Petty Crimes & Head Cases

by Lola Beatlebrox

I steeled myself. “What?”

  “The baby was placed in the nest.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “The docs said the force of impact would have killed the baby if he was thrown into those bushes. The baby was put there.”

  “How?”

  “We’re still trying to find that out. We want to talk to your friend again.”

  “The salt and pepper man?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s a horse trainer. Don Westcott’s hired him, and there’s something else you should know.”

  “What?”

  I told him about Margaret Pyle and her forensic accounting. “We think Angelica’s husband might be selling car parts on the side. Margaret’s checking to see if there are car parts waiting in the back store room that are duplicates of sold orders.”

  My cell phone rang and I swiped it right away. “It’s Margaret,” I mouthed, then signaled yes to Carl—there were duplicate orders waiting to be picked up.

  My husband opened the front door. “There were new car parts in the back of Angelica’s car, too.”

  We stared at each other.

  “Goodbye, Miss Helpful,” he said and left.

  I leaned on the front door. My knees were weak.

  In my mind’s eye, I saw Juan Diego calling on his cell with a command to his wife. “Stop where you are. I’ve left car parts on the back seat.” Visions of his blows, his anger, his blame made her screech to a halt with the music thumping. He wrenched the back door open just as the bells clanged and the barriers started down. A huge headlight coming fast, out of the dark, the panic. He yanked his son out. “Go! Go! Go!” But she didn’t, couldn’t or wouldn’t go. He sprinted back to the hardware store, shocked and confused. And there was the nest, ready for him to stash the baby until he could think of what to do.

  Was that how it happened? A big accident by a wife beater who was stealing car parts for extra cash?

  Over the next 24 hours, the police did their work. They brought Juan Diego in for questioning and searched his house. After they found a black and white striped hoodie, a thick brown coat, and closet full of brand new car parts, he confessed. He’d ordered her to stop so he could get the car parts. She didn’t realize the car was on the tracks—the whole thing was one big accident. He was charged with one felony count for thievery, but not for manslaughter.

  Breaking the case made Chief Fort Dukes a hero. He was all over the evening news for a week. The crowd went wild when Don Westcott introduced him at the Ms. Cowgirl contest.

  “Chief Fortdoux,” Don said, pronouncing the name Fort Dukes as everyone does. “How’d you know what went down?”

  “Good detective work, Don,” he said, grasping the microphone. “You see I—”

  Don reclaimed the microphone. “Let’s hear it for the chief!” Then he dampened the crowd with his palms down. “Now we’ll observe a moment of silence for Angelica.”

  People bowed their heads. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hernandez fussing over a baby carriage. With the father in jail for theft, she was caring for the son until Angelica’s sister could come from California.

  Don broke the silence. “The judges have made their decision.” He gestured to the beautiful contestants, lined up on the stage in their cowgirl outfits. “May I have the envelope please?”

  Larry Big Pouch rose from the judges’ table and approached with three pink envelopes clasped against his thick chest, his rugged profile topped with a shock of black and white hair.

  Don took an envelope, slit it open and read out loud.

  “The Second Attendant is—” The high school band leader cued the drum roll, then Don pronounced, “Miss Red Wing.” Applause.

  The red-headed singer that Katherine Putnam admired crossed the stage to receive her spurs. A young girl draped a banner over her shoulders. She waved to the audience and took her place below the dais.

  Don slit open the second envelope. “The First Attendant is—”Another drum roll. “Miss Tina White Horse.”

  Larry Big Pouch’s raven-haired niece strode across the stage with a huge pearl-white smile shining from her flawless face. She thanked Don prettily for her spurs.

  “And now the contestant who will be Ms. Cowgirl for the next year.” Drum roll. “Mrs. Su Tsu!”

  The wife of Hu Tsu minced across the stage where a young boy covered her shoulders with the traditional Ms. Cowgirl ermine vest.

  “I want to thank my family, my friends, and my husband for all their help. I couldn’t have done it without you,” said Ms. Cowgirl. She wriggled her shoulders. “I just love this fuwwy white wap.”

