Don't Take Any Wooden Nickels (6 page)

“Is there any way you could mark what goes with what on this list?” she asked, studying it. “I’m afraid I’m going to get it wrong.”

I glanced at the pile of mostly navy, black, and tan items. Thanks to some new things that had come in, we had been able to put together seven separates—plus shoes and accessories—that she could mix and match into about twenty different combinations. Remembering what we had done, I wrote it all down, putting little asterisks next to my favorite combinations.

“Now that we’ve got you set here,” I said finally, sliding the neatly folded items into several bags, “we’ll run up the street to get your hair done. Your appointment is in just a few minutes.”

“Oh, that’s so great,” she said excitedly. “I
hate
my hair.”

“They’ll give you some makeup tips, too, if you like,” I said and was pleased to see a genuine grin on her face. I realized she might be very pretty with a more appropriate hairstyle and some artfully applied makeup.

I peeked into the office and told Verlene we were leaving. Then I locked the front door and Shayna and I headed out, her arms weighted down with the heavy bags of clothes and things she insisted on carrying herself. Though I was still upset from the earlier disappointment of not connecting with Tom at the airport, at least I had a bit of a distraction to get me through the afternoon.

“So are you nervous about starting the job?” I asked as we walked.

The air was crisp but not unbearably cold. We were a good two blocks from the bay, but I could still smell the sweet-salty scent of the water.

“Kind of,” she admitted. “The people seem real nice, though.”

“When do you start?”

“Two weeks from today.”

We chatted as we walked the three blocks to the hairdresser’s. As we went I noticed that most of the shopwindows were decorated for Thanksgiving, with pumpkins, cornucopias, and lots of fake autumn leaves.

Once we reached the salon, I took Shayna’s bags from her and watched as she was immediately led away to get started. I sat on a chic black couch that was attractive but not very comfortable, flipping through a hairstyle magazine from the coffee table in front of me. As I waited, women came and went in a steady pace. Shayna’s appointment was with Denise Hightower, the salon’s owner. I felt sure Shayna would come out looking great—or at least much better than she had looked going in.

Denise was my regular stylist, though I came in only every few months to have my ends cut blunt. I always wore my dark brown hair pulled back into a tight chignon at my neck, a look that my hairdresser frequently criticized but couldn’t talk me out of. I maintained that my style was quick, easy, and professional. That it probably wasn’t all that flattering was of no consequence to me.

Despite our disagreements about my hairstyle, I really liked Denise. She had a huge extended family living all over the Eastern Shore. When I first decided to relocate here permanently, Denise’s whole family had been very kind and helpful—from Denise’s brother, the real estate agent who found me my house, to her cousin, the travel agent who quietly handled all of my traveling needs, going above and beyond the call of duty on numerous occasions. I would’ve thought them financially opportunistic—going after fresh meat, so to speak—if not for other simultaneous gestures of goodwill that brought them no profit, such as casseroles proffered at my door, invitations to barbecues and parties, and offers of rides to church. Not being a very social person, I rebuffed them so many times that they had finally stopped asking, but I was still grateful for their efforts, and I liked Denise particularly. When I ended up joining their church on my own, the whole family seemed thrilled.

“They didn’t tell me you were bringing me a beauty,” Denise called out to me now from her station across the room. The place had about ten stations, but usually only two or three women were working at a time. Denise had the best spot, back in the corner, and Shayna was sitting in her chair, a black cape draped around her shoulders, her face radiant in professional-looking makeup, her hair still long, two-toned, and damp. “We decided to do the makeup first,” Denise said. “Now she likes it so much, she’s giving me carte blanche with the hairstyle.”

“Go for it, Denise,” I replied, smiling. “Make her look like someone out of
Vogue.”

Tossing the magazine onto the table, I stood and crossed to Denise’s area and sat in the chair in the empty station next to hers. I didn’t really need to hang around, and it would’ve been nice to go on home now and maybe take my canoe out on the river before the sun set. But after being off on my own for three days with the honor guard assignment—not to mention my seclusion during two weeks of vacation before that—something in me didn’t really want to be alone right then. Especially after the Tom fiasco.

The three of us chatted as Denise worked on Shayna’s hair. She was going short enough so that all of the bleached-blonde part was getting cut off. Soon there were foot-long tresses all over the floor, and I was glad to see that Shayna looked happy with the results. She really did have nice bone structure, and it seemed there might even be some body to her hair now that it wasn’t so weighted down by length. Perhaps once she walked into the work
force with this new image, she might finally find a little of the self-esteem Eddie Ray was trying to drain away.

By the time Denise was finished, Shayna truly looked like a different person. It wasn’t just the outside that had changed; there was something going on inside as well. As Shayna beamed at herself in the mirror, Denise winked at me. We both knew this moment was why we got involved. This moment was what it was all about.

Shayna and I walked back up the street toward her car, and she was nearly bouncing from excitement, a far cry from the miserable girl who had first shown up at the store a few hours before.

“I think when I get home I’ll try on all the outfits again, just to see how they look with my new hair.”

“That’ll be fun.”

“I swear, this makeover is just as good as the ones they do in the fashion magazines. You know, in the ‘before’ picture they’re looking all ugly and dumpy, and then in the ‘after’ picture they’re all fixed up and beautiful? Oh, I hope Eddie Ray’s back so he can see!”

She prattled on all the way up the street. I let her chatter, wondering what Eddie Ray would do if he were there and she showed up looking so different. Would he pop this bubble as soon as he saw her, or would he like the change and even endorse it?

We were halfway back to Advancing Attire when I looked up to see Verlene striding toward us down the street. She smiled and waved, and as we drew closer she began exclaiming about Shayna’s new look. Shayna beamed from ear to ear, obviously proud of how it had turned out.

