Wave Good-Bye (24 page)

BY QUARTER ’TIL ONE, I’D CONVINCED THE TWO stylists on the floor and the receptionist that I had some redeeming value. Vinny smiled eagerly at me as I walked past. So did Taffy, who must have shared her view with Corina Coffinas, because the other young woman seemed to relax a bit in my presence. Corina had to have been the person talking with Taffy in the john. Taffy was a good stylist, but she didn’t have the wealth of experience that I had, and that was slowly becoming evident.

With each passing hour, I grew more and more confident. I could handle this job. So I was in a particularly good mood when I left for lunch, walked down the street, and saw Marsh waiting for me on the sidewalk outside of Angelini’s. His tan slacks fit perfectly, and his Oxford cloth
shirt was a sky blue that brought out the color of his navy eyes. As usual, he wore a silk tie in a conservative pattern. For the most part, he could double as a successful businessman, except for that bulge under one arm, and a certain don’t-mess-with-me way he had of holding himself.

“You look nice. How’s your job hunt coming?” he said.

“I am now gainfully employed.”

He gave a low whistle. “That was fast.”

“In fact, I’ll treat.”

“No, you don’t. My mother would roll over in her grave.”

“I insist. I want to celebrate, and I also want to thank you for helping me land a new position.”

Finally, he shrugged. “If you insist. But don’t expect to make a habit of this. I hate having my manhood threatened.”

I laughed. “Okay.”

Once we were seated, we ordered quickly so I could get back. I assumed he would have limited time to eat also.

“Now tell me all about it. Where are you working?” The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. I never noticed it before, but there was a tiny scar in his left eyebrow.

I ignored the hum starting in my body and took a big sip of cold water to keep myself calm. “Snippets. Eve Sebastiani Goodman hired me to take Lisa Butterworth’s place.”

“What?” his whole demeanor changed. “Grace Ann, you can’t do that!”

“Shhh,” I warned him. People had turned to stare. “What are you talking about? Of course, I can do that. I can take a job anywhere I want.”

“Not when there’s a killer loose. Not when the murderer is probably one of their staff. You can’t work there! It’s dangerous! You could get killed!”

Whoa. Where was this coming from? Mr. Calm, Cool, and Collected seemed totally freaked.

“I could get killed? How? There are always people there at any given time. If your reasoning follows, all of them could die, too, so aren’t you going overboard?”

He sputtered, grabbed his glass of water, and downed it in two gulps. “But we haven’t apprehended the murderer.”

“It’s not like I’m going to drown in the fish tank. Or get electrocuted.”

“H-How did you know about that? It’s supposed to be kept quiet. Did that idiot of an ex-husband tell you about where we found her body? And, yes, she drowned, but she drowned after being smacked in the forehead. When she fell off the step stool, she crashed right through the hood and light contraption. Getting hit in the head could happen to anyone, including you, whether the fish tank is reinstalled or not! Oh, crap,” he moaned and put his head in his hands. “I can’t believe I told you all that.”

“Not to worry. Hank already spilled those beans. He and Officer Qualls came in so he could apologize. Instead he grabbed me and tried to ram his tongue down my throat. Your idea?”

Marsh snorted so angrily he sounded like a bull ready to charge. “When I get ahold of him…Look, I told him to apologize. That’s the least he owes you. I wonder how he knew where to find you? I thought he’d call you on the phone.”

“Probably talked to my mother.” As soon as I said it, I knew that wasn’t likely. Mom was too miffed at him to tell him where I was. “Or my sister. Maybe he’s been following me around. Point being, I don’t want to talk to him. Ever. So please forget about the apology, at least in person. I don’t want Hank anywhere close to me.”

Now Marsh turned red, then white, then red again. “I’ll see to it he doesn’t bother you again. Did he at least apologize?”

“After he accused me of murdering Lisa. Again. In front of customers.”

Marsh groaned. “I need a drink.”

I signaled the waiter. “Two glasses of Pinot Grigio,” I said to the man in black, and then turning to Marsh, I added, “I shouldn’t have a glass of wine, but seeing how this day is going, I think I will. Here’s hoping I don’t have to cut any hair this afternoon.”

“You can’t do this,” he hissed that last word. “It’s too dangerous for you to work in that salon. Right after lunch, I’m going to march you back to that salon and stand there while you quit.”

“
What?
You are not doing any such thing! You’re not my boss. You’re not my boyfriend. Maybe you can treat Polly that way—”

“Polly?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Or that I wouldn’t care that you’re married?”

“Married! That’s what this is all about? My wife?”

By now every head in the restaurant had turned to watch the fireworks at our table. The waiter brought two glasses of wine, eyed us nervously, set them down, and backed away. I grabbed mine and downed it as if it were Gatorade.

When I finished, Marsh’s eyes were big as bread plates. I set down my wineglass and said, “I’m done here.”

I scooted out my chair, got unsteadily to my feet, and proceeded to flounce out. Flouncing, by the way, is a much-admired Southern art form. Especially when flouncing out of a restaurant. To flounce, one must first push back from the table and then stand and toss the napkin onto the chair. This is the Southern belle equivalent of throwing down the gauntlet. Then, when all eyes are on you, you flip back your head so your hair whirls just so. And finally, you stomp off.

I’m not much at crying, but I’m a world champion flouncer.

I could feel Marsh’s eyes burning holes through my back, so halfway to the front door, I executed a perfect “flounce with a twist,” the much-vaunted “pseudo-flounce,” a move admired by many but perfected by few. I stopped, did an about-face, marched back to the table, and said, “Since being macho is so all-fired important to you, you can pay for lunch!”

The crowd gave me a perfect ten.

