Murder on the Eightfold Path (16 page)

“Can you?” Elysia seemed amused at some thought she didn’t share. “In any case, you can relax. I never spent the night at Dicky’s, and I certainly never brought my own grooming products.”

“Then Dicky was definitely entertaining another lady guest; someone about your age and probably in your income bracket. We’re narrowing in on her. The Salon isn’t a national company. You don’t find its products in every beauty parlor or in grocery stores or even on the web except through their own website. I know because I tried to find some of that royal jelly skin cream I borrowed from you. You have to purchase directly from The Salon or from their website.”

Elysia considered this without comment.

“And The Salon is locally based, which means it’s likely that so is this woman—whoever she is.”

Elysia said reluctantly, “It does look that way.”

“It has to be that. There is no other explanation. Unless Maddie is lying—and neither of us thinks she is—Dicky
was
seeing someone else. And this woman is probably the woman who killed him.”

“The shampoo could have been left by an earlier girlfriend,” Elysia pointed out. “Someone no longer in his life.”

“I suppose so . . .” A.J. put her fork down. “No. No, that won’t fly because The Salon’s packaging changed recently. That’s something I noticed when I was searching their website for the royal jelly. I couldn’t remember exactly what it was called and I kept looking for bottles and jars that resembled yours. The bottles that I saw had the new packaging and logo.”

Elysia said unhappily, “Maddie could be lying about the last time she saw Dicky.”

A.J. didn’t want to believe that; she really did like Medea and didn’t want to believe she was a murderer. “I think it’s more likely there was a third woman. Madame X.”

“
Or
,” Elysia said suddenly, “Dicky was using the products himself.”

A.J. blinked. It wasn’t impossible. True, The Salon products were not geared toward the twenty-something male demographic, but that didn’t mean a twenty-something male might not use them. Although she had only seen him briefly, Dicky appeared to be
very
well-groomed. Nearly as well-groomed as Andy, A.J.’s ex.

Perhaps one of Dicky’s lady friends had introduced him to the products?

“I guess that’s possible,” she admitted, reluctantly. “I don’t think it’s likely, but I’m not sure how to rule it out.”

Elysia ran a thoughtful hand through her dark waves. “We could always ask.”

“It’s possible someone might remember him. I doubt if they have a lot of young men buying blue rinse conditioner.”

Medea returned to the kitchen and announced that they had appointments at The Salon for after lunch. Since golf was now out, she seemed less enthusiastic about leaving her mausoleum and suggested A.J. and Elysia drive into Newton on their own, browse the shops, have lunch, and then head over to have their hair done.

A.J. and Elysia quickly vetoed this. “It will do you good to get out, petal,” Elysia said cheerfully. “No point hanging about brooding about the long-lost past or where to find replacements for brass keyhole covers.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Medea muttered, clearly unconvinced of any such thing. “Now if we were going for a game of golf—”

But Elysia ruthlessly overrode any possibility of golf, and in the end Medea allowed herself to be persuaded. Leaving Morag to guard the house, they drove into the town of Newton in Medea’s giant old black Bentley.

The historic town of Newton, or “the Pearl of Kittatinny,” was a lovely old town located in the Northwest Skylands. Granted, it was a little limited as far as arts and entertainment day-tripping went. There was the Snow-mobile Barn Museum, which all three women agreed to give a wide miss to, and the Newton Fire Museum. The town boasted no fewer than four terrific golf courses. A.J. and Elysia again had to overrule Medea, who opted they skip the hair appointments for a few rounds. There were a number of cute shops and boutiques, and some charming cafés and restaurants.

After a leisurely lunch at Andre’s Restaurant and Wine Boutique, they drove to The Salon, a large white building with ionic pillars lining the front like a Greek temple. It wasn’t an ugly building, but it stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the historic architecture of Newton.

Medea and Elysia were greeted like old friends by the salon owner, Gloria Sunday.

