Aretha Moon and the Dead Hairdresser: Aretha Moon Book 2 (Aretha Moon Mysteries)

by Linda Ross

  “To me, it feels like something that happened here in Hannibal. I think the killer is still right here.”

  “Plenty of suspects everywhere we look.”

  “Boy, you can say that again.” I yawned. “So, what do you want to watch on TV tonight?”

  “Does it matter? You’re going to fall asleep anyway.”

  I tried to be offended, but he was right. One of the hazards of my age group. We ended up watching a movie on Netflix, and I dozed off and missed the ending.

  “And they lived happily ever after,” Jimmy said when I woke up. “I already let Nancy out, so you can both go to bed.”

  “Thanks.” I could get used to evenings like this.

  I woke up in the middle of the night with the usual heartburn and reached for the Tums on my night stand. Only one left, and sweet and sour chicken with crab Rangoon was a two-Tums dish, especially given the amount I’d eaten.

  So I tossed and turned the rest of the night, unable to fall into a deep sleep because of the fire that burbled up into my throat like a volcano. Okay, I’m being dramatic. It was a simple case of heartburn, and it was an aggravation. I vowed to eat healthier, then laughed at myself. Who was I kidding?

  I got up once to make sure I didn’t have more Tums in the bathroom. No luck there. I passed the other bedroom and couldn’t resist peeking in at Jimmy sleeping. He was snoring lightly, curled up on his side. I sighed and went back to bed.

  My heartburn wasn’t much better in the morning, and I can’t say that the two crab Rangoons and mu shu shrimp helped much. So I topped that off with a couple of brownies. I’m nothing if not persistent. I wasn’t sure who was going to give in first, the heartburn or me.

  Jimmy had left early, so I let Nancy out, fed her, then showered and dressed. I left the house a little early to give myself time to stop at Walgreen’s for Tums.

  Walgreen’s carries candy too, so I perused that aisle first. Then I moved on to the aisle with all the digestive aids. As I passed the first aid aisle I saw a man intent on the antibacterial creams. He looked vaguely familiar, and I tried to place him without staring. I pretended to be checking out the personal care products in the same aisle, keeping him in my peripheral vision. I noticed that his hands were covered in Band-Aids and bore several puncture wounds. He touched his ponytail, and that’s when I placed him.

  Joan Larkin’s neighbor. The guy who played his TV loud.

  I watched him check out with his antibiotic cream and a box of Band-Aids, and then I followed with my Tums. When I arrived on his street he had parked his car in the garage behind his house and was walking up to his front door. He unlocked it and took a deep breath before going in and quickly shutting the door.

  I went to Joan’s door and knocked.

  “Aretha!” she said when she saw me. “Come on in. Do you have some news?”

  I nodded. “Come with me.”

  She clutched her sweater together in both hands and stepped outside. “Do I need a coat?”

  “This won’t take long.”

  I led her across the yard to the neighbor’s house and up to the door. The TV was blasting the morning show.

  “Now call for Stewart. And make it loud.”

  She gave me a quizzical look but hollered, “Stewart! Stewart!”

  “Louder,” I said.

  “Stewart! Time for treatsies!”

  And that’s when we heard the barking start inside. Even with the TV noise, it was unmistakable. That high-pitched, piercing sound could only come from the devil’s spawn known as Stewart.

  “Stewart!” Joan cried. “Stewart! Come to Mama!”

  The door opened a crack, and for a moment I thought Stewart might have opened it himself. But it was the neighbor looking around the door. Through the crack I could see Stewart perched on the arm of a sofa by the door, his eyes bulging and his teeth bared. If Charles Manson came back as a dog, he’d be Stewart.

  “Mr. Mackey,” Joan said, “what’s Stewart doing in your house?”

  He looked down in embarrassment. “I’m really sorry,” he mumbled. “I just wanted some winning lottery numbers. My car is about to be repossessed and the dentist says I need a root canal.”