“I do believe this is one of the best makeovers I’ve ever seen!” Verlene cried, though I knew for a fact she said that to most of the women who came through Advancing Attire. It wasn’t that Verlene was insincere; it’s just that she was so genuinely excited about each and every transformation.

“Thank you,” Shayna replied earnestly.

“Can I help you with those bags of clothes?” Verlene offered, but Shayna shook her head.

“I’m fine.”

Verlene walked with us back toward Advancing Attire.

“I was hoping to catch you before you left, Callie,” Verlene said. “I wanted to get your advice in a…in a financial matter. Shayna, I trust you’ll keep this information to yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Shayna replied, looking as if she couldn’t care less. Her mind seemed to be on something else entirely.

“The pharmacy is going out of business,” Verlene said softly, referring to the store located next to Advancing Attire. “Their lease is up, and the owner wants to retire.”

“Are you thinking of taking over their space?” I asked. “That’s wonderful! Now you can finally enlarge the place.”

Verlene pressed her hands together and brought them to her mouth, bouncing the tips of her index fingers against her lips.

“Yes,” she replied finally. “Goodness knows we need the space. But it would…complicate things somewhat. Financially, it may involve bringing in a third party.”

“A third party? What do you mean?”

“There’s a national group that’s interested in signing up with Advancing Attire. I can show you the stuff they faxed me back at the shop. It’s all very interesting.”

“Signing up? What do you mean?”

“They provide services for nonprofits, like doing payroll and taxes. They also do fund-raising, which is where we come in. They have an anonymous local donor who’s willing to sponsor Advancing Attire, including giving us enough money to rent the bigger space.”

“Sounds wonderful, Verlene. But if the donor’s local, why do you need to involve this other company at all?”

Verlene shook her head, as if she was as confused about that as I was.

“It kind of comes together,” she said. “We get the donation only if we sign up with the company.”

“That’s a little odd,” I said, “but I suppose it’s worth looking into.”

We approached Shayna’s car, an aging, beat-up Chevrolet that looked as though it would fall apart at the next stop sign. Even from ten feet away, it stank of rust from the holes along the side, and spots all over the front hood were buffed down to the chrome, like body work that never been finished.

“Here, give me your keys,” Verlene said, interrupting our conversation as she held a hand out toward Shayna. “Your arms are full.”

Taking the keys from Shayna, Verlene walked straight to the trunk. She unlocked the lid, which popped right open.

Then she screamed.

Shayna and I ran forward to look inside. Immediately, Shayna dropped her bags on the pavement and began gasping for air. I stepped closer, peering at the gruesome scene in front of us.

There was a body in the trunk—from what I could tell, a dead body. It was a man, late 20s, with dark hair, a skimpy mustache, and a deep, fatal head wound. There was also a lot of blood, and it was soaked into the clothing and pooled in dark brown puddles all around the inside of the trunk. I swallowed hard, realizing that what I had smelled wasn’t rust from the car, but this man’s blood.

Shayna began moaning, a low guttural sound that gave me goose bumps. I turned away from the trunk and pushed her back, waving at the people gathering on the sidewalk so they would give us some room.

“Do you know who that is?” I asked Shayna, my heart pounding. As a private investigator, I had seen my share of dead bodies, but unexpectedly finding one in the trunk of someone’s car was still a bit unnerving. Shayna was shivering, and it took a moment to get her to look me in the eye, to get her to speak. When she finally did, it was with a hoarse, tormented whisper.

“That’s my missing boyfriend,” she rasped. “That’s Eddie Ray.”

Eight

I don’t know what I expected exactly, but I have to say I was impressed by the police conduct in the matter of the murder of Eddie Ray Higgins. Because we were in such a sparsely populated area, I think I had anticipated some two-bit sheriff and his sidekick to “keystone cop” their way through the whole thing. What I found, instead, were careful, astute professionals who seemed to know exactly what they were doing from the moment the first officer arrived.

Within an hour of our discovery of the body, the area had been cordoned off and photographed, the coroner was on the scene, and Shayna, Verlene, and I had been thoroughly questioned by two homicide detectives. Though no charges had been made and Shayna hadn’t been read her rights, I could tell she was their number one suspect right off the bat. And, really, why shouldn’t she be? The body was found in her car, after all, apparently killed by a whack to the head with something hard and solid.

Still, I knew Shayna hadn’t done this. She was meek and timid and shy; this was the work of someone hard and aggressive and angry. Besides, I had seen earlier this afternoon the way she’d agonized over Eddie Ray’s disappearance—and I had also seen the shock on her face when his body turned up in the trunk of her car. If she had been faking all of that, then she was one good actress indeed.

It was just starting to get dark when the mood among the police suddenly seemed to change. I realized something was up when a female officer approached Shayna with a pair of handcuffs
and asked that she please hold out her hands. Shayna was under arrest, the cop said, for possession of an illegal substance and drug paraphernalia. Shayna paled as the cuffs were locked around her.

“That’s a lie!” she cried. “I’ve been clean and sober for almost a year!”

“Officer?” I asked.

The woman glanced at me, and I thought she looked familiar. I wondered if I had met her somewhere before.

“We found a roach clip hidden under the front seat,” she said softly to me, “along with a nice little bag of pot.”

She frisked Shayna and then led her toward a waiting police car while reciting her her rights. I stood in place, figuring that Shayna was telling the truth, and that the stash probably belonged to Eddie Ray. The important thing here, I knew, wasn’t that Shayna had possessed drugs. It was that the cops wanted to bring her in for murder but, lacking enough evidence, had found a way to take her in for drugs instead. Down at the station they could interrogate her extensively, keep her locked up safely, and generally sequester her until they could prove she’d whacked the man in the trunk. No slouches, these cops.