Cutting Loose in Paradise

by Mary Jane Ryals

  “Where do you want to sit?” I said. He pointed to the corner I’d just left by Randy and Mary. We moved back over to the corner. I fetched his cup of coffee from the table. He loved java and could drink it any time. I draped the salon cape around his neck and snapped it shut. As I started trimming his white hair, I glanced up to see Mary watching us. Was she having a fling with Mac, too? Three men would be tough to handle. She’d been ballroom-style dancing with Fletch half an hour ago.

  “Nice reception, huh?” Mac said. The party began to thin out. About twenty-five people still milled around, some dancing, some nibbling desserts, some sitting or standing, talking, helping themselves to the spiked punch and the dregs in the bottoms of the wine bottles.

  “Especially now that the wedding party’s gone,” I said. De Lions of Ja, the reggae band with a hip hop flare, were playing their last set.

  “Your daughter is a natural out there,” Mac said. Daisy danced alone now, twirling and choreographing her own world.

  “My daughter didn’t get that dance grace from me.” I said. Laura had begun a conversation with Madonna, who’d just waltzed in. Then they began dancing. Mac took a slurp of coffee. I asked him for a sip. It tasted bitter. “Mac Duncan, how do you drink coffee so bitter? Black coffee is awful.” He showed off by taking a big drain. The only thing close to me was the tonic, so I took it out of the bag and began drinking it. Delicious—sweet and sour together.

  “I’m sure needing this, even if it is bitter,” he said holding the coffee. “And you’re right—it must be old and burnt.” I noticed Mary was still watching us glumly as she chewed bread from across the room. Mac’s mane already had the coiffure of a woman, so this cut was easy. A trim to the back and sides, some gel to flatten the long bangs in front. I felt slightly dizzy. I hadn’t been drinking, just coffee and then just one big swallow of tea. Folks on the dance floor were laughing and shaking their heads at the “whatever, man” way we islanders have, cutting hair at odd hours in strange places.

  “Want some of this,” I asked, holding out the tonic that could easily substitute for such bitter coffee. “Grandma Happy’s concoction.”

  “No way,” he said, draining his cup. I drained the entire bottle of tonic down. Well, here’s to the day of opposites, Grandma, I thought. I finished up Mac’s hair with a little wax to keep it in place in the winter wind. Cooter had walked in again, and stared at his wife. Randy headed out, and glanced at me and waved as he left. I shook some talcum powder on the barber brush and flicked prickly hairs off Mac’s neck.

  “You need to come in tomorrow and get this neck shaved,” I said. He nodded. “But not too early, hear?” I added. He got up to head across the room. I wiped the hair bristles out of the chair and made a note to use the hotel vacuum later. I gathered the cutting supplies while the reggae band played “No Woman, No Cry.” The dance floor moved in my peripheral vision like an old mirror’s reflection, slightly wavery. Maybe I’d sit down rather than dance, feeling this dizzy.

  That’s when I heard Daisy scream. I whirled around. Daisy was backing away from a heap on the floor, a human heap. In Mac’s clothes. No, it was Mac. Huddled on the floor, wheezing. He was coughing, almost convulsing.

  The band stopped, one member at a time, and people quit dancing, moving towards Mac on the floor. Daisy ran towards me, grabbing my legs. Mac was writhing on the blue-carpeted floor. He lay holding his throat, his face red. And why was I dizzy?

  I patted Daisy who was saying, “Mama, what’s wrong, what’s wrong with Mister Mac?” People were gathering around Mac, watching. A buzzing shout rose up from the crowd into the ceiling.

  “Move back, move back,” Cooter said, pushing away the group who’d crowded around.

  “What’s going on?” I said to Cooter. He was already on his police radio, calling the county sheriff’s office.

  “You!” Mary pointed at me. I pushed Daisy behind me. She looked blurry moving towards me. “I saw you—you gave him that coffee! You poisoned him! You tried to give it to me, too. But I wouldn’t drink it!” She had drunk it, but I hadn’t the time to argue. The crowd of people looked from Mary to me. My face flushed, embarrassed. I shook my head no.

  “He keeled over just after you cut his hair and gave him that coffee,” she said. “You tried to kill Mac Duncan!”

  I wheeled around and squatted, holding my daughter’s arms, looking at her square on and said, “Don’t listen to this.”

