Under the Skin (37 page)

W
e wound our way through the low-ceilinged floors to almost the very top of a parking garage in downtown Asheville. As I’d suspected, there was, indeed, a street festival of some sort going on and the garage was almost full. The air was full too, with the sounds and smells of music and cooking from a dizzying variety of ethnicities.

Somehow I hadn’t been surprised when, after visiting three shops and trying on eight dresses, Gloria was still searching for the garment that met all her requirements.

“Coral, I think, though yellow
could
work. But coral has always been such a favorite of mine. And sleeveless, because it might be warm, but maybe with a light jacket for later in the evening.”

A thought struck her. “Lizzy, what are your girls wearing? Are they going to be bridesmaids—oh, and what about Phillip’s daughter? And then there’s Amanda—Are they …”

At the thought of a kind of chorus line decked out in matching bridesmaid dresses, I suppressed an unladylike snort. “No, Glory—this ceremony is going to be pretty much bare-bones. We do have friends coming to play some music before and after. But, basically, Phillip and I will stand up together and say some words. And then
the judge will say we’re married. No bridesmaids or flower girls or ring bearers and, for bloody sure, no one to, quote,
give me away
—just friends and family to share our happiness and stay around for a bit of a celebration.”

After several more fruitless stops, at last Gloria found the object of her desire in a little boutique that was tucked away down a crooked one-way street lined with enticing shops of every ilk. Enticing to Gloria, that is. I’d never realized what an endurance sport shopping can be, and I was dragging behind, dreaming of the iced coffee concoction I’d soon be enjoying at the bookstore. Gloria, however, was clicking along the sidewalk in her high heels like a long-distance runner with her second wind.

“Lizzy, don’t you think this dress is absolute
perfection
!” She patted the huge shopping bag that dangled from her elbow. “It’s so worth all the looking when you end up with just the right thing. That delicate balance between pink and orange has always been my favorite. So festive too! It’ll set off
your
dress
and
look good against the greenery. But, you know—I’m not happy with the way those copper highlights Nigel put in my hair look with the coral. I think they need to go; a
silvery
, moonlight sort of blond would be better, don’t you think?”

The narrow sidewalks were already awash with tourists and shoppers as well as some spillover from the street festival crowds a block away. The muted roar of many people filled the air, while the percolator sound of reggae fought with the twang and thump of a bluegrass band, while over all, the amplified voice of an announcer repeatedly asked spectators to move be
hind
the yellow barricades as the parade would be coming that way soon.

Before I could weigh in on Gloria’s highlights, however,
I was halted by a gaggle of ladies-who-lunch types emerging from a doorway just between me and Glory. Blocking the sidewalk, they stood in a chattering knot, trying to determine whether to go on to the QuerY gallery or to do the Art Museum first. I was puzzled by the fact that all of them were wearing purple and every last one had on a bright red hat of some sort, mostly fancy models with wide brims but there were a few baseball caps too—one completely covered with sparkling red sequins.

By the time the club or sorority or whatever it was had dispersed (the QuerY won out) like a flock of chattering red-crested birds moving on to another feeder, Gloria was half a block away, peering through the glass door of another storefront. A quaint hanging sign over her head showed a pair of golden scissors and the words:
THE KINDEST CUT
.

When I caught up to her, she was frowning at the
CLOSED
sign on the door. A note posted just beneath it said that Nigel was relocating to the DC area. He thanked all his customers for their friendship and their patronage and invited them to check out his website for news of his new salon.

“I don’t understand—When I made my appointment the other day, he never
mentioned
that he planned on moving …” Gloria leaned in close to the glass of the door, peering through a slit left at the edge of the closed blind. “Oh, good—he’s in there. I’ll let him know I’m here. Why don’t you come back in about forty minutes? I’d love for Nigel to take a look at your hair, Lizzy—he might have a suggestion or two.”

As Gloria moved aside and began to rap on the doorframe, I could see for myself a tall man with a ponytail waving a blow-dryer over his client’s blond mop of curls. He didn’t seem to hear my sister’s knocking nor her “Nigel—it’s
Gloria
. I have a three-fifteen.”