  From the looks of his hands, he was going to need some stitches too. Apparently Stewart had been an uncooperative house guest.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake,” Joan said. “Why didn’t you just tell me? We can go together on the tickets. And when’s the last time you had a decent meal? You’re way too thin. I’m doing a pot roast today. Mashed potatoes and gravy and carrots. And apple pie for dessert.”

  We had been shouting to be heard over the TV, and now Mr. Mackey pointed the remote and turned it down.

  “That’s very nice of you,” he said. “Especially after I stole your dog.”

  “Well, he doesn’t look any the worse for it,” Joan said. The same couldn’t be said for poor Mr. Mackey.

  “Come on in,” Mr. Mackey said. He opened the door all the way, and that’s when Stewart made his move. He launched off the sofa arm straight at me, a wild look on his face, saliva dripping from his mouth.

  Son of a bitch!!!

  I managed to get my purse in front of me just in time, and Stewart’s teeth sank into it. The little bastard was dangling from my purse, his legs trying to find purchase in air while muted snarls came from his throat.

  “Now, Stewart, you be a good boy,” Joan said, grabbing hold of him and pulling.

  I held onto the purse, and it finally separated from Stewart with a loud ripping sound.

  “Oh, my,” Joan said, looking down at Stewart in her arms, a large piece of my purse snagged on one tooth. Stewart continued to eye me like a deranged ax murderer, the snarls coming nonstop, which must have been a long string of swear words in chihuahua.

  “Well, I really have to be going,” I said. “It was nice seeing you again, Joan. And good luck, Mr. Mackey.” The poor bastard was going to need it.

  “Thank you, dear,” Joan called after me. Stewart let out a loud howl that started the rest of the dogs on the street barking in response.

  I was tempted to chug half the bottle of Tums when I got in the car, but I limited myself to two. And I stopped for donuts. I know, I know.

  Thelma came over to my desk when I walked in.

  “Why does your new purse have a hole in it?”

  I looked down and saw tissues spilling out. “I refereed a touching family reunion. We found Stewart.”

  “Really? Where was he?”

  “The neighbor took him to try to get him to pick winning lottery numbers.”

  “And did he?”

  “Not unless he tattooed them on the guy’s hands with his teeth.”

  “I called Serena Roosevelt at Hair Affair and asked if she had some time to talk to us. She’s got a break in about half an hour.”

  “Great. Let me get a Diet Coke and I’ll be ready.”

  I turned and nearly bumped into Rose.

  “I was wondering how things were going,” she said, fidgeting with her belt. “If there’s any information you want to run by me.”

  “Not that I can think of,” I said. I remembered that I’d said we would talk to her this morning. “We’re going to go talk to Serena at Hair Affair. If you want to come along, you’re welcome.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t want to get in the way. I just thought maybe I could fill in some blanks for you.”

  “That’s kind of you,” I said, “but I think we’re still in the dark at the moment. But we’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. See you later.” And she went back to her filing.

  “I don’t know how anyone can always be that put together,” I said, sighing. Today she had on a plum-colored pants suit with a scarf covered in a fall leaf pattern. It really went well with her hair.

  “It just takes a little effort,” Thelma said. “You could do it if you wanted.”

  “No, I couldn’t. I can’t even coordinate my dog’s collar and leash. A pants suit and scarf are
beyond me.”

  Thelma tried to convince me I just needed a little help in the wardrobe department as I drove us to Hair Affair. And I protested the entire way. She might as well try to teach me to speak Mandarin.

  Serena was behind the counter when we walked in, and she looked perky but sophisticated in an off-the-shoulder white blouse and slim jeans with ankle boots. Her auburn hair was tousled, but tousled in the way that models’ hair is tousled. Not tousled like my hair when I slept on it wrong. I’ve seen actresses with hair that looked like it was styled in a blender, yet they still looked all dewy and sexy. I don’t understand it. When I go out with my hair looking like that people back away from me.

  “You’re the one who found Kara, aren’t you?” Serena asked when she saw me.