“Elysia,
darling
.” Gloria was so exquisite she could have been made out of porcelain. Her makeup was flawless and her champagne-colored hair was so shiny and perfect it could have been a wig. Maybe it was. No concession had been made to her age, which was probably in her seventies. “
So
lovely to see you.”

Elysia and Gloria air-kissed and then Gloria turned to Medea.

“Medea,
darling
.” Gloria’s smile faltered, but then recovered. “At least you haven’t gone to a competitor. That’s a mercy. Tim awaits you.” She gestured to a slim young man with a goatee and a gold earring.

“Och,” Medea said, “I wasnae going to—”

She was whisked away, still feebly protesting. Gloria smiled a tiny, satisfied smile.

“My daughter, Anna,” Elysia said.

“Anna.” Sherry-colored eyes flicked over A.J. appraisingly, lingering on her hair. Gloria’s smile stayed firmly in place, but it seemed to require effort.

Elysia added, “She inherited my late sister’s studio.”

The sherry-colored gaze sharpened. “
Ah.
Of course, of course.
Welcome
, my dear. We have you down for the Athenian.”

Hopefully the Athenian was a “what” and not a “who.” A.J. said, “I just wanted a trim, really.”

Elysia and Gloria laughed gaily at the very idea. Gloria appeared to consider and then she gestured like a sorceress summoning a genie. “Alessandro, I think.”

Alessandro turned out to be a very handsome young Latino from Brooklyn. He had a sultry smile and a short ponytail. When he shook A.J.’s hand he clasped it warmly in both of his.

“This is a treat for me,” he told A.J. as he settled her in the reclining chair next to a shampoo basin shaped like a golden shell. “I can’t think of the last time I worked with someone who wasn’t suffering hot flashes.”

A.J. couldn’t help wondering what charming lies he told the menopausal someones. That it was a relief to work with someone mature?

“You don’t have many male clients?”

“We don’t have any.” Alessandro sounded definite. A.J. glanced around the salon. All the patrons were indeed female. And all the stylists were male. Young, handsome males. Gloria seemed to have isolated and identified her target market, and, judging by appearances, business was booming.

Alessandro certainly seemed worth his weight in gold. He had magical fingers, and as he skillfully massaged A.J.’s neck and scalp, she began to toy with the notion of hiring a masseuse for Sacred Balance. They had recently hired a physician for their Sitka Yoga program, so why not a masseuse? Especially since Mara Allen had one for Yoga Meridian.

Not that A.J. wanted to fall into her old competitive mind-set. Yoga wasn’t just about stretching the body; surely she had managed to stretch her mind a little over the last year? Still, she had no intention of lying there in Corpse Pose while Mara Allen took over her business.

After the shampoo, Alessandro painted a purple glaze on A.J.’s hair and left her browsing a copy of
Vogue
under a dryer. She turned the magazine pages and surreptitiously studied the busy salon. Nearly every chair was full this Saturday afternoon. And every chair was manned—no pun intended—by an enthusiastic young sir chatting and charming his client. Alessandro was correct. With the exception of herself, none of the clients looked under forty-five.

A.J. spotted Medea beneath a veil of black hair. A few stations down she spied her mother; recognized the expression and the moving lips: Elysia was interrogating her smiling stylist.

Over by the elegant front desk—seemingly designed to look like a marble and gold sacrificial altar—Gloria was speaking earnestly to a tall, thin, courtly-looking older man.

Alessandro returned and escorted A.J. to the “styling pavilion.” Here A.J. was given a flute glass of champagne to sip while Alessandro asked her a variety of questions about her job, morning routine, and exercise habits in order to determine the best possible haircut for her.

Back when A.J. had been an up-and-coming freelance marketing consultant she had paid major dollars to have her long, chestnut hair highlighted at the John Barrett Salon on Fifth Avenue. She really hadn’t taken time to get a serious cut and color since she’d moved to New Jersey. Maybe it was time for a new look.