  Case 3

  A Maddening Adjustment

  Mondays are my catch-up days—Jamie is in school and the salon is closed. I tackle paperwork and housecleaning; then Jamie and I spend time together when he comes home from school. I make a point of doing whatever he wants to do. The Monday after the Ms. Cowgirl contest, he wanted to go fishing.

  We went out to the garage and collected rods, a tackle box and waders. He climbed up on a stepstool next to the deep freeze and reached under the lid where we keep plastic bags full of bait. He pulled one out and tossed it in the car.

  Our river runs through the whole valley which is lush and green compared to the surrounding hills studded with desert sagebrush. We parked in the spot where the river is shallow but the pools nearby are deep for casting.

  Jamie handled his rod very well. His father taught him how to whisk it back and settle the artificial fly right on the top of the water. I like drop fishing myself—just bait the hook, drop the line, watch the bobber, sit back, and enjoy the day. Fly fishing is too much work for me, but Jamie was having a ball.

  He caught two trout. I caught nothing, but then I never do. Each time he snagged a rainbow, I leaped up, grabbed the net, and watched him play the fish. The trout glistened in the sun as it descended into my net.

  “Wait ‘til Dad sees this!” he said.

  “Wait ‘til Dad eats this!” I imagined how proud Carl would be and my heart glowed.

  When the sun began to set, we packed up and headed for the car. “I met someone who knows you,” I said, as Jamie pulled his waders off. “Miss Fisher. From your school.”

  “She’s mean.”

  “Excuse me?” Jamie’s head was down and I thought I hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “Miss Fisher is a mean teacher.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She yells when she’s mad and she’s mad all the time.”

  “Nobody’s mad all the time.”

  “She is.”

  I pondered this for a while. “Was she mad today?”

  “She was really mad today. For no reason.”

  “Did one of the boys do something wrong?”

  “I just wanted a drink.”

  Okay, so she was mad at you. “What happened?”

  “I got in line at the water fountain and when it was my turn, she said ‘Time’s up’ and I said ‘But I didn’t get a drink’ and she sent me to the principal’s office.” Jamie’s lower lip quivered.

  “I bet that didn’t make you feel very good.”

  “No.”

  “What did the principal say?”

  “She likes me. She told me I’m practicing hard and I’m going to be the best soccer player on the team. And then she said some people have bad days.”

  Bad days indeed. Had Orchid had a bad day? She seemed so sweet at book club, drinking her wine, and suggesting a leadership book for kids.

  Jamie said something I didn’t quite catch.

  “What, sweetheart?”

  “She gets mad when we don’t do what she says and she makes us put our heads down on our desks. She makes us fold our arms and sit there forever with our faces hidden. To punish us.”

  I was shocked. “Does your teacher agree with this?”

  “It’s only when she’s out of the room.”

  Jamie’s excitement over catching the trout had gone. I wanted that childish
glee back in my life. “Well,” I said, “the principal thinks you’re great and I think you’re the greatest. We’re not going to worry about Miss Fishbait.”

  He giggled. “Miss Fishbait, Miss Fishbait!”

  I was a bit aghast at the disrespect I’d wrought, but Orchid Fisher sounded disrespectful herself. It was good to hear Jamie laugh again. We climbed in the car with our two rainbow trophies and drove home. For several days I dithered back and forth on whether I should call Jamie’s principal. The head down on the desk routine was dreadful, but I decided not to make waves.

  I heard a shout over the noise of my blow dryer. People often wonder who styles a hairdresser’s hair. The answer is: I do.

  When Kayla Prothero burst through the door of my workroom, I took one look at her head and erupted. “What happened to you?”

  “I tried to straighten my hair.”

  “Looks like you fried it.”

  Kayla’s teenaged wail rose and faded like an ambulance hurtling down the highway.

  I pictured her bending over an ironing board with her mother’s steam iron trying to make her naturally frizzy hair swing as straight as a cheerleader’s. Her head looked like a Brillo pad.