  “I’m not,” she said, scratching her nose. “I don’t like Miss Mary. She’s weird.”

  Laura walked over, taking Daisy by the hand and said, “Come on, Daisy, let’s go outside.” She glanced at me, nodded, and led Daisy out the door.

  Daisy looked at me, questioning. “It’s fine, honey. I’ll be out there soon. Let me just get this straightened out.” I smiled, but saw in my mind Trina’s cut throat and felt the cold of her skin. I shivered when Daisy turned to walk outside with Laura.

  CHAPTER 9

  AT FIRST I THOUGHT Mary was joking or just over-drunk. But she stared at me, coffee cup still in her one hand, pointing a finger with the other. Worse, usually composed Mac was moaning louder. The county sheriff had received a call over at Fish Camp Diner on the St. Annes upriver about a biker’s fight. He hadn’t shown up yet, as the drive was half an hour away. Folks murmured and turned their heads away. Somebody got on the phone. Someone else got a wet paper towel for Mac’s head. Someone else got water, which he refused. Someone else asked if he’d indeed drunk coffee, or could it be the cake? Punch? I felt dizzy. I sat on the piano stool.

  What would these people tell the cops, and would cops believe a hair stylist or a cop’s wife? I started sweating, thinking about the jail up in Wellborn. Metal bars and bad mattresses, and the smell of dank fear and sweat and piss.

  “Rue,” Madonna said, beside me suddenly. “Let’s go outside. I think you may be in shock.” I followed her, admiring that the French braid was still holding after a funeral. We walked outside and down into the park where Randy and I had swung so many years ago. The streetlight shone on the jungle gym. The waves rumbled to shore, and wind thrashed the palms nearby.

  I sat on the seesaw and grounded it, my back to the party. Madonna had followed me, and said, “Yeah, you just stay that way. Face the Gulf, and don’t worry about what’s going on back in the reception hall. You don’t want to get back into the middle of things right now.”

  I nodded. I was remembering the last significant hurricane in 2004, Dennis. We’d watched the water leap up over the concrete and ooze into the street, one block from the apartment. We were trapped then. Now I thought of a filthy jail, other scared lonely losers turning over on the squeaky mattresses during the night. The noise of an ambulance and voices and a sheriff car’s blinking light filtered into my consciousness. But I sat, hanging back in readiness, thinking of how black nights could get on a forgotten island in the Gulf.

  I could hear Laura laughing. I grabbed at Madonna’s arm, as I felt dizzy again. Daisy had climbed the only tree in the courtyard of The Cove hotel, one of the only cedars left. In the 1800s, the factory had wiped them all out, stripping them into pieces for pencils. The wind was whipping the palm and cedar-needled branches, causing a whirling sound. Laura and Randy sat at the picnic table under the tree.

  I could hear my daughter talking. Everyone had pulled their jackets tightly around them. I suddenly felt jealous. Hell, what for? I thought. Laura’s forty-two, childless, lonely, she and Randy both living on the same island. I was the same age, but had two half-grown kids. What man would be remotely interested in me? Besides, LaRue Panther, I thought to myself, you’re on your way to jail.

  “You look pale,” Laura said, patting my arm. “I called Jackson. He’ll be here soon. It won’t hurt to have a former detective present anyway. He’ll be looking in on this case.”

  “LaRue, you didn’t do it, so you don’t have to worry,” Madonna said, reading my thoughts. Wisps of her hair were coming loose in the wind.

&
nbsp; “Who’s Jackson?” Randy asked.

  “The Florida DLE investigator friend of mine,” Laura said. “From Tallahassee. Remember. I told you about him.”

  Just then, Daisy hollered, “Help!” Randy turned around and grabbed her down from the branch before she slipped and fell.

  “What do you think you are?” he said. “The monkey from another planet who can climb trees?” Daisy laughed and hugged Randy’s neck, and he put her down.

  She slung her arm around my neck. “I’m cold, Mama,” she said, teeth chattering.

  “Daisy, what do you say you spend the night with me?” Laura said. “We’ll have French toast in the morning.”

  “And maybe I’ll take you for a boat ride, you and your brother,” Randy said.

