Disenchanted (12 page)

The set of his jaw and frustration in his eyes is a clear indication he doesn’t trust them and I probably shouldn’t either. Nor did I trust the local authorities.

Sheriff Bogner, or as he prefers—major emphasis on prefers—Sheriff Frank, conjures up childhood memories of
Porky’s
and
The Dukes of Hazzard
. What we have here is a 6’7” troll, tiny by troll reasoning; whose parents cruelly named him Frances. Maybe the unlit cigar continuously clenched between his teeth is some sort of compensation. It’s released to fingers the size of ring bologna when he’s about to make a point. The unlucky recipient of that point is subjected to a couple of inches of masticated, soggy goodness waved in their face. Just thinking about being on the receiving end of one of those conversations makes my stomach curdle.

There is nothing for that cigar–chomping good ol’ boy to gain by securing my safety. So, I can safely say putting my fate in his hands would not be the wisest course of action.

The Meadows isn’t wholly an En community, so it’s only natural we have a few Uns on the force as well. There is a steady stream of trainees trying out their authority before moving on. Two of these newbies—guess I can’t call them that anymore, they’ve been here almost as long as I have—decided to stay. A bumbling second–in–command and the naïve follower always begging for approval. Neither inspires more—probably less—confidence about my safety than their self–serving boss. Face it, when it comes to police protection, I’m screwed.

“But it was the NTF who brought me in, just because of the victims that were clients and those stupid shears. They didn’t know about the bag of missing hair.”

“Missing bag of hair?”

I explain how we bag and tag the remnants of all services performed in the salon and how I dispose of them. A glance at Nyssa and Rey reminds me, I didn’t tell them. From the shock and anger on their faces it occurs to me, they can be taken off the suspect list.

“And the shears?”

“They’re mine, the pair I received in beauty school. I don’t use them anymore. They’re too dull to cut with. I just keep them for sentimental value.”

“Did you tell the detectives they are yours?”

“No!”

“Any idea how they came to be in their possession?”

“They had to have been taken before the break–in.”

A chorus of ‘break–in?’ fills the room.

“Someone broke in yesterday. Change that, they let themselves into the salon with a key.”

“Did you report this to the authorities?”

I shake my head. “No, all they took were pages from the appointment book.”

“And, very possibly, your shears.”

I shake my head. “They had to be taken before that to coincide with the last victim.”

The increasing lines around Jacobs’s eyes and the hard downward turn of his mouth a sure signal of displeasure. The urge to stand with chin tucked, hands clasped behind my back, scuffing my toes across the ground while punctuating every one–word sentence with ‘sir’ makes me squirm. I never noticed how hard the break room chairs are.

“Is there anything else you need to tell me? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything you know.”

Self-preservation trickles into my weary little brain and lights a fire under that part of me worried about saving my own skin. Last thing I want is to cast the light of suspicion on Jenny, but considering the evidence I don’t see how I can get around it.

Rey and Nyssa seemed genuinely surprised at both the missing hair and the break–in. There’s no way Dara could have done the B&E, not in the daylight. That leaves Jenny as the only other person with a key, not to mention I found her rummaging around in the bags. That she’s not here and can’t be reached doesn’t help the situation.

Fear mingled with shame dots my skin. Taking a deep breath, I spill how I’d gone to the salon after picking up supplies, intending to stock the shelves while the remnants burned. How I’d found Jenny in the storage room and after she left I counted and recounted the bags. From the look in his eyes, I don’t have to explain the importance of the missing hair. I then move on to the break–in and how I’d found the pages from the appointment book missing and Dara had found the door to the storeroom tampered with.

There I’d done it. I’d tossed my friend and co–worker under the proverbial bus. Not a good feeling at all, matter of fact, it sucks. Made worse by the fact that she’s not here to defend herself.

“Your luck may have turned, Miss Fey. If nothing else you’ve given me a plausible defense.”

“You can’t be serious? Jenny wouldn’t be involved in something so... Vile.” Nyssa searches each of our faces.

My cohorts continue to debate Jenny’s innocence and what each feels is the best course of action. While I debate whether to continue my little pity party, or to put on my big girl panties and take charge of my totally f’d up life. The party sounds like a lot less work. I know what I should do, but did I mention the totally f’d up part?

I’m not feeling real confident about digging my way out of this. Being grounded for climbing out of the window—just to see if I could—was nowhere near the life sentence this mess will be. We’re talking time in the poky, or gods forbid, death. Grounding sounds really, really good right now, so does being fifteen again. I’d settle for six months ago, before my life became tangled up in all this crap. On top of it, I’d just played the childish game of
she did it, not me,
possibly condemning someone along with me.

“It’s settled then,” says Rey, disturbing my little party.

“What’s settled?” I’m just about to the point of crawling under the covers and crying for mommy.

“We close up shop until further notice. Dara stays here and keeps an eye on things and you, my sweet, move in with Nys.” The mischievous twinkle in Rey’s eyes is unmistakable. “Unless you prefer my place?”

“Oh, hels no!”

Suddenly those big girl panties become Wonder Woman’s tights, I realize I’m not ready to relinquish control. That’s the thing about pity parties, they are strictly for one. When someone else joins, it’s over. No matter what they say, or do, it’s never what you want. Probably because most of the time you just want to wallow.

Protests to my outburst come to a halt as the phone’s shrill ring echoes through the salon. Maybe I’m getting a reprieve from the Governor. Or maybe it’s the missing Jenny with a few answers.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Anybody going to get that?” I ask, still reeling from my mood swing. I must be PMSing out, practically begging someone to take over and make this mess go away and when they do, I jump their shit.