  “This calls for a deep protein treatment,” I said, taking Kayla by the hand. “The Portuguese Pump-up.” I brandished a white and gold bottle.

  “What’s that?”

  “A luxurious hair treatment that will restore the protein damaged by your flat iron,” I said, as if the instrument had done the job all by itself without intervention by a human hand. “But it’s not for the faint of heart.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “To the purse.” I whispered a figure and she squealed. “The Pump-up is an eight-step process. It takes two hours, but when we’re done, you’ll have beautiful, silky hair.”

  “All I’ve got is this babysitting money.” She pressed a handful of bills into my palm.

  I unraveled the ball. “This will do for today, but you’ll owe me three hours of babysitting. Will that work?”

  “Anything. Just make it go away.”

  As I squirted the first of eight Portuguese-speaking potions onto her scalp, I parroted the description on the back of the bottle. “This special formula prepares each hair shaft for the Professional Pump-up Potion.” Kayla scrunched her eyes. The fragrance of “Mediterranean Florals” filled the salon.

  After dispensing the contents of another gold bottle labeled “La Bomba,” Kayla became quite chatty. I learned about the date with the captain of the football team that instigated the do-it-yourself hair straightening.

  “How’s your mother?” I asked, when she took a breath. Kayla’s mother Shelley was my best friend in high school. She married her teenage sweetheart the same year Carl and I tied the knot. I remembered how stressed-out she looked at book club two weeks before.

  “Mom’s so confused,” Kayla said. “She’s going through Grandpa Prothero’s medical bills.”

  I didn’t need to consult my Client Notebook to know what Kayla was talking about. Shelley Prothero is one of those caregivers caught between generations. At 34 she had five children between the ages of six and sixteen and, until last year, two sets of aging parents between the ages of 70 and 85.

  “How’s your other grandpa?” I asked.

  “He’s on his way out, too.” Death was a known quantity in the Prothero household. Grandpa Prothero died last year and so did Shelley’s mother.

  “Is Medicare taking care of the bills?”

  “Yeah, but it’s hard for Mom to make sense of it all. She’s even had me try. There are numbers called diagnosis codes and dates of service and stuff with initials. Mom found three boxes of unopened bills when she dismantled Grandpa Prothero’s house. She’s had papers all over the bedroom floor for weeks now.”

  “What’s she trying to do?”

  “Match the stuff that’s paid with the stuff that was done.”

  “I take it that’s not easy.”

  “Near impossible. Medicare has their codes, doctors have their medical terms, hospitals call it something different. Mother is tearing her hair out.”

  I hoped not literally.

  Kayla’s wail returned. “I wanted to buy her a massage with my babysitting money, but now I’ve gone and spent it.”

  “Don’t worry about your mom, Kayla. I’ll take care of her.”

  “Will you?”

  “Of course. Let’s go back to the sink for a rinse now. Then you’ll get Rigor de Mascar—a powerful enriching mask. Yours will be the most gorgeous hair at the ball, Cinderella.”

  Kayla twisted in her chair. “Oh, Tracy, you do take care of me!”

  With Kayla out the door, I texted Annabelle Davina. She’s my salon masseuse. Annabelle went to the hippy school of hard knocks where she learned to turn her New Age, crystal-toting, incense-burning know-how into dollars and cents. I scheduled a massage for Shelley the next day at eleven a.m.

  As we emojied off, Mrs. Beale walked in the door wearing a neck brace.

  “What happened to you?” I asked.

  “A pickup truck rear-ended me.” Mrs. Beale’s head was rigid and her lips hardly moved.

  “Looks bad.” Morsels of egg and toast dotted the shiny black plastic of the neck brace, which looked like a high-tech torture instrument that had found its way into a high school cafeteria.

  “Will you be able to remove the brace for your haircut?”

  “Yes, but we’ll have to cut dry. I don’t think I can lower my head onto the sink.”

  Good—another injury to Mrs. Beale’s neck was a risk I wasn’t about to take. I consulted my Client Notebook. “Age: 47. Shoulder-length page boy, tendency to split ends. Husband: Personal injury lawyer.”