  “Oh goodie, oh cool,” Daisy said, forgetting the cold, jumping and dancing in a circle. “Can I, Mama, can I?” I wasn’t used to people taking this much care of the kids. I looked out at the bubbling, seething sea just a block away. Who’s in charge anyway? I’d always known I wasn’t. Put the boat on the water, so to speak, and let it float.

  “Of course, honey,” I told Daisy. I looked around at these friends. “Thanks, you guys. She needs her jacket.”

  “I’ll stay here,” Madonna said, sensing she should handle details. “Daisy doesn’t need to be around all this. Laura can drop by and get Daisy some warm clothes and take her on to her house, okay?”

  “You’ll know Jackson when you see him,” Laura said. “Classy guy. Sweet face. Tall-tall. He disguises cuteness with glasses. Call if you need me.” I couldn’t speak, so I hugged Daisy.

  “Randy?” I finally said. “Will you check on Taylor? Make sure he’s got a jacket?” He nodded.

  I added, “He’s probably out around town somewhere, he’s probably—”

  “I probably know where he is better than you do,” he said. “I was a seventeen-year-old guy once, remember? I’ll find him and let him sleep on the porch in a sleeping bag at my place, if weather permits. Almost like camping out on the beach.”

  “Tell him—”

  “I’ll tell him just what I need to tell him,” he said. “Not much.” He smiled, and I thanked him, and they were on their way.

  “I don’t know that I trust that guy,” Madonna said. “He wants to get in your britches. Not only that, but he’s so angry and off to himself. I’m not sure he’d help you out, either.”

  “Madonna!” I said. “No way he thinks of me that way.” She shrugged.

  Mac lay on a stretcher and was being hoisted into the ambulance. Tiffany crawled in after him. She’d insisted, Laura had said. The hospital helicopter ambulance stationed downtown had arrived one minute after Cooter called. Luckily, Tallahassee Regional had a poison unit and good emergency techs. They’d have results of blood and urine tests within an hour after Mac arrived.

  “I need to face the music,” I said, standing, with Madonna beside me. Inside, three county sheriff’s department deputies crawled the place. Each wore plastic gloves. One took samples of all food and beverage as Madonna and I sat in chairs near the hair cutting by the bathroom. A few people also sat, partiers witness to the scene, and now looking tattered at the edges.

  “Come, let’s sit in the comfy chairs,” Madonna said, dragging several from the supply room where they’d been put away for the reception.

  The second deputy was dusting with black powder, everything, bowls, Mac’s coffee cup, Mary’s, mine. Madonna checked her watch. Almost midnight. She had to leave to finish up at the bar. We sat sideways, backwards, front, swapped chairs, and still I felt dizzy.

  The third deputy grabbed my purse and went through it. They took my fingerprints as Madonna and I sat in the chairs. The band dismantled and glanced suspiciously at those of us left waiting to be questioned.

  Madonna finally said she had to get back to the bar, but she’d check back when she got off after 2 a.m. The deputies took names of the fifteen or so people still standing or sitting around looking sad, or a little guilty. Others appeared self-satisfied and nosey, glancing at me and away. Mary looked dejected. All I could wonder was, had someone set me up?

  JACKSON WOODARD WHISKED IN through the door about fifteen minutes later. Cooter introduced us to him as if announcing the arrival of the president of the United States. This Jackson had three inches on me. Guys smaller than I was always felt intimidated by my six-foot self. He commanded authority in his bones. A self-assured quiet. A steadiness. His red hair would be curly if he’d let it grow. He had an Irish complexion, freckled. Laura was right. He tried to cover his sweet face with glasses. He wore a light cashmere jacket and shirt that I knew were vintage. I had no idea state investigators could dress with such cool.

  “She’s the one who poisoned Mac,” Mary said, pointing at me, her head wobbly. Jackson’s eyes swept the room.

  “Nobody leave. You’re all witnesses, and I need to hear from each of you. I’ll be as quick as possible. I’ll ask questions in there,” he said, pointing down the hall to Mac’s lobby office.

  I checked out Mary, now passed out in a chair across from me. I was ready to throw cold water on her and send her away, I was so angry with her. They fingerprinted her next.

