Tressed to Kill (11 page)

Chapter Eleven

[Tuesday]

MOM AND ALTHEA WERE ALREADY AT THE SALON when I arrived Tuesday morning, holding mugs of coffee and stopping their conversation so abruptly when I walked in that I knew they were discussing me. Just like they had during my growing up years. I think Althea knew when I started getting my period before I did, and she always had remedies to suggest for Alice Rose’s acne and my ingrown toenail. Telling Mom something was tantamount to telling Althea, something I’d sort of forgotten.
Althea had dark circles under her eyes, and her skin seemed to sag floorward, as if gravity had increased its pull on her tenfold overnight. Her hair was flat against her skull. My mom, on the other hand, looked sprightly in an aqua blouse I’d never seen before and a new shade of lipstick.
“Have fun at dinner last night?” I asked, brewing my tea.
She actually blushed. “Walter and I had a nice conversation,” she said. “He told me all about how he wants to remodel his store space, if his new landlady will let him.” She gave Althea a sidelong glance. “It’s going to look real nice, much more open.”
Althea looked at me from under her brows. “I understand you think I firebombed the salon,” she said.
“Mom!” I looked from one to the other, seriously annoyed. My mother busied herself straightening the cupboard where we keep the dyes. “I do not think you did anything of the sort, Althea,” I said. “I only wondered, when I heard you had inherited the building—”
“If I murdered Constance to get myself a prime piece of St. Elizabeth real estate?”
“No! I just . . . I didn’t . . . Did you even know she was leaving it to you?”
“Oh, simmer down, baby girl,” she said, using a comb to fluff her hair. “I was pulling your chain. You’re trying to find out what happened so you can clear your mama’s name. I can respect that. Especially since we’ve already had three cancellations for today.”
I looked at my mom. “Really?”
Mom nodded sadly. “Yes. But we don’t know it’s because people think I had anything to do with Constance’s death.”
I could see she didn’t really believe that.
“And, no,” Althea added, “I had no idea Constance DuBois had put me in her will. I don’t know what in tarnation made her do such a thing. I wouldn’t take her blood money twenty-five years ago and I don’t want it now.”
“Maybe it’s her way of saying sorry,” I suggested. The first sip of tea felt and tasted wonderful. Ah, caffeine.
Althea snorted.
Just then, Stella walked in with Beauty in her arms. “Good morning, y’all,” she said, letting Beauty jump down. The cat ambled to Mom and wove between her legs making little
prrp
noises. Mom bent to stroke her as Stella picked white hairs off her chocolate-colored blouse. “The doctor says Jessie’s allergic to cats,” she said mournfully. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Find her a new home,” Althea suggested.
“But I’ve had her for five years,” Stella said.
Althea cocked her head. “I thought the girl was twelve.”
We all laughed when we realized she meant Jessie, and I poured Stella some coffee before filling them in on what I’d learned.
“So, Philip had a motive for getting his mom out of the way,” Althea said, “and so did Lucy Mortimer and Walter Highsmith.”
“Walter didn’t do it,” Mom put in. “He’s such a gentle man.”
A vision of the gentle man waving a sword around in this salon not quite a week ago made me raise my eyebrows.
“Let’s not rule anyone out at this point,” Stella put in sensibly, “except us, of course.”
“And there’s Del Richardson, the Morestuf guy,” I reminded them. “He might have some kind of underhanded deal going with Beau Lansky that either or both of them might take drastic measures to protect.” I told them about Marty Shears. I had looked him up online last night and even read a few of his articles. He wrote well and had won several awards for political reporting. I’d called him and agreed to meet him the next day. He was in Atlanta today, he said, working on deadline for a different story. I got the feeling he was aiming for a national-level reporting job, and wouldn’t be in Atlanta forever.
“I don’t know about working with a reporter,” Mom said, aligning her combs and scissors to prepare for the day’s first customer. “It’s really more the police’s job. Do you think we should pass some of this along to Special Agent Dillon?”
“I think Grace has a flair for this investigating stuff,” Stella said. “I mean, there’s no reason we can’t tell the police and keep looking into things ourselves, too. Right?”
Mom bit her lower lip. “I’m worried that—”
Althea interrupted her. “Grace’s tougher than she looks, Vi, and more stubborn, too. You might as well just tell her to keep on with her detecting, because she’s going to do it anyway. And she’s already dug up my old secret, so I say what the hell. But don’t you go worrying your mother any more, you hear?” She gave me the “don’t mess with your mom” look I’d seen many times over the years. When I nodded, she checked the clock on the wall. “Since my first appointment’s cancelled, I’m going to run to the Piggly Wiggly. You need anything, Vi?”
