Bad Hair Day 2 - Hair Raiser (8 page)

*Chapter Eight*
Red and blue cushions surrounded tables close to the floor in the Medina restaurant. Marla got the impression she was entering a huge tent as she and David were led to a bench covered in crimson cloth built against the wall. Billowing scarlet drapes and ornate gilded lanterns hung from the ceiling. Illumination was dim, but the lack of lighting appeared less noticeable than the loud volume of exotic music pouring from the speaker system.
Glad she had chosen a comfortable rust-and-black pants outfit, she settled onto the bench, folding her legs under the table. David lowered himself beside her, grunting as his large frame shifted the cushions at their back. His musk cologne drifted into her nostrils, making her glance his way in appreciation. He could have been on the cover of _GQ_ magazine with his navy suit and geometric tie. The sky blue of his shirt enhanced the deep cobalt of his eyes.
Leaning against an embroidered fabric covering the wall in an eggshell, azure, and gold thread design, Marla surveyed their surroundings with interest. "Fascinating place," she commented, observing the decorations. Diners filled other tables, but no one had been served.
"I figured you would appreciate it," David said, his warm glance raking over her. "You seem like a person who savors new experiences."
Marla grinned, enjoying his company. "You're right, I don't like to be stagnant. It's fun to explore, especially when Fort Lauderdale has so much to offer. How long have you lived in the area?" Most people in south Florida came from somewhere else. Five years in residence, and you were considered a native. Originally from New York State, Marla retained a faint memory of icy winters, and she had no desire to repeat the experience.
David flicked a lock of fawn hair off his forehead. Her eyes trailed his movement, noticing the Rolex on his wrist. "I've been in the region for over twenty years, but I grew up in Connecticut."
"Did you go to school here?"
"I went to Boston. Couldn't stand winters, so I came back. I joined a firm for a few years and then struck out on my own. My practice has done really well, and now I finally have time to pay attention to the rest of my life." Winking, he lowered his voice. "I'm hoping you can be a part of it. I really like you, Marla. You've got style, intelligence, and looks all wrapped up in one sleek package. In other words, you turn me on."
Marla felt heat suffuse her cheeks. "Let's not get too schmaltzy, okay? We don't know each other very well yet."
"I hope to remedy that soon," David replied, snuggling closer so that his leg pressed against her thigh.
Before she could form a retort, the waitress arrived to pour rosewater from a gleaming silver urn over their uplifted palms for a ritual cleansing. "We'd like to talk to Chef Mustafa," she said to the girl. "We want to invite him to participate in a fund-raiser for our organization."
"I'll tell him, miss." The young woman wore a colorful Moroccan vest with a long floral skirt, her thick black hair pulled into a ponytail. "Usually, Mustafa comes out after I serve the entrees to make certain everything is to your liking. You can speak to him then, if you wish."
"That's probably more convenient for him," Marla agreed. Wiping her hands on a clean towel that served as a napkin, she redirected her conversation to David after the waitress left them alone.
"How long have you been involved with Ocean Guard?" she asked, aware of the warmth emanating from his body.
"I've been their accountant for seven years and got elected to the board two years ago. How about you?"
"I've been going to Taste of the World every year since Cynthia has been hosting it. This is the first time I've been on a committee."
"You're doing a fine job."
The waitress returned with several dishes. Marla put their conversation on hold while she broke off a chunk of sweet honey wheat bread and ate it with cumin-scented lentil soup called _harira._ There weren't any utensils provided so she was grateful for the towel that covered her lap. More courses rapidly followed: a cold salad with chopped tomatoes, bell peppers, cucumbers, and onions in a light vinaigrette sauce; an eggplant dish; pickled beets; and cooked carrots. _B'stella_ was a pastry appetizer of baked phyllo dough layered inside with chicken, spiced eggs, crushed almonds, and cinnamon. Marla had her hands full struggling to eat with her fingers as food crumbled from her grasp.
Laughing, David stuffed a mouthful between his lips. "Delicious, isn't it?" he mumbled between bites, as intent on eating as Marla.
