Killer Hair (36 page)

As they moved aside, Lacey’s eye was caught by the long braid that had belonged to the freshly bobbed flapper in the display. It lay on the counter of the replica salon next to a comb, brush, and scissors. The braid was a rich dark auburn, about eighteen inches long, and tied with a pink brocade ribbon.

Saving hair was nothing new, she thought, even the Victorians did it. They made jewelry with it. They used it to add fullness to their own hair in the form of a long braid or fall. A memory clicked in: Josephine reaching out to smooth Beau’s hair, a ponytail that was suddenly looking much thicker and darker. And longer. And beautifully curled. Something else tickled her brain. The air fresheners in Beau’s car were also tied with ribbons, one red, another blue.
Oh my God. He was wearing hair extensions!
And she knew where he’d gotten the hair.

The mother and her little monster moved on, still fussing at each other. But Lacey stood as still as the mannequins. She knew who killed Boyd Radford and Angie and Tammi. It was as clear as the exhibit in the museum.

Take a neglected two-year-old, raise him in a hair salon, the high temple of hair, watch him grow into an arrested-development geeky teenager, force him to work as a shampoo boy, let him fail at all normal pursuits, like college, and somehow you get Hair Ball Boy, a killer who thinks that women’s hair is everything that’s sexy and powerful in the world. And if he takes it away from them, then he becomes sexy and powerful too.

The cops who said that Angie and Tammi weren’t sexually assaulted were wrong. They were, but in a different way. For this killer, sexual assault meant cutting off his victim’s hair and making it his own.

But he had left clues.
Hell, he had mailed them.
No doubt he also squirreled away the ribbons and combs from the burglary at Angie’s, more trophies to wear and admire. He attacked Lacey at Dyke Marsh and took a souvenir. He was saying, “Catch me if you can.” He was the mysterious George Something.

He was Beauregard Radford: Oedipus with a straight razor.

She wasn’t sure how Marcia’s videotape fit in, but it did somehow. Maybe he was on it, or maybe he wanted to put the screws to Ratboy? Perhaps Boyd discovered his son’s murderous pastime; he would have been eager to cover it up, to take care of it the way he had taken care of all of Beau’s problems. As simple as sending him to another college. That’s why he was so frantic to stop Lacey from writing about the women’s “suicides.” Did Josephine know? Who knew if Beau even had an alibi? But then, no one even considered him a suspect.

Lacey stroked her bangs and the shorter hair underneath. It had to be Beau, but who would believe her? After this morning, Vic would probably never speak to her again. Cops everywhere were apparently blind to stylists being scalped. She could see the glazed looks her half-baked tale of hair extensions and pretty blue ribbons would get from the police. “Is ‘Smithsonian’ the name on your drug prescription, ma’am?”

She could not share this crackpot theory. No one would believe her. Except Stella. But it was too risky to tell Stella, perhaps even fatal. She might have to tell Mac, but not until she had a better story, not until she had proof. She would just have to find a way to trap Beau and prove he did it.

Yeah, right,
she thought.
In what mad universe?

But first there was the fashion show.

Chapter 27

Like some ancient Celt or an Indian warrior, Lacey decorated her face for battle. War means war paint, and war paint means war. The better she looked, the less anyone would suspect how vulnerable she felt. Bestowing the magical power of war paint on makeup justified her cosmetic rituals. In the eternal war between the sexes, it was necessary to have some advantage, even if it was just the psychic boost of foundation, blush, shadow, liner, and the all-important mascara.

“I gotta go slap on some war paint.” It was one of Great-aunt Mimi’s phrases that Lacey always loved. It smacked of doing battle with the world at large. The way Aunt Mimi said it made being a woman sound brave and exhilarating. Being a great dame like Mimi meant you looked life in the face and punched it in the nose if you had to. That was why you needed broad shoulders, a straight back, and a little war paint. You put on a smile (with fresh lipstick) and stood up for yourself, by heaven. You went out and fought life’s battles and won a few.

Even as a gray-haired old lady, Mimi never gave up her coral lipstick and face powder. At Mimi’s funeral, Lacey tucked a brand-new tube of “Hot Sunset” lipstick and a compact of translucent corn-silk powder into Mimi’s pocket for her final journey—just in case—so the old dear could have her “face on” to meet the angels.

Her mother caught her. “Is that makeup you’re putting in her coffin? Good Lord! Sometimes I think you’re as nutty as she was, Lacey.”