“Half a pound of okra, thank you, Althea. If it looks good. I’m going to make gumbo tonight.”
Before Althea could leave, I suggested she tell her story to Martin Shears. “He might be able to track down some leads the police overlooked,” I said.
She wagged her head from side to side. “It’s been too long. My William’s gone. I accepted that years ago. But if you think my story would help this reporter track down Constance’s murderer, you tell him. I don’t want to talk to him.” Slipping her handbag over her arm, she left.
“Did Rachel find out anything?” Stella asked me as the door shut behind Althea.
Mom zinged a flinty look between me and Stella. “You got that child involved?”
I grimaced at Stella, who shrugged her shoulders, abashed. “We didn’t ask her to,” I said. “In fact, we tried to stop her. But she wanted to help you,” I said, shamelessly transferring part of the guilt to my mom, “and she’s only planning to talk to a kid at the high school.” I didn’t mention that the kid was Philip DuBois the Third, otherwise know as Trey.
“Mmpf,” Mom muttered. “I still don’t like it. What would I say to her mother if something happened?”
As Stella set out her nail polishes and Mom dusted her station, I checked the appointment calendar to find that my first client had cancelled, too. Debating whether that gave me time to meet Vonda for a cup of tea at Doralynn’s, I looked up when the door jangled open. An attractive blonde stood on the threshold, staring around curiously. Wearing skinny jeans and a snug blue tee shirt over a chest even my former mother-in-law would consider ample, she seemed familiar, but I didn’t recognize her until she spoke.
“Ruthie told me you do the best cuts in town,” she said, the New York accent reminding me of breakfast Sunday. Angie the waitress. No, Amber.
“That was kind of her,” Mom said, coming forward. “Do you need a cut?”
“A trim, really,” the girl said, fluffing out her blonde hair. It fell to her shoulder blades. “Can you fit me in?”
“Sure,” I said, coming forward. “Let’s get you shampooed.” I gave her a smock from the closet and led her to the sink. I noticed a bandage wrapped her left hand, and a metal splint protruded from it. “What happened?”
“I broke a finger playing softball,” she said ruefully, lifting the bandaged hand. “For Doralynn’s team. We won, though. Beat those Roving Pirate swabbies by six runs.”
I laughed and turned on the water.
“This is such a beautiful house, with all the ginger-bread and everything,” Amber said when she settled into my chair with her hair wrapped in a towel. “I love the old homes down here on the square. And the gardens. Where I come from, the houses look like little boxes. No personality. It must be wonderful to work in a historic house like this.”
“The best part is the commute: walk downstairs and you’re at work,” Mom laughed, overhearing. “The worst part is the upkeep. Hundred-and-fifty-year-old plumbing has its drawbacks.”
“How much do you want off?” I asked Amber, combing her hair.
She slid a lock of damp hair between two fingers and stopped an inch from the ends. “Like that?” She watched as I secured most of her hair onto the crown of her head with colorful plastic clips. “Do you have any ghosts?” She looked around wide-eyed, as if expecting an apparition to float through one of the walls.
I laughed, and Amber crinkled her nose and giggled. “Maybe like a Southern belle in one of those hoop gowns waiting for her fiancé to come home from the wars?”
“I’ve never heard of any ghosts,” I said, cutting a thin layer of hair. “Mom?”
“Not in this house,” Mom said. “And I’ve always been grateful for it. I don’t need footsteps in the attic or cold spots on the stairs. But some of the other houses in town have ghosts, or so people say,” she added, seeing disappointment in Amber’s face. “There’s a Ghost Walk every Friday night from Memorial Day to Labor Day. A guide takes you around to the haunted houses on the square and tells ghost stories.”
“Oooh,” Amber’s blue eyes sparkled. “That sounds like fun. I hope we’re still here so I can do that.”
“I thought you were staying for the summer,” I said.
“I’d like to,” she said, “but I might have to move on before then.” Her full lips set in a straight line.
I didn’t pursue the subject, asking instead, “Have you ever considered bangs?”
The day moved slowly with the usual flood of clients slowed to a trickle. I had trouble controlling my anger each time the phone rang with another cancellation. And the women didn’t even have the guts to tell the truth. I heard more stories about sick children and unexpected visits from out-of-town guests than you could shake a stick at. By the time Rachel bounced in after school at three o’clock, Mom was working on her gumbo in the kitchen and I was ready to hurl the phone at the wall.
“Wow, it’s, like, dead in here,” Rachel said, surveying the empty salon. “The high school’s not this empty on a Monday in July.”
