one of them is Popeye's heir and wants to hide his identity, Barletti, Raines, and Taylor all had reason to resent Ben Kline. Darren inadvertently provided the murder weapon."
"You mean, he knew it was there, hanging on the wall in Ben's office."
"Yes, I suppose so." Her brow wrinkled in thought. "Babs said I should go to the Polynesian Revue if I wanted to learn more about Darren."
"Why is that?"
"I'm not really sure. Maybe we could check out the restaurant this weekend. It's a real cool place. I've been there once before, although I can't conceive of what Darren's connection might be."
She asked Cynthia when she stopped by her house later.
"I haven't any idea," Cynthia said, handing her the pack of photos. "But I do have some other news for you. I spoke with my private investigator. It took him some time to trace Shark's background, because the boy didn't give his real name. Shark is actually Angelo Barletti. Stefano's son."