Permed To Death [Bad Hair Day Mystery 1]

by Nancy J. Cohen

  "Hello,” she barked into the receiver. What now?

  "It's Tally,” said her best friend. “What's going on at your place? I saw the commotion on my way to work. I stopped off, but a cop told me you'd already left. This is the first chance I've had to call you."

  Marla's shoulders sagged. “Oh God, Tally. Mrs. Kravitz croaked in the middle of a perm!"

  A brief moment of silence met her words. “What did you do, use a lethal solution?” Mirth-filled chuckles followed. “Sorry, I know how much you disliked the old biddy. Tell me what happened."

  Hearing her friend's voice cracked her reserve. Briefly, she related the sequence of events.

  "How awful! You must be wiped out."

  "I'm doing okay, except I can't help feeling it was my fault."

  "Marla, stop with the guilt trip. You've been there before.” Tally's voice sharpened, and Marla cringed. She didn't want to hear what came next. “Mrs. Kravitz's unfortunate demise had nothing to do with a two-year-old toddler. You were nineteen when Tammy drowned in that pool. I thought you'd finally put her to rest Hold on a minute, will you?"

  Tally spoke aside to one of her clerks at Dressed To Kill. As owner of the women's fashion boutique, she often referred customers to Marla and vice versa. “Look, why don't you come over here? You shouldn't be alone,” Tally urged her.

  "That's okay. I need some time to think. I'll call you later."

  As soon as she hung up, the phone rang again. It didn't stop for the next few hours. Apparently the story about a woman taking ill in her salon had spread, and everyone she knew was trying to reach her. Tired of repeating her story, she turned on the answering machine and screened calls for the rest of the day. That night, she retired early, feeling emotionally drained.

  Freshly alert in the morning, she turned on the TV while getting dressed in her bedroom. Buttoning the top to her pale yellow shorts outfit, she focused her attention on the screen where a view of her salon was on the air. I timed this just right, she thought sardonically, wondering how much news coverage she'd missed already. Spooks flopped at her feet, licking her ankle, while she stared, transfixed.

  "The victim was poisoned,” said the news anchor, a deadpan-faced man in a dapper suit “The police won't release any further details except to say they're pursuing an investigation."

  Poisoned! Marla sank onto her bed, stunned. Dear Lord, what does this mean? Before she could think, the phone jarred her senses.

  "Why didn't you tell me about this yesterday?” her mother demanded without so much as a friendly greeting.

  "I tried, Ma. You were in a hurry.” The doorbell sounded, making her grimace in annoyance. “Sorry, I've got to go. Someone's at the door.” God, this promises to be a long day.

  "Spooks! Get back!” she ordered as the dog leapt against the front door in a barking frenzy. Swinging it open, she stared at her caller.

  "May I come in?” Detective Vail asked, marching inside without waiting for a reply. He wore a lightweight suit in a medium wheat color with a striped tie, a nondescript outfit that would let him blend in with the crowd. His hair, gelled and coiffed, was properly styled for the conservative image he tried to project. But his purposeful stride, gray eyes glinting with determination, gave him away as a man used to command.

  He halted in the foyer, his narrowed gaze sweeping the living room. She took the opportunity to study his profile, noting the stubborn thrust of his jaw. He looked like a man who focused on his job without allowing any distractions.

  "I hope you don't mind the intrusion, but I have a few more questions,” he said, his gaze leisurely roaming her body and settling on her bare legs. She thought she saw mild interest flickering behind his expression, but then it was gone. Her imagination must be on overdrive.

  "Have a seat,” she offered, graciously gesturing toward the living room. Planting herself in an armchair, she crossed her ankles self-consciously and waited for his first move.

  "Are you familiar with Mrs. Kravitz's acquaintances?” he asked, leaning casually back in an upholstered love seat.

  "She was quite chatty with some of our customers at the salon.” Marla described a few of the ladies, most of whom considered themselves buddies when Bertha

  Kravitz was present and who gossiped about her when she wasn't there.

  "Would anyone have reason to bear a grudge against her?"

  Marla shrugged. “She was well respected in the business community, but on a personal level, most people disliked her."

  "What about her relatives?"

  "She has a son. I don't know what he does for a living, but she used to speak disparagingly about him. She always bragged about her niece."

  "Would you say she favored the niece over her son?"

  "Why are you asking me these questions?"

  "Women confide in their hairdressers."

  She appreciated his understanding of her occupation. “The news report gave poisoning as the cause of death. Isn't it possible Bertha ingested a toxic substance before coming to the salon, and it just took effect while she was there?"

  His eyes narrowed, but not before she'd noticed their remarkable shade of smoky gray. “Traces of cyanide were found in the powdered creamer jar,” he said, watching her reaction.