  I chose a peach colored cape and a matching terry. “Let’s get you all spruced up,” I said, sponging the brace clean after she removed it. “Would you like some tea, water or a probiotic drink?”

  “Water would be nice.” Mrs. Beale’s voice had a high staccato rhythm. “My husband insisted I go straight to the emergency room. ‘There’s no fooling around with whiplash,’ he said.”

  “What did they do?” I asked, handing her the ice water which she sipped with her chin in the air.

  “An MRI and CAT scan. I was feeling okay, but the body releases so much adrenaline I didn’t realize I had a problem until later.”

  I began to clip the hair on the side of her face where it angled toward her chin.

  “The other driver was at fault,” she said. “All my medical bills will be paid by their insurance.” Mrs. Beale took another sip of her ice water with a slight jerk of her neck. “Ow!”

  I stopped cutting.

  “Just a twinge,” she said, as visions of her attorney husband danced in my head. “There’s muscle pain all down my back and my right arm. Even my jaw hurts.”

  “What are you doing for the pain?”

  “My neighbor has been raving about that young chiropractor on Main Street. Whiteside. She says he does wonders. I’m going to try him out.”

  I shuddered. The first time I visited a chiropractor, he stood at the head of his exam table and wrenched my neck to the right. I asked him not to do it again, but he wrenched my neck to the left. I haven’t darkened his door since.

  “Have you been to a chiropractor before, Mrs. Beale?”

  “Never.”

  “Some of my customers swear by chiropractic adjustments, but others believe it’s alternative medicine that doesn’t work for everybody.”

  “The insurance covers it,” she said, her voice more staccato than ever. “That’s good enough for me.”

  I handed her the mirror. “Take a look at the back.”

  Mrs. Beale eased out of the chair and inspected her hair, turning her whole body. With a noise of approval, she reached for the neck brace. All stretched up again like a heron with its beak in the air, she stalked to the front desk where she plucked a wallet from her purse, bending over from the waist to view her array of pl
astic.

  “I hope you feel better soon,” I said, as I processed her credit card.

  “Thank you.

  “Let me get the door for you.”

  When she backed her car out of my parking lot, I breathed a sigh of relief, as all thoughts of her litigating husband drove away with her.

  Margaret Pyle strode through the salon looking like a platinum blonde bimbo out of a Swedish porn movie. That was not unusual. Her teased bouffant hairstyle was gone. For years, she’d styled her luxurious white-gold mane into a long blonde flip with a teased up crown, reminiscent of white go-go boots and mini-skirts.

  “I met a man.” Her wicked brown eyes crinkled as if this were the funniest thing that had happened to her in the last six minutes.

  “So what else is new?” I said. Margaret Pyle meets men every day at Fu Tsu’s Hardware and Auto Supply.

  “His name is Barry,” she said. “He does not like teased hair.”

  This was news. Margaret has never kowtowed to the personal preferences of any man. Husbands Number One through Five have had to bow to her “my way or the highway” policy regarding just about everything.

  “Why change now?” I said out loud before I could stop myself. “I’m not complaining. Teasing damages your hair.”

  “You’ve never promised me a three-week all-expenses-paid trip to Venice.”

  “To quit teasing your hair?”

  “Sto praticando già il mio italiano,” she said.

  “Which means?”

  “I’m practicing my Italian already.”

  “Who is this Barry?”

  “He’s a doctor. When we’re on our first ride on the canals I’m going sing ‘Stavo solo scherzando.’” She gesticulated like an opera singer.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means ‘I’m just teasing.’ We’re going to Venice and when we come back, so will my usual hair style.”

  “That’ll go over big.”

  “The man can take it.” She hefted her humongous pocketbook onto the coffee table and dropped her shapely derriere onto the sofa. “So—why did you want to see me?”

  What Margaret couldn’t do with an Excel spreadsheet would fit into a flea’s overnight bag, and our mutual friend Shelley Prothero needed her expertise. All thoughts of the doctor who didn’t like teased hair flew out of my head as I explained the reason I asked Margaret to stop by.