“What the hel am I paying you for?”

I can’t tell if Nyssa is sizing me up for a cold shower, or ready to withdraw her offer of room and board as she backs around the corner to silence the ringing. Highly doubt I’ll be asking her for a shampoo any time soon, unless I want a shower. That hose can easily slip, even in practiced hands.

I watch the others while pacing the room, weighing my options. I’m torn between snarling at them for treating me like a child—which I deserve—and begging forgiveness—which I don’t.

“Right back at you!” I hear her say followed by “Assholes,” and the angry clicking of heels before she rounds the corner.

“Crank call?” asks Rey.

She nods, sitting down.

Jacobs sighs. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“Then what do I do? Sit here and wait for the next idiot with borderline intelligence and a brick, or better yet, a can of kerosene and a match?”

Nyssa snorts and Rey flat out laughs. I know they’re thinking about Frankie who’s a few Tarot cards short and thinks he’s a fire god. After the tornado of ‘05 he gathered lawn debris and other various items, doused it with a few gallons of kerosene and tossed a match. After everyone’s ears stopped ringing, they figured out it wasn’t another disaster, just Frankie. The fire department put out the mile high blaze as he was taken to the emergency room. During the ambulance ride, he explained how the storm had gifted him with the power to control fire. A lack of all facial hair and the wispy smoking strands left on his head told a different story. It does no good to remind him he’s an Un, you’ll just get an imaginary fireball tossed at you.

“I suggest you either stay with your friends, or you could take Mr. Royd up on his generous offer.”

“Huh?”

“Mr. Royd, along with retaining my services, is willing to put you up in his building. It has the finest of security; you would be more than safe there. I’ve been instructed to deliver you, if you so choose.”

The last thing I want is to be under Royd’s protection, but the desire to see inside those fancy digs of his, that’s something to consider. Come on, give me a break, who wouldn’t want to see inside one of the richest dwellings in the greater Des Moines area?

A month’s rent on one of those places could open a chain of salons. The kind of salons where I can stand back and be as pretentious as those morons in the reality shows who think they can do hair. I mean, please, you know one cut—taught to every stylist and you don’t even improve, or change the style—and you get your own show? Hel’s Realm, I remember in junior high when the look was fresh, now it’s just 70’s retread.

“I don’t know. I can’t leave C.C. here by himself and what about Dara? What if someone firebombs the place while she’s asleep?”

Rey clears his throat, Nyssa standing beside him.

“You guys should high tail it as far away from me as possible. I couldn’t live with myself if you guys got hurt.”

“The majority rules, darlin’,” Rey grins, “and we win. Not going anywhere. Matter of fact; think I’ll just plant myself right here in this building until this blows over. Like you said, Fangs downstairs needs someone to watch during the day.”

Nyssa does that little
mm hmm, girlfriend
thing, that I detest. No one should swivel their head and call each other girlfriend, especially white people. You just look ridiculous. If she does that snap thingy I’m just going to have to unload on her. I suppose I should cut her some slack for the years I spent saying
choice
, or
like totally.

Nah, ain’t happening.

“It seems you’ve made your decision.” Jacobs hands me his business card. “Should you need me, don’t hesitate to call.”

I watch him leave taking the pretty, shiny car and the protection of the
Brawny Twins
with him. On the flip side of the card, I find Var Royd and a number scrawled in magnificent script. Somehow, I know this isn’t the lawyer’s writing.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“They actually think
you
are The Collector?”

If it weren’t so ridiculous, or disgusting, I’d take Dara’s laughter as an insult.

“Or that I know something about him,” quickly adding, “or her.”

It has nothing to do with being P.C., or feminist. I know how lethal females can be. Sitting across from me, behind a beautiful veneer, is death by fang. Next to her sits a voluptuous package that could easily drown more than your sorrows. Dara and Nys are more than proof that men don’t hold the title of most dangerous.

“What a crock.” Rey is unable to hide his disbelief.

“Yeah, you couldn’t hurt a fly,” says Nyssa.

“Hey.” Truly offended now, considering my quest to put the smack down on one of the pesky buggers. A few snuck in around the hastily patched window and proceeded to dive bomb us.

“Okay, strike that,” she giggles, “your aim just sucks.”

“Ha, ha, very funny. Die you little bastard,” I say, focusing on the swing. The fly bounces off the swatter, hits the floor where it buzzes and flops before Rey steps on it.

“See? She can hurt a fly.”

“Yeah, but you killed it,” says Nyssa.

“Now that we have established the fox has a rapport with insects, other than fleas, shall we move on to more important details?” asks Dara.

Rey sneers at her while scratching behind his ear.

“Yeah, like what are we going to do about this?” I wave my hand toward the empty salon. “And what about Jenny? I don’t know about you guys, but I’m a little worried. Tried her home and cell, but no answer.”

Rey and Nyssa nod, Dara just sits there.

“You think she did it.” Nyssa swings her chair around to face Dara.

“I said no such thing.”

“You didn’t have to; your lack of response says it all.”

Dara shrugs. “I am simply looking at the evidence. The most logical explanation is that she knows something.”

I hold up my hands trying to ward off a catfight. “Enough. Face it, none of us knows anything for sure,” I look at Dara, “right?”

A single bob of her head is the best I’m going to get.

I’ve been awake for over twenty–four hours, accused of being The Collector—veiled as the accusations might have been—and found out Var Royd owns my business. In its present state, he could call in the loan and I’d have less than nothing. Top that off with the crowd of gawkers and reporters outside. The last thing I need is my support team fighting.