  Marla gasped. She hadn't truly wanted to believe Bertha had drunk a cup of poisoned coffee, one that she'd prepared. Did Vail suspect her of doing the deed? Who else might have contaminated the supplies, and why? “Have you contacted the cleaning crew yet? Carlos left the back door unlocked."

  "Carlos didn't show up for work last night, and his boat isn't in dock,” Vail said, his face impassive. “We're trying to reach him."

  "Anyone could have sneaked into my salon and doctored the creamer,” she remarked. Thank God it wasn't in the coffee. She might have drunk a cup herself if she hadn't been so busy!

  "Who else knew about her hair appointment besides your staff?"

  Marla shifted in her chair. “Her niece was attending that luncheon with her later, so she might have known. I can't guess who else Bertha told."

  Vail seemed to weigh her words.’ ‘Mind if I get a drink of water?” he said, a devious smile on his face. He rose, and the room seemed overpowered by his presence.

  Following him into the kitchen, Marla saw he wasn't really interested in a beverage. His gaze swept across her counters like a bloodhound chasing its target. He was looking for something in particular, she surmised, irritated that he'd think her simple enough to fall for his ruse.

  "I see you have an extensive cookbook collection,” he announced, striding to her bookshelf. He pointed to a volume entitled A Taste of the Tropics. “Are you into natural plant foods?"

  "Not really. I like to experiment with tropical-fruit recipes, but I used to do more gourmet cooking when I was married. I'm divorced,” she explained. Preparing meals for herself was a heck of a lot easier than fixing food for a man who demanded a hot meal every night and who refused to eat leftovers. There were a few things she missed about the matrimonial state, but cooking detail was not one of them.

  Vail gave her a friendly smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Do you like gardening?"

  "Nope, I kill anything green that gets near me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you so interested in my hobbies?"

  "Another toxic substance was added to the creamer. Monkshood is a poisonous plant. Someone made it into a powder and gave Bertha Kravitz a double whammy."

  "Oh, so you think I fixed it in my backyard? Go on, take a look. I've got a lychee tree and some citrus.” She thrust her chin forward. “Why do I get the feeling you suspect me of doing away with Mrs. Kravitz?"

  He sauntered forward until he was nearly nose to nose with her. “I'm wondering about your relationship with the deceased. A few of your staff members say that you bad-mouthed her."

  "We often discuss our customers,” she said hastily. “Some of their more annoying traits are common topics. It doesn't mean anything significant."

  "You were a
lone in the shop with the victim. I only have your word for what happened. According to your story, you admit fixing her coffee and handing it to her."

  Marla felt a sudden lump obstruct her throat as a nasty image came to mind: her business in ruins as she was hauled off to jail.

  "I'm telling the truth,” she stated.

  "Are you?"

  He stared at her so hard and long, she felt her blood drain to her toes. God, has he found out about the envelope? “When can we reopen the salon?” she ventured, changing the subject.

  "We'll be finished in there sometime tomorrow, so Monday would be fine."

  "We're closed Mondays."

  "So make it Tuesday.” He paused, a crafty look entering his eyes. “By any chance, is your ex-spouse Stanley Kaufman, the attorney?"

  A chill crept up her spine. He already knew the answer, which meant he'd been checking up on her. She'd reverted to her maiden name after the divorce. What else had he learned about her background?

  "Stan and I were divorced nine years ago.” When she was twenty-five. He'd remarried and divorced again in the interval. Now he was on wife number three. “What does that have to do with anything?” she shot back.

  "You might consider calling him for legal advice."

  "Why, are you going to arrest me?"

  "No, ma'am. But you should think about protecting yourself."

  From what, pal? Maybe he wasn't going to drag her into the station today, but tomorrow was always a distinct possibility.

  Depressed, Marla showed him to the door. Damned if she'd call Stan for anything. He and Kimberly would enjoy seeing her squirm, and she wouldn't give them the satisfaction!

  After she was left alone, Marla entered her study and lifted the phone receiver. She called several funeral homes, the numbers for which she'd written down earlier. Her work paid off. Mrs. Kravitz's funeral was scheduled for Sunday afternoon. She would have just enough time to attend before going to Anita's house for dinner. It was imperative she get that envelope before Detective Vail got wind of it, or she'd be sunk for sure! Mrs. Kravitz's relatives were her only hope.

  Rosenthal Memorial Gardens, one of the county's older cemeteries, sat squeezed between condo developments in a western suburb of Fort Lauderdale. Bordered by tall black olive trees in a rectangular subdivision, the gardens gave the appearance of an oasis of tranquillity away from the bustle of modern life.