But then the blonde in the chair nodded her head in the direction of the door and the ponytailed man put down the blow-dryer and brush he’d been wielding and headed our way, his mouth a thin line of annoyance—or was it some other emotion?

I heard the click of a lock and the door swung open. At the same moment, the cellphone in my purse sounded its jingling tone. As no one but Phillip and my family have my number—and none of them ever call just to chat—I tend always to answer the rare calls right away—and always with a bit of trepidation.

Scrabbling through the odds and ends in my shoulder bag, I located the little leather holster that held my phone and stepped away to answer.

“Forty minutes!” Gloria called cheerfully before disappearing through the doorway. The door shut behind her just as I finally managed to hit the right button to answer the call.

“Sweetheart, where are you?”

Phillip’s voice held an unmistakable urgency and I braced for the worst.

“Glory and I are in downtown Asheville; she’s just gone into Nigel’s salon and I’m headed to the bookstore. Is something wrong?”

I had moved away from the door and was standing by one of those little glass-fronted boxes of the type restaurants use to display menus—a vitrine, I think they’re called. Inside were several clippings pertaining to Nigel’s past triumphs: his course of study with Vidal Sassoon, a picture of Nigel holding a trophy of some sort and standing next to a young woman with a strange asymmetrical hairstyle … a kind of outdoor brag wall.

On the other end, Phillip was hesitating—and, no doubt, running his hand over his bald scalp as he always did when he had something he didn’t know how to say.

“The thing is … now I don’t want you to get rattled;
I know you two are having a nice day together but the thing is …”

Another picture in the vitrine caught my eye. It was a picture of half a dozen people standing in front of the Hot Springs Spa. The photo was on a page cut from one of those glossy lifestyle magazines and it was part of an article about the spa, dated two years ago. The people pictured were the staff—and in the article a great deal was made of the qualifications of the spa’s hairstylist: Nigel.

Phillip’s voice was drowned out by a roar of applause and the
oompah
of a marching band passing by at the end of the street. I looked again at the picture and started toward the door of Nigel’s salon. The person who had abducted Gloria had to be someone familiar with the spa. And it was Nigel who’d been responsible for sending both Gloria and Joss to the spa …

And Gloria was in there with him. As soon as the blonde’s hair was done, she’d be on her way and Gloria would be alone with Nigel.

No, I couldn’t let that happen.

The tinny chatter in my ear was unintelligible and the noise on the street was getting louder.

“Phillip, stay on the line. I’ve got to go get Gloria.”

Dropping the open phone into the little pocket at the top of my shoulder bag, I put my hand on the shining brass latch of the door. As long as that customer was in there, I doubted that Nigel would … would what? I had no proof that he was responsible for the incident at the spa in Hot Springs but now it seemed likely that he was more deeply involved than I’d thought. Still, no one had been
harmed
. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed to have been a charade to allow Joss to rescue Gloria.

We could sort that out later. The important thing was to get Gloria back outside. As soon as she was out the
door, I could tell Phillip about Nigel’s connection to the spa and see what he thought.

I tried the latch and to my surprise, the door wasn’t locked. Assuming a casual demeanor I was far from feeling, I pushed the door open and stepped in.

Gloria was perched on one of the chairs in the waiting area, leafing through a glossy magazine and speaking to Nigel who was standing behind the blonde and putting some finishing touches on her coiffure. His tanned face was strained and he seemed nervous—like a trapped animal.

I bet he thinks she’s onto him and his little scam. Probably that’s why he had the closed sign up—trying to avoid her. Well, serves him right
.

“No, I made an appointment and here I am. I would
not
prefer to come back later. I don’t mind waiting till you finish up there.”

Now the stylist was simply standing—staring at the back of the blonde in the revolving chair. “You shouldn’t have come in, Gloria.” His voice was flat and emotionless. “I did
try.
” And he put out a hand to swing the chair around.