"Mmm," she managed to get out, her mouth full. It was too difficult to manage the tricky task of bringing meal to mouth, so she gave up on appetizers. Observing a fork in another diner's hand, she resolved to ask the waitress for utensils when their entrees came. _Being forced to use your fingers is a good way to lose weight,_ she thought wryly.
"How are you progressing with the other chefs?" David queried, his face expressing genuine interest.
"Okay, and if Mustafa agrees to join us, I'll need to notify Digby about the changes so he can send a news release. Have you spoken to him lately?" She reached for a glass of water, her tongue flaming from the spicy food.
"Not really."
"I heard he was in the news in an unfavorable light a few years back, and Ben tried to cash in on it. Do you think Digby still harbored a grudge when Ben was killed? Or maybe Digby was afraid Ben would hang his old laundry out to air before the election?"
David frowned. "What do you mean?"
She waved her hand in front of her nose to dispel the smell of cigarette smoke. "I'm just trying to figure out who among Ocean Guard's board members might have had a motive to want Ben dead."
"Some detective questioned me about our group. I can't understand why the cops think it's one of us."
"The killer may be the same person who's discouraging our chefs from participating."
David regarded her with disbelief. "Surely you don't believe there's a connection?"
"What do you know about Dr. Taylor, for example? Or Darren? Or even Babs?" As she said the last name, she decided to phone the hotel in Tampa where Babs supposedly had gone for the weekend. Not that the woman's whereabouts had anything to do with Ben's demise, but if she couldn't be trusted to tell the truth, that was something else to consider.
"Probably not as much as you," David griped, "although I do know Russ was angry with Ben over an investment loss. As his accountant, I advised Russ against selling his interest in a side business involving physician collection services. But Ben offered him a slick deal on the initiative of another client. Russ lost his ass in the ensuing takeover."
"Is he in trouble financially?"
David squinted at her. "I don't believe that's any of your concern."
"Yes, it is, because someone is dumping medical waste on Ocean Guard's mangrove preserve. I don't suppose Cynthia told you about this."
"Medical waste? What are you talking about?"
"You remember the provision in Popeye Boodles's trust that Ocean Guard must maintain the mangrove property in its pristine state? Well, it's my guess that whoever stands to inherit is trying to make sure we fail to reach our goals. Not only is someone sabotaging our efforts with the chefs, but this same person might be the one responsible for polluting the preserve."
David's brows drew together as a troubled look sprang into his eyes. "I see. Then this same fellow could be the one who -- "
"Killed Ben Kline. Possibly. Or Dr. Taylor could be saving money by not paying the biomedical disposal company. He has access to medical waste products. Maybe he's dumping the stuff there because it's conveniently isolated. That would make sense if he's in financial need. Otherwise, I believe it's imperative to examine each board member's possible motive and alibi. By the way, where were you that night?"
He recoiled, an expression of horror on his face. "Surely you don't suspect me? I'm disappointed in you, Marla."
Playing with her water glass, she glanced at him from under her mascaraed lashes. "I trust you, David, really I do. But in case Detective Vail ever asks me about you..." She cut herself off, alarmed by the fury in his eyes.
"He's already interviewed me along with the other board members. What gives you the right to snoop into people's lives, anyway? Is that why you agreed to go out with me tonight, so you could check me out?"
Marla rested her hand on his arm, disturbed to find herself acquiring a suspicious nature like Dalton Vail. See how it ruins relationships? "Of course not," she said hastily, giving him her most demure smile, while part of her wondered if there was a grain of truth in his remark. "I think you're a charmingly attractive man, and I'd want to go out with you even if we were not both involved with Ocean Guard."
"That's better. I'd hate to think you were using me to get information. Honesty is of crucial importance, Marla. I should make that clear straight off."
Realizing she'd ruffled his feathers, she attempted to appeal to his ego. "Oh, I agree. I understand how you must possess a high degree of integrity to work with people's money. As an accountant, you've got to be accountable to your clients. Ha-ha." She laughed at her own pun, relieved when his shoulders relaxed. But even as she switched topics, she realized he hadn't answered the question about where he had been the night Ben died.