“That’s not very helpful, Rachel,” Stella said. She’d been on her cell phone most of the afternoon, calling allergists to see about getting her Jessie treatment for cat allergies.
“Sorry,” Rachel said. She tossed her backpack under the counter and ran her fingers through her hair. The black strands looked shorter to me, and the bangs looked more ragged, as if she’d gone after them with nail scissors. “Like it?” she asked, pirouetting. “I got the urge this morning to do, you know, something different.”
“It’s different,” I conceded. “Do you want me to even it up?”
“Oh, no! Trey likes it this way,” she said slyly. “He’s asked me to the prom.”
“Trey DuBois?” Stella asked. “Way to go, Rach!” She high-fived the girl. “What are you going to wear? You would look so beautiful in pink.”
“I was thinking black,” Rachel said.
Surprise.
“With maybe a net skirt,” she went on, using her hands to sketch the skirt’s fullness in the air, “and a black denim vest and fingerless gloves.” She wiggled her fingers.
“Prom is so special,” Stella said, obviously dismayed by the picture Rachel painted. “Don’t you think—”
“Stella!” I put my hands on my hips, glad Mom was in the kitchen.
“Oh, right,” Stella said with a guilty glance toward the door. She lowered her voice. “Did you find out anything from Trey? About his dad’s job?”
The three of us huddled into the Nail Nook. I noticed Rachel had a small tattoo of a lizard at the nape of her neck and hoped it was temporary. “Well,” she breathed, “they’re not moving to New York. Trey’s really psyched ’cause he just got invited to work out with the Bulldogs for a couple of weeks at the start of the summer.”
I didn’t care if Trey was going to the Olympics. “Did he say anything about Philip’s reaction to Constance’s death, or anything about the bank?”
“Well, I could tell that he wasn’t real broken up about his nana’s death,” Rachel said, twisting her mouth. “That’s sad. He seemed more interested in the money.”
“What money?” Stella asked.
“I couldn’t really ask him that, like, right out,” Rachel said, batting at the cauldron earring so it swung against her cheek. “But he seemed to think things were going better at the bank and that they’d have more money because his mom and dad are going on an expensive cruise next month. They’d cancelled the trip a month or so ago, but now it’s back on. Trey said he’s having a party while they’re gone and I’m invited.” Her eyes shone with anticipation.
“Don’t go,” Stella and I chorused.
Rachel pursed her mouth into a sulky moue. “It’s not like you’re my parents.”
I’d never managed to sneak off to a classmate’s party when I was in high school, maybe because I was never popular enough to get invited, but Vonda had gone to a couple, and I winced at the memory of some of her stories—all the drinking and necking . . . and worse. “No, we’re not,” I said gently. “But we’re your friends. And you can get yourself in big trouble at some of those parties if there are no adults around. You don’t want to put yourself in a position where it’s easy for someone to take advantage of you.” Ye gods, I sounded more like my mother every day. I wasn’t surprised when Rachel shrugged off my warning, the way I was sure I’d ignored my mom’s cautions.
“I’m not stupid,” she said, “and I don’t drink alcohol. Anyway,” she changed the subject, “do you think Trey’s dad killed Mrs. DuBois to get her money?”
I looked at Stella. “We don’t know,” Stella said. “There are other people who benefited from Constance’s death, too.” And she gave Rachel an edited version of Lucy Mortimer’s and Walter Highsmith’s complaints with Constance, carefully not mentioning Althea’s inheritance.
The salon door jingled open, and the three of us swung around guiltily. Special Agent Dillon stood on the threshold, quirking an eyebrow at us. “Let me guess,” he said, pointing at me, Stella, and Rachel in turn. “Nancy, Bess, and George.”
He surprised a smile from me and a laugh from Stella. Rachel blushed in that confusing way teens have of being perfectly at home socially one moment and insecure the next. “I’ve got homework,” she muttered, ducking under the counter to get her backpack.
“It’ll be busier tomorrow, Rachel,” I called after her as she sidled past Special Agent Dillon. “Come in at the usual time.”
“Sure thing,” she said over her shoulder.
“Do you have a moment?” Special Agent Dillon asked me, motioning toward the door.
“Sure.” I followed him out onto the veranda. The heat mugged me, giving me a foretaste of the summer to come. I plucked my blouse away from my body to allow the air to circulate. Dillon seemed oblivious to the heat in his blazer and khaki slacks. He headed to the far corner of the veranda from the damaged end, leaning back against the railing in a spot shaded by the centuries-old magnolia tree whose roots rumpled the yard so it looked like an unmade bed.