  “Yes. It was a bad day for all of us.”

  “You can say that again. Come on in back where we can talk.” She turned to the young woman working at putting foil on a client’s hair. “We’ll be in back, Jo.”

  Jo nodded, intent on the job at hand.

  We all sat down at a small table in what passed for a break room, and Thelma introduced us. Shelves stocked with hair products lined the walls. I’m sure the room doubled as a supply closet.

  “I’m sorry to put you through this again,” I said, “but the day we found the body you told the police that there had been some kind of argument between Kara and Stephanie Riley. Do you remember that?”

  Serena nodded, and her gorgeous hair swayed provocatively. What was it with these women and their hair? I was just grateful my hair didn’t fall out when I moved my head. Provocative was way beyond my hair’s job description.

  “Have you thought any more about that?” Thelma asked.

  “I don’t know for sure,” she said, “and I didn’t want to accuse Kara of something when she’s dead and all.” She looked down and picked at the polish on one fingernail.

  “We just want to get a better picture of what she was like,” I said. “That way maybe we can figure out who would want to kill her.”

  “Well, she’d done the same thing before. I don’t know how many times, but I think it was probably three or four. And then I kind of caught her one day.”

  “Caught her doing what?” Thelma asked.

  “This was about a year after she’d started working here. I was shampooing a client in the back, and Kara was the only person in front. I was walking ahead when we came from the back, and I saw Kara putting her hand in the client’s purse. I cleared my throat real fast, and Kara moved away. The client didn’t see her.”

  “What was she doing, stealing money?” I asked.

  Serena shook her head. “When we were alone later, I brought it up and asked her what she was doing. She tried telling me a lipstick had fallen out of the purse and she was just putting it back. I told her that we had to be honest with each other for the business relationship to work. So she told me what she’d been doing and tried to convince me to go along.”

  “And what was that?” I had an idea, but I wanted to know what Kara had told Serena.

  Serena looked down uncomfortably and shifted her weight. “I know I should have said something to the police, but it was a long time ago.” She took a deep breath. “She said she’d been copying down a client’s credit card information, then placing an order online. She’d order from somewhere like Walmart and have the package delivered to a house she knew was empty. She’d track the package and pick it up. Then she’d take whatever it was to the store for a refund. She said that with both of us doing it together we could really make some money.”

  “What did you say when she suggested you help her?” Thelma asked.

  Poor Serena looked miserable. “I told her I didn’t want anything to do with it, and she’d better not try it again in the salon.”

  “And that was the end of it?” I asked.

  “I thought it was, but I think she must have still been doing it when she was sure I wouldn’t see. And then there was that little fight with Stephanie. It made me wonder if Kara had gone after her credit card while I was shampooing her hair.”

  “And Kara didn’t say anything about it after Stephanie left?”

  “I think she muttered something under her breath. It sounded like bitch.”

  “Had Stephanie and Kara had words before?” I asked.

  “They didn’t seem to like each other, but they usually avoided talking.”

  “Do you know anything about Stephanie’s private life?” Thelma asked. “Especially anything that might have caused someone to run her down?”

  “Well, I think she fooled around.”

  “You mean after she was married?”

  Serena nodded. “I heard that her husband did too.”

  “So her husband might have been jealous?”

  “I don’t know,” Serena said. “She was always bragging about her husband being a big lawyer. And how she could get anyone arrested.”

  “Do you think that’s what she meant when she told Kara she was going to tell her husband?” Thelma asked.

  “I guess.”

  Thelma and I exchanged a look. I knew we were both thinking about that damage to Kara’s car. If Stephanie had threatened to tell her husband about Kara trying to get her credit card information, Kara might have resorted to running her down.

  We thanked Serena and left for the office.

  “It sure looks like Kara might have killed Stephanie,” I said. “And probably her friend Hominy too.”

  “So Kara’s death might have been a revenge killing,” Thelma said. “Maybe it was whoever was having an affair with Stephanie.”