The tension between them dissipated when their entrees arrived and a belly dancer shimmied into the center of the dining room. After requesting utensils, Marla dug into her lamb roasted with apricots and onions served with couscous, while a crescendo of music accompanied the dancer's graceful gyrations. During an interval when the sequined performer went to change props, David inquired about her work and other activities. She was glad to focus on mundane conversation until their desserts arrived. Chef Mustafa came out to circulate among the guests, and she extended an invitation for him to join Taste of the World.
"I'd be delighted, beautiful lady," he said, grinning.
Marla breathed an inward sigh of relief. At least they still had enough well-known chefs for the fund-raiser to be a success. A few loose ends warranted checking out, however. She intended to visit Pierre to see if he'd determined the cause of the explosion during his cooking class, and she needed to talk to the president of Ocean Guard about Alex Sheffield. If she could get a handle on who was baiting the chefs, it might help identify the person plaguing their organization, not to mention who had sent her that disgusting package the other day. A shudder racked her frame, but she quickly put aside any further disquieting thoughts so the remainder of their evening could be pleasant. David was an attentive escort, and she shouldn't risk losing her chances with him over her obstinacy to ferret out the truth.
"Excuse me, sir," the waitress cried, as they were on their way out the door. "I think you didn't fill this out correctly."
A look of puzzlement on his face, David retreated a few steps and grabbed the credit card form from her hand. "What's the matter?"
"You left off the gratuities. I'm sure that was just an oversight, sir."
"Isn't the tip included?" he retorted, pointing to the paper.
"That's the tax we add in, which is part of the subtotal. If you'll give me your credit card back, I'll run it through again and tear up the old receipt."
His expression darkened ominously. "You must be mistaken. I'm sure the menu said a service charge is included with the price of the meal."
"But sir -- "
He grasped her by the arm, squeezing her elbow. "Nobody accuses me of cheating them."
Fear entered the girl's eyes, and she struggled to pull away. "Let go, you're hurting me!"
"Bring me a menu and I'll prove you're wrong." Releasing her, he muttered to Marla: "She must be new here. I could've sworn the service charge was part of the thirty dollars for each of our dinners."
Aware of the stares from other patrons, Marla felt embarrassed and hoped for his sake that David was right. Sure enough, he pointed to the fine print under the food choices which said a fifteen percent service charge would be added to each bill.
"You see?" he chortled triumphantly. "I always pay my expenses properly. You should fire her," he directed at the chef, who'd come bustling from the kitchen upon hearing the commotion. "Come on, Marla, we won't let this pitiful incident ruin our evening."
On the way home, he apologized, giving her a boyish grin. "Sorry if I blew my stack back there. I'm old-fashioned in that I don't like it when anyone disparages my honor. Guess I would've made a great swashbuckler, eh?"
Marla nodded. "Integrity means a lot to you, and it's a value that's important to me, too. At least you stood up for your rights."
His expression softened. "I knew you'd understand."
They drove in companionable silence back to her house. David walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for her. "I can be as chivalrous as you want, milady," he said, bowing. On her doorstep, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Alas, sweet lady of the night, if you would invite me inside your humble abode, I can prove my gentlemanly intent." His mouth brushed the back of her hand, sending a warm tingle through her body.
Temptation warred with common sense. "Not tonight, it's too late. I didn't think we'd get back after midnight, and tomorrow is a workday." He was so close she could smell his cologne. The musky scent warmed her blood, driving away any remnant of reason. Leaning forward, she kissed him boldly on the lips. "But let's get together again soon, okay?"

She went to bed with his taste on her mouth and awoke refreshed to a clear morning. Saturdays were always busy, and this one was no exception. Marla found herself tied up with a number of phone calls at work and had to shift some of her clients to Miloki and Nicole.
"That fund-raiser is taking more of your time than the salon," Nicole complained, organizing her curling irons.
"We're getting down to the wire with Taste of the World," Marla said, brushing cut hairs from a recent client off her chair. "I've got to make sure everything runs smoothly."