Chapter Forty-one

ON MY WAY BACK TO THE SALON, I CHECKED MY phone messages. LaReesa had texted a quick message:
Call me ASAP.

So I did.

“Girlfriend, how goes it?” her low voice always bordered on a chuckle.

“Not so good, but I’m on my way back to work right now, so I can’t really bend your ear. Can I get you caught up later?”

“Got it. Let me just give you the down and dirty. You know I’m on that hairstylists’ loop? Lisa Butterworth was on it, too, and she sent out a blast right before she died that she was expecting.”

“Expecting what?”

“Duh. A baby.”

I stopped walking to get my balance. The glass of wine on an empty stomach caused my head to spin. Surely I misunderstood. “Baby?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, boy.”

“I don’t think she knew if it was a boy or a girl.”

I didn’t correct her misimpression. “Uh, I’ll get back to you, LaReesa. Thanks so much.”

Either her news or my empty stomach or both were causing me to feel sick.

Walk-Inn Foods to the rescue. I decided to duck in there, grab a sandwich, wash it down with a Coke, and go back to the salon. As I stood in line, I wondered if Wynn was capable of murder. He was a liar and a cheat, but—and this seemed like a silly conclusion given those other adjectives—he wasn’t a bad person. I couldn’t imagine him getting violent. On the other hand, he never had so much to lose as he did now.

Petey Schultz took a spot in line behind me. Under his arms, he had two bags of cat litter and a case of beer. On his left cheek, he sported a big Band-Aid surrounded by an ugly crop of zits.

“How’s that parakeet doing?” he asked. Glancing down at the litter under his arm, he added sheepishly, “Ran out at the store.”

I told him about Marsh clipping Sam’s wings. Reciting the story increased the sharp ache in my throat. Why were all the good men taken?

“That’s sick, I mean, wicked righteous. I mean, clipping his wings was the right thing to do if you don’t want him getting out. There are parakeets who escape every year.”

“They die?” Our winters weren’t horrible, but we did,
on occasion, get down to the midforties in December and January.

“Not always. There’s actually a type of bird, the monk parakeet, that’s illegal to bring into the state because they are likely to compete with native birds for food.”

“Is my bird a monk parakeet?”

“No, yours is the regular Australia budgie. There’ve also been reports of a flock of feral budgies that live along the coast of Florida, and I once heard about a flock in Illinois. They wintered over in a farmer’s barn.”

I smiled at Petey. “That’s fascinating.” Glancing at his beer, I added, “You having a party?”

He blushed. “Sort of. A going-away party.”

“For a friend?”

“Naw, for me.” Moving close to my ear, he whispered, “I got my bonus coming in a couple of days. Figured I should split while I could.”

“I understand. I wanted to leave St. Elizabeth when I was your age, but I came back.”

“Leaving might be best thing for me.” His look grew pensive. “Definitely.”

The clerk motioned that he was ready to ring up my goods. Mindful of the booze on my breath, I added a pack of spearmint gum to my lunch, paid the man, and told Petey good-bye. “Safe travels,” I said.

For a moment, I thought he might burst into tears. “Yeah, it’s kinda too late for that.”

Chapter Forty-two

DESPITE THE FACT I WENT BACK TO THE SALON feeling unsettled and upset with Marsh, the rest of the afternoon went by quickly. Since I knew the beauty-treatment business, I thought it best to learn how Snippets ran their salons. So I decided that working with Corina at the front desk would give me the best overview. My goal was to see how she did the scheduling, who was busy, who wasn’t, and how fast each stylist worked.

Several familiar faces from Violetta’s showed up for services. A couple had the good grace to look embarrassed about their defection. A few were so clueless, they acted confused. One woman even said, “Grace Ann, nice to see you, as always,” as if I had worked at Snippets my whole life!

I did my best to smooth over any sense of unease. Changing a hairstylist can be as unsettling as getting a divorce. Your stylist often knows every intimate detail of your life, occasionally even more than a spouse does. I realized that our “old” Violetta’s customers might think I’d hold their defection against them. I tried hard not to, because I knew that if I let the customers know how betrayed I felt, they would never come back to Violetta’s. My fingers were crossed that the insurance adjuster might give Mom good news, and we could reopen the shop. It was one thing for Mom to decide she was tired of styling hair, and another for her to be forced out of business.

Besides the regulars from Violetta’s, there were a lot of customers I’d never seen. Eve came up to where I was sitting at the front counter. “What do you think? What impressions do you have of this salon? I really want to know.”

“Your clientele includes a lot of our old customers, but you also do a big business with younger, hipper women, and businessmen in suits,” I said.

“The building and the décor sets the tone for the salon. As adorable as your Victorian house is, I don’t think it did you any favors when it came to attracting a younger generation of clients. Or businessmen. The vibe was wrong for them. Consequently, you didn’t even get a chance at their business, except if they’d been coming to you for years—or a loved one dragged them in. Unfortunately, people can’t always tell whether they’ve had a great cut or not, especially at first, but they can tell if they like the ambiance.” Eve spoke without a trace of unkindness. Nor was she being judgmental. The woman knew the hair business—and I was quickly realizing I could learn a lot from her.

She was right about our quaint Victorian house, although I hated to admit it. I had also noticed all the small creature comforts that Snippets offered, small indulgences that made
a visit here pleasurable: the free hot drinks and ice tea bar, the precisely adjustable water temperature in the rinse sinks, the comfortable chairs in the waiting area, the up-to-date magazines, the extensive makeup bar, the free samples that were generously given to customers, and the terrific lights that made people look good. There was even a special type of flooring that made standing on your feet easier on your joints. That benefited both the customers and the stylists. The list of amenities could go on and on. I couldn’t wait to get Mom and Althea here and give them a tour.