“I certainly hope so, Mother.” Then she leaned down and whispered to Mimi, “Good-bye, sweetheart, I gotta go slap on some war paint.”

She examined her face in the mirror. Mimi would be proud.

On Marie’s psychic advice she wore her new wine-colored suit. Actually, Marie had left one of her cryptic messages. She specified red. “I think you’ll just be more comfortable wearing red today. Don’t ask me why. It just came to me. Red. Talk to y’all later.”
What the hell. It couldn’t hurt.
The suit, which she had just picked up from Alma Lopez, fit fabulously—nipped in at the waist, with lots of give in the shoulders. She particularly liked the navy accents and plenty of pockets. She anchored a navy hanky in one pocket with a decorative pin of a red cardinal with wings of ruby rhinestones. Mimi had given her the pin years ago. Cardinals were good luck, according to Mimi.

Spread out on her bed were her evening’s accessories: navy leather bag, a small notepad and fountain pen, voice-activated tape recorder, Aunt Mimi’s opera glasses to view the fashion details on the runway. And Vic’s .38, which seemed bigger and bigger every time she picked it up. It was too big for her pockets. She had no shoulder holster, which in any case would have ruined the line of the jacket, and sticking it in her waistband was not an option. The weapon made an unattractive bulge in her purse next to the tape recorder and fell out on the bed when she opened it.
I told Vic a derringer would be the way to go, but no . . .
Anyway, the handgun was also illegal in the District of Columbia, but that didn’t stop the murders committed almost daily with guns. And with celebrities in attendance, there would be security and the ubiquitous metal detectors.

Figuring she would be perfectly safe with hundreds of people there, Lacey gave up on taking the gun. Brooke had been badgering her to get a cell phone, but Lacey couldn’t stand the idea of people like Mac being able to call her anywhere and everywhere. Besides, she had formulated a battle plan that didn’t involve guns or phones. She wasn’t sure it would work, or if it was smart, but it was her plan and she was sticking with it.

Beau Radford would almost certainly be seated at Stylettos’ table, along with his mother, Vic, some company bigwigs, and Polly Parsons. Without missing a beat, Polly apparently had switched her romantic loyalties from Ratboy to Shampoo Boy, Stella had informed Lacey the previous evening. She had phoned with an exhaustive post-reception briefing. “You shoulda seen it, Lacey. They were all over each other at the reception, and Ratboy not even cold yet.”

“Not cold? Hell, he was cremated, Stella. He was toast.”

Lacey had prepared a special note for Beau, which mimicked the hair mailer’s anonymous note to her; she had handled it only with gloves, just to add that paranoid Washington touch.
What are you worried about? Your prints aren’t on file. Not yet.
To the plain white sheet of paper, she taped a lock of her hair, the hair she had gathered up and saved following her emergency haircut by Stella, and tied it with a ribbon. The note said, “STICK THIS UP YOUR PONYTAIL, SHAMPOO BOY.” She tucked the note in an envelope, sealed it, and dropped it in her purse.

One last glance in the full-length mirror told her she was ready.

 

The Lee Wood Park Hotel in Northwest Washington was the host for Sizzle in the City. Near the National Zoo, it was a grande dame, a monument to travel in a kinder age. Its tall towers overlooked the city, and its lovingly tended gardens exploded with roses and irises in multicolored hues. Lacey took a few moments to enjoy the floral display in the sunset. The delicately scented irises floated on the landscape in stripes of color, from the softest pale yellows to the boldest gold. White and timid pink gave way to vibrant purples. It was a shame to have to go inside.

The proceeds of the show would benefit culture in the District’s schools, and apparently culture was a wise choice, judging by the turnout. “Culture in the classroom” had no downside. It was upbeat and positive, no ugliness, death, or wasting disease attached to it.

Lacey passed through the ever-present metal detectors and the scrutiny of two security guards at the entry to the ballroom. The only glitch was that the guard with the clipboard couldn’t find her name on the approved media list. Lacey was left to cool her heels for ten minutes while someone on the show committee was retrieved to authorize her entry.
No doubt Beth Ann Woodward’s idea of a little joke,
she thought.

At that moment, Beth Ann was praying there would be no important business on the Hill to detain any of her prized models. It was a Washington hostess’s worst nightmare to unexpectedly find the guest of honor on the floor of the House condemning some postage-stamp country or voting for a phony tax cut, instead of adorning her exclusive soirée.