  Quickly, one by one, the partiers were shuttled to the makeshift interrogation room. I was sure most people had seen nothing, which spelled trouble for me. My business would be toast if this Jackson fellow couldn’t find anyone to hang this on. And if I were the suspect, word would get around. Who would visit a hair stylist who was the leading suspect in a poisoning case? I used sharp implements in my business—razors, scissors, clippers, too. Hell, the name of my business, Cutting Loose, could imply anything. I thought of Trina in the coffin. They’d be blaming me for that next. Except that nobody knew but me. I hoped. Finally, the interviewing came down to Mary and me, and Cooter came in the door when he saw that she was next.

  He shook Mary awake and took her off to questioning. I paced the room, waiting my turn. Outside the big window facing the Gulf, the slice of moon had risen high. Its reflection zigzagged on the turbulent water, casting an eerie silver light onto Sprangle Island. A sudden flock of big birds flew up from the cemetery side of the abandoned island. Their winged shadows tackled one another like a chaos of dark, and then they all spread black into the partly occluded silver moon.

  CHAPTER 10

  “MS. PANTHER?” Jackson Woodard said to me. I stood near the hallway to the office where he was holding questionings. The sheriff deputies had left. Apparently, they respected him and let him do the questioning. I whirled around and flattened against the wall. He smiled easily, suggesting a sense of humor. My back felt rigid against the wall. “Come with me,” he added.

  In Mac’s back office, he sat in a comfortable chair next to the sofa where I perched. I felt skittish as a fish eyeing a hook. He offered his hand. “Jackson Woodard,” he said. “The sheriff on duty is busy elsewhere, and I’m an FDLE investigator helping out. I need to ask you a few questions about what happened tonight.” I nodded. “You’re . . . LaRue Panther?”

  “Ms. LaRue Panther,” I said. That was stupid. This usually didn’t matter to me.

  “Ms.,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “Do you go by any other names?” he asked.

  “That’s my given name. My dad’s name. I didn’t take my husband’s name when I got married, and I kept it when I got a divorce,” I said. He took down my husband’s name and the kids’ full names, too. My mouth felt as if it had acquired a fish hook, dry and drooly together.

  “You’re from here, St. Annes?” he asked, interested. I nodded. He offered, “A great place. I have a friend here—”

  “I know,” I said. “Laura told me.” He nodded, blinking, his eyes flickering with a little vulnerability. I had known of our connection before he did. He sat back.

  “So you cut hair for a living?” he asked. I nodded. “And you—it’s not unusual for you to cut someone’s hair at a wedding reception at—” he looked at his notes—“ten-oh-nine p.m. on a
Friday night?”

  “No. Not in a little town like this one,” I said. I also felt I needed to explain why I had come back to the island, and why I wasn’t a professor somewhere. I started to tell him about cutting the biker babe’s hair at 3 a.m. last Arts Festival weekend so she wouldn’t beat up another biker chick, but he wouldn’t understand. “I’ve cut hair at all hours, all places, all days. It’s my business, and I make a bit of extra money when I can. Two kids to support. Alone.” I sounded defensive.

  “And do you normally take coffee to your customers?” he asked.

  “I don’t know—no—I mean, yes, and Mac is a friend. I was trying to help him out,” I said.

  “And Mary Lutz, you were just trying to ‘help her out’ by encouraging her to drink coffee and eat bread?” he asked.

  “Well, yes, in fact. She’s—she was—she’d had too much to drink, and she told me she hadn’t eaten all day, so I was trying to get her to eat and maybe sober up. I didn’t poison her.” I spit a little drool when I said it, panicky.

  “We’ll get to that,” he said, putting a hand up to stop me. I sighed and sank back in the chair.

  “Did you see Mac—Mr. Duncan—eating anything unusual?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you know who made the coffee?” he asked.

  “I think the condo staff,” I said.

  “But you served a cup of coffee to Mr. Duncan just before he went into a state in which he could not breathe?” he asked.

  “I think you’re leading the witness,” I said.

  He chuckled. “You’ve been watching too many episodes of Law and Order,” he said. “I’m just asking questions.”

  “Yes, I served him coffee from those big aluminum coffee urns. I had a sip of it myself, by the way,” I said. He looked interested.

  “You drank from the coffee?” he said. I nodded.

  “Yes. I commented that it was horribly bitter, too. I thought it was because it was black, and I don’t drink coffee black.” Hey, I felt dizzy, too, I wanted to say. Still do. But that would involve also talking about Grandma’s tea, which I simply did not want to discuss. He gave me a curious look.