"Oh yeah? I thought that was your cousin's responsibility."
Tally said the same thing when Marla phoned her. "I don't see you anymore, and you hardly ever call. You're so wrapped up in working for Cynthia that you don't care about anyone else."
"That's not true." Standing behind the front desk, Marla glanced at the receptionist. Anything she said would be fodder for gossip. "Can we talk about this later?"
"Sure, Marla. You know where to find me."
Marla gritted her teeth in frustration. Didn't they understand? Working for Taste of the World was an important responsibility. Cynthia had requested her help, and she couldn't refuse. Relations with her extended family had been delicate since that incident in her past. She was especially proud that Cynthia regarded her as someone to rely on. The chance had come to prove her mettle by ensuring the fund-raiser was a success, but in order to do so, Marla had to stop whoever was opposing Ocean Guard. She wouldn't risk losing Cynthia's respect just because Nicole and Tally were acting childish. When Taste of the World was over, she'd shower her friends with attention. But right now, she hoped for their understanding.
As though conjured from her mind, Cynthia strode through the door, glanced around the busy salon in bewilderment, then fixed her gaze on Marla. "Here you are! We need to talk."
Marla glanced at her cousin's hairdo, which reminded her of a mile-high sundae. _You need a new hairstyle, cuz, and damned if I'm going to let you leave here without one._ "Oh? How about I give you a trim while we chat? You'd look great in a layered cut. Consider it a complimentary session. If you like what I do, you can tell your friends."
Cynthia lifted her chin. "I like my hair the way it is."
"You can always grow it out. Seriously, you'd look a lot younger if you let me give it a try."
Cynthia's expression clouded with doubt. "Well, I don't know." She studied the other stylists, noting their work. "My beautician comes to the house."
Marla took her cousin by the elbow and guided her to a workstation. "I can accommodate you in that way," she crooned, indicating Cynthia should take a seat. "Occasionally, I'll get a client who needs me to come to her home, either to get her ready for a special occasion or because she's been ill. And we do weddings a lot, going to the hotel to do the entire wedding party. I believe in being flexible to meet your client's needs."
"Quite the businesswoman, aren't you?"
Marla resented Cynthia's surprised tone. "This is a business. What did you think? That it doesn't take any brains to do people's hair?" Not that some of the stylists didn't give that impression. Marla encouraged a certain dress code among her staff, so she didn't feel that was a problem at her salon. But she could see how potential customers might be put off by the mini-skirted, overly made-up gals in some of the places.
Cynthia's gaze met hers in the mirror. "You never finished college."
"No, but I went through twelve hundred hours of cosmetology school, and I'm licensed by the state board. To renew my license, I take an AIDS course every two years. I attend hair shows to learn new techniques. Maybe I haven't earned a bachelor's degree, but I assure you I've got more business savvy than many graduates."
Cynthia look chagrined. "I -- I didn't mean that you weren't intelligent," she sputtered.
_Sure you did, cuz._ "That's all right. Now let me show you what I can do. Your coloring is a bit too brassy. Is it all right if we give you a rinse to tone down these highlights? You'll like the effect, believe me."
"Okay."
"Wait here, I'll be right back."
Marla hastened into the storeroom to select the products she needed. While she was there, the phone rang.
"Cut 'N Dye Beauty Salon," she warbled into the receiver.
"Hey, luv, it's Lance. Gotta minute?"
Her scalp prickled. "I always have a minute for my favorite computer guru. What's up? Did you get anything on Dr. Taylor?"
He chuckled. "Seems like you have a nose for rotten scents. The good doctor owns a major interest in a surgical outpatient center. With all the managed-care problems, its financial health is faltering. Why did you say you wanted this information?"
Marla took a moment to reply. "Someone is dumping medical waste on a mangrove preserve adjacent to my cousin's estate. It relates to Ocean Guard, and Dr. Taylor is on the board. I wonder how much money he'd save in bypassing payments to the waste disposal company. It bears checking into, wouldn't you say?"