As the blonde’s face came into view, I was suddenly struck by a feeling of—not déjà vu but recognition. Surely I knew this woman from somewhere, some previous encounter. A past customer, perhaps? Had I done the flowers for her wedding?

Her clothing was mostly covered by one of those pink capes hairstylists always drape their clients in, but I could see the hem of a flowered skirt, a pair of white, rather thick-ankled legs and red low-heeled sandals.

Nigel stepped forward with a hand mirror and the blonde studied the back of her head in the wall mirror at her back.

“Yes,” I heard a familiar voice say. “Yes,
that’s
who I really am.”

The blond head turned toward me. At the same time, her … his other hand came from beneath the concealing cape, aiming a revolver in my direction.

“Well, if it isn’t my sweet aunt Elizabeth,” said Joss. “And my own loving little mother.”

W
as she even listening? Phillip shook his head in frustration. Adjusting the cellphone at his ear, he spoke louder.

“Elizabeth, did you hear what I said? The sheriff just called—the one from Joss’s hometown. The parents got in touch with him to say that Joss has completely flipped out— The shrink they’d taken him to says it’s a delayed reaction from the blow to his head. The way he shuffled when he walked—that was a tip-off that there was damage. But anyway, Joss is convinced that he really is Gloria’s child and everyone—his parents, the shrink, you, me—are all plotting to keep him and Gloria apart. He got violent with his parents and then stormed out and they haven’t seen him since—and here’s what has me worried, sweetheart: They’re pretty sure he took some of the father’s handguns and a rifle.”

At the other end, he could hear a confusing babble of sound and finally Elizabeth’s voice telling him to stay on the line.

What the fuck is she up to? She said Gloria was going into Nigel’s salon— Is that the hairdresser guy who’s a friend of Joss?

“I got a bad feeling about this,” he muttered, pulling his car out of the parking lot of the fast-food place
where he’d just gotten a late and unsatisfactory lunch. Keeping the phone to one ear, he keyed the mic of the car radio to call the Sheriff’s Department.

“Brenda—I need an address ASAP. A beauty parlor in downtown Asheville—guy who runs it is named Nigel … No, sorry, that’s all I’ve got … Probably a pretty high-dollar place … Well, do what you can and get back to me—this is top priority.”

He pressed the cellphone hard against his ear and tried to make sense of what he was hearing: Gloria speaking pretty sharply to someone about an appointment … an unfamiliar male voice with a British accent—Nigel?—telling her she shouldn’t have come.

Where the hell is Lizabeth?
The voices seemed remote, even slightly muffled, as if the cell at the other end were concealed or—

Holy shit—the concealed cellphone! It’s the Bolitar Ploy! Did she do this on purpose?

Only a few days ago they’d been joking about the book he was reading. The Coben novel had reached a crucial moment and the hero—the improbably named Myron Bolitar—was in Big Trouble. But—and this was the part Lizabeth had nicknamed the
Bolitar Ploy—
Myron had left his concealed cellphone on with his psychotic sidekick listening in. There had been some discussion as to whether this so-called ploy would actually work …

Hold on—there was another voice; male … female … hard to say—but it sounded familiar.

“… my aunt Elizabeth,”
the high-pitched voice was saying,
“and my own loving little mother …”

Sweet Jesus, it’s Joss
. Phillip reached for the switch to activate his siren and emergency lights. “Get out of there, Lizabeth!” he shouted into the unhearing phone as the voices continued.

Once again he keyed the car radio. “Have you got anything yet, Brenda?”

He was on the Interstate now, emergency lights and siren going, speeding toward Asheville. The car radio crackled and Brenda spoke.
“… Thirty-three Wall Street … near the intersection with Haywood and …”

Time. How long would it take him to get there? And Joss was presumably armed.
Oh, Jesus, what are you doing, Lizabeth?

“Brenda, alert the Buncombe County Sheriff’s Department that we have a possible hostage situation at that address. I’m on my way.”

Cutting the dispatcher short, he punched in the info on his GPS, silently thanking the department for this recent addition to his official vehicle.