Inside the gates, Washington celebrities and fashion-biz insiders could mingle in a secure, guard-free environment. The Cherry Blossom Grand Ballroom was decorated with large murals of graceful flowers and Washington landscapes. Hundreds of pink azaleas in gilded pots supplemented the floral motif. High-priced tables flanked the models’ runway.

Surrounding the ballroom was a labyrinth of rooms where the preshow pandemonium was contained. Flipping her press ID out so it showed, Lacey wandered down the hall to get an idea of the layout and say a quick hello to Stella.

Models were prepped first with hairstyling and makeup before being herded into connecting rooms, which had makeshift dressing rooms for men and women and racks and racks of designer fashions.

Lacey peeked into a backstage madhouse where more than a dozen Stylettos stylists were furiously twisting and pinning hair, moussing and fluffing, and generally asphyxiating everyone with hair spray. She caught sight of Stella French-braiding Marcia Robinson’s sleek dark hair. Stella waved. Marcia saw Lacey in the mirror and waggled her fingers. Marcia didn’t seem to hold a grudge.

“Of course,” Lacey said. “You’re the surprise celebrity.”

“Guess what they’re making me wear?”

“Pink?” Somehow Lacey knew.

Marcia nodded. “Hot-pink. Too funny, right? I think it’s an editorial comment.”

“No doubt.” Lacey just smiled.
I will never write about pink again.

Apparently it was too late to fire Leonardo from the fashion show, or maybe he had talked to Josephine after all, because there he was, cajoling a blond anchorwoman to sweep her hair off her forehead. Jamie, now wearing green braids held in place by multiple butterfly pins, was brushing out a chubby District city councilwoman, who looked alarmed. Assistant Manager Michelle was performing a last-minute check on the celebrity models as they were ushered into the wardrobe rooms where their dressers were waiting. Designers, fitters, stylists, models, staff, and hangers-on were flitting everywhere.

It was too much. Lacey ducked out and returned to the ballroom. She smiled and waved at Beth Ann Woodward, who curled one lip in response, an attempt at a smile that got stuck on sneer.

Lacey located the Stylettos table and casually dropped her note in the chair reserved for Beau. She found her seat across the room, from which vantage point she could observe the young heir opening her note. If she were completely wrong about Beau, he would merely think it was from some loon insulting his new hairstyle. But if he were the killer, he would subtly betray himself somehow by his reaction, and Lacey would pick it up with her ultrasensitive nose for nuance and write a searing exposé.
Well, it’s a theory.
She sighed.

She took her seat and waited and watched, opera glasses at the ready. Beau soon arrived. He still wore his newly luxurious ponytail. He also had on yesterday’s suit, now worn with a black T-shirt.
How hip.
He picked up the note, opened it, and read it. Lacey’s stomach lurched. He gazed around the room and spotted her. He laughed and sniffed the lock of hair. Then he licked it.

Gross!
Not the subtle revelation she had anticipated. She was nauseous. That was much too easy, she thought, her head spinning.
Now what was the rest of my brilliant plan?

Lacey watched Polly Parsons switch place cards so she could sit next to him. He folded the note and put it in his breast pocket. He looked pleased with himself and kissed Polly on the mouth. Although Lacey couldn’t hear what Polly was saying, she recognized the familiar hand gestures, pulling at her hair, playing for his attention.
Whatever you do, Polly, don’t ask him what to do with your hair.
The lights dimmed and the music heralded the show. Vic and Josephine slipped in just before the narration began. Vic looked tired and grumpy.
Hah. Suffer. Tough duty. And please keep your eye on Beau. Maybe I should have told you my theory, after all.

Lacey tried to watch the show. Even though it was billed as “Sizzle in the City,” implying a summer theme, it naturally featured clothes for fall. Collections draped on actual skinny fashion models would alternate with the more well-padded local celebs in Donna Karan and Ralph Lauren.

The show began with Neil Isaacs, a hot young designer whose presence was a coup for Beth Ann. Isaacs’ collection was described in the program as featuring “liquid fabrics,” which were supposed to hug curves. But there were no curves to hug. The clothes hung like sackcloth over a parade of hollow-eyed fashion martyrs with dour faces and painted purple lips. Hip bones jutted out of the “liquid” fabrics like chicken bones out of soup. Electronic music thudded. She made notes for use in her column.