Alessandro certainly seemed to think so and made numerous suggestions—most of them good. One thing for sure, he wasn’t just a pretty face. He did know his craft, and in between the amiable third degree he snipped and trimmed, eyes narrowed as he measured one side of A.J.’s hair against the other.

“So you’re just having a girls’ day out, Anna?”

“Yes. Call me A.J.” She watched the silver flash of scissors. “How long have you worked at the salon?”

“Just about a year. And your mom used to be a movie star?”

“In Britain, yes.” A.J. preferred not to go there. Elysia had a startlingly large cult following among young males. Her gaze fell on Gloria who was still talking to the handsome, but increasingly restive-looking, older man. “Who is Gloria talking to?”

“That’s her partner Stewie Cabot. Are you married, A.J.?”

“Nope. Not anymore.” She smilingly batted the ball back in Alessandro’s court. “Are Gloria and Stewie involved?”

“Nah. No way. Stewie’s gay.” Alessandro chuckled. “You’re engaged, I bet?”

And so it went. Alessandro was charming and attentive and never shut up. No, that wasn’t true. He listened very carefully to all of A.J.’s answers to his questions—and he had many questions. Somehow his interrogation managed to skirt the line of actually being intrusive; Alessandro seemed merely young and guileless. Maybe A.J. was conscious of how many questions he was asking because she was doing her best to question
him
.

While they fenced, Alessandro snipped and styled. At the end of two and a half hours A.J. had a short, feathery cut that was stylish but wouldn’t require too much work with her active lifestyle.

“It’s lovely,” she admitted, holding a hand mirror to examine the close cropped back of her head.

Alessandro handed her his card. “My pleasure. I would love to see you again, A.J. Anytime.”

A.J. thanked him. When they shook hands, Alessandro gently, meaningfully squeezed her hand.

Elysia stood at the front waiting for her. Her eyes widened at A.J.’s approach. “You look absolutely fabulous, pet.” She bade A.J. turn, which A.J. did.

“The rolling eyes make you look a bit unhinged, but otherwise, a truly lovely job.”

A.J. noticed that Stewie, Gloria’s business partner according to Alessandro, was smiling as he observed them.

“Gorgeous,” he agreed, joining in the conversation. “Of course, it helps when we have such lovely raw material to work with.” He turned to Elysia and expertly delivered the finishing stroke. “Your baby sister?”

They chatted with the smooth and personable Stewie for a few minutes and then he excused himself to speak to a customer on the phone. Shortly after, Medea joined them.

One glance at the older woman’s face told A.J. something was very wrong. Medea was visibly shaken, her face white and her eyes red-rimmed.

“What’s wrong?” Elysia demanded. “You’re not happy with the cut?”

Medea shook her head. Paying the cupid-cute male receptionist for her cut with shaking hands, she pushed out through the amber crackle-glass doors. Elysia and A.J. had to hurry to keep up with her.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Elysia persisted.

Medea gave another swift shake of her head. They reached the underground parking garage, Medea walking so swiftly the other two had to trot to keep up.

They found the Bentley amidst the rows of shining, silent cars. Medea unlocked the doors and they got in.

Slumped behind the wheel, Medea took deep, unsteady breaths.

Elysia put a hand on her shoulder and Medea’s face twisted up.

“Maddie, petal,
tell me
what’s wrong,”

Medea let out a long, shaky sigh. “Peggy Graham is dead.”

“Who’s
Peggy Graham?” Elysia asked blankly.

“Peggy. Peggy Graham.”

“Yes, got that much, love.
Who
is Peggy Graham?”

Medea hiccupped a half-sob. “A friend. I’ve mentioned Peggy, surely?”

“Er . . . refresh my memory.”

“Peggy and I sat on the League of Historical Societies.”

As she began to speak of her acquaintanceship with Peggy, A.J. suddenly remembered the name of the woman who had been harassing Dicky before his death. Had the police investigated Dora Beauford at all? Did they even know of her existence?