  “We need to look around Stephanie’s house again tomorrow,” I said.

  “Her husband’s home now, and it would technically be called trespassing.”

  “He works during the day. And we’re just going to look in windows again.”

  Thelma sighed. “Working with you makes me think I need a lawyer on retainer.”

  “It will be fine,” I assured her. And I mentally crossed my fingers.

  An hour later I grabbed a quarter-pounder and fries at McDonald’s and headed to my assignment. Lorenzo wanted me to interview a woman who had been struck by lightning earlier in the summer and now claimed she could turn on light bulbs by touching them. Miss Darlene Gregory. She lived in an apartment off Highway 61.

  There was a rotting pumpkin sitting by her doorstep and a flower pot with some dead mums. A wooden wreath on the door read WE OME. I looked on the ground for the missing letters, but didn’t see them.

  Miss Gregory opened the door at my first knock. Her hair was in hot curlers, and she was holding up her pants with one hand. She looked to be around thirty, slightly chubby and perennially cheerful.

  “Sorry,” she sang out. “The curlers are snagged in my hair, and then the zipper broke on my pants. Come on in while I put myself together.”

  I sat politely on a brown corduroy sofa and looked around while Darlene fiddled with her pants. The room was nice and neat, although the candles on the mantel looked as though they’d been through a hurricane.

  I heard a ripping sound. “Oh, crap,” Darlene said. “Hold on.”

  She left the room and returned a couple of minutes later wearing a different pair of pants. The curlers were still in her hair.

  “Let me just get rid of these,” she said apologetically, pulling at the curlers, which seemed to be glued to her hair. They weren’t budging. “Oh, crap,” she said again. “I don’t know why they won’t come out. I hope I don’t have to cut them out again.”

  “You’ve had to do that before?”

  “A couple of months ago. That’s why my hair is so short.” She was standing in front of a mirror behind the sofa, facing me as she talked.

  I wondered why she was using the curlers again after that episode, but I guess we all figure things will turn out differently when we repeat a disastrous approach. “Why don’t I put on a light so you can see better?” I asked. I reached over and turned the swi
tch on the lamp on the side table, but nothing happened.

  “Oh, that light doesn’t work,” she said. “None of them do.”

  “None of them? Why don’t you put in new bulbs?”

  “It wouldn’t help. As soon as I touch the switch the light burns out.”

  “So you sit in the dark at night?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. I lit some candles one night, but I had to quit that after the curtains caught fire.” She indicated the curtain on the window by the front door, and I saw that the bottom half was burned off.

  There was a ripping sound, and a curler came away with a hunk of hair on it. “Ow,” she said.

  I couldn’t stand it. “Here, let me try.” I gently grabbed a curler and began to pull, but it wasn’t going to move. “Have you got any hair conditioner? And a towel?”

  She nodded her head, and all the curlers bobbed like buoys in a channel. She left the room and returned a minute later with a bottle of conditioner.

  “You’re going to have to wash your hair again to get it out,” I told her.

  “Oh, that’s fine. I have to wash it every day anyway. I’m always getting stuff in it. Popcorn, bacon, windshield wiper fluid.”

  I had her sit down on the couch and drape the towel around her neck. Then I slathered conditioner on each curler and massaged it into the hair. It was a gooey mess by the time I had each one covered. Then I began the process of unrolling them one by one. Once I got it started I was able to get the curler out without taking hair with it, but it was a long process. Half an hour later Darlene had a lap full of curlers and a head of hair that looked like a tossed salad with too much dressing.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m so glad I didn’t have to cut them out again.”

  “Have you thought about getting a perm or just wearing your hair straight?”

  “I tried a perm and my hair fell out. And if I wear it straight it just sticks out all over.”

  I thought maybe that would be preferable to what she had going on now, but I didn’t say it.

  “So tell me about getting struck by lightning and being able to make light bulbs glow.” I figured I’d better get on with the reason I was here.