  Marla parked in a lot situated to the side of a chapel building where solemn-faced men in dark suits stood ready to direct visitors. She hadn't attended many funerals and didn't feel comfortable in cemeteries. Her annual pilgrimage to Tammy's gravesite was a painful event, but a necessity to her conscience. She also visited her father's resting place each year at Rosh Hashanah. Glancing across the lawn, she wished he were here now to offer his support. She missed him with an aching intensity as she remembered how he'd listened to her hopes and dreams, and later, her despair.

  He'd understood when Marla made her career switch, while Anita still tried to push her into becoming a schoolteacher. Unable to face being near children after the accident, Marla had forsaken her two years of college as an education major to become a hairstylist. She'd always liked doing hair, experimenting on her friends much to their delight, but she'd suppressed her true calling because of Anita's lack of support. When Anita gave her a hard time later on, Marla countered that it was her life, not her mother's. That discussion was typical of their bittersweet relationship.

  Giving a last nervous tug to her jet-black suit jacket, she approached the polished wooden doors. Memories aside, she'd be glad when this ordeal was over.

  Inside, she was directed past a lobby toward a room on the left where the family of the deceased were greeting visitors. She signed a guest book and entered the dimly lit interior. Somber individuals stood about in small clusters, chatting quietly. Remembering how Mrs. Kravitz had described her niece as a petite brunette, Marla spotted her engaged in conversation across the room. Waiting for a lag in dialogue, she tentatively approached.

  "Excuse me, are you Wendy Greenfield? I'm Marla Shore, owner of Cut ‘N Dye Beauty Salon. Please accept my sincere condolences. I'm so terribly sorry about your aunt"

  Half-expecting a rebuff, she was glad when the woman smiled at her.

  "It's kind of you to come, Ms. Shore.” Wendy's pretty face showed no signs of weeping. Her large brown eyes were outlined in black, a stark contrast to her pale complexion. Ginger-tinted lips gave a hint of color along with a matching blush. Her hairstyle, straight and one length down to her shoulders, was not one Marla would recommend for someone of her small stature. At least she'd chosen a smartly cut black suit trimmed in crisp white for the funeral service.

  "Call me Marla. Your aunt has ... had been my customer for many years. I'll miss her,” she said, hoping her lie wasn't evident

  "Won't we all,” a man's voice snarled from behind.

  "Marla, this is my husband, Zack. Marla owns the hair salon where ... er...” Wendy's voice trailed off.

  Marla turned to shake hands with a tall, thin-laced fellow with bushy dark eyebrows that reminded her of an eagle's nest, perched high on his face as the dominant feature. His wide mouth stretched in a sneer as he took her hand. His handshake was limp and moist like a strand of freshly bleached hair.

  He looked down at her over his long nose. “Come to send off the old lady?"

  "Zack!” Wendy said. “Please show some respect"

  "Why should I? Aunty Bertha can't tell us what to do anymore. I hope she was telling the truth about leaving you her fortune."

  Wendy's eyes narrowed. “Watch what you say, Zack,” she warned. She turned to Marla, giving an apologetic shrug. “You'll have to excuse his behavior. He and Aunty Bertha weren't getting along."

  "Where's cousin Todd? Isn't he going to show up for his mother's funeral?” Zack glanced around the room, a skeptical look on his face.

  Marla considered mentioning the envelope, but this didn't seem to be an appropriate time. Excusing herself instead, she edged toward the door. A young man rushed inside, nearly colliding with her. He gave her a startled glance and she stared back, wondering why he looked familiar. Dark stubble shadowed the lower half of his face. Dulled blue eyes were set close together above a narrow nose. But it was the cleft in his chin that reminded her of something with an unpleasant association. The guy looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. He was dressed in a loosely tucked-in dress shirt and trousers, mismatched socks, and loafers. Apparently he hadn't thought to put on a tie for the occasion, or else he didn't care.

  She watched him greet Wendy and Zack. Was this Mrs. Kravitz's son? That could explain why she felt she knew him. He might have come into the salon when his mother was having her hair done. How sad that none of the relatives showed any signs of grief. Wendy's manner seemed subdued, but she wasn't weepy.

  A tall broad-shouldered man with gray hair broke away from a group and strode in her direction. His handsome face was lined with creases, but they added distinction to his even features. That three-piece suit must be warm in the Florida heat, she thought, her gaze assessing his expensive attire.

  "You're Marla Shore?” he said, an icy look in his tawny eyes.

  She nodded. “And who are you?” she challenged, offended by his curt tone of voice.

  "I'm Roy Collins, vice president of Sunshine Publishing. Bertha's business partner,” he added. “I heard the circumstances of her death. Be warned, Ms. Shore, that I am considering suing you for neglect. I must say I am surprised you had the nerve to show up here."

  Marla's eyes widened. “Whatever are you talking about?"

  "You gave her a poisoned cup of coffee, then left her alone. She could have been resuscitated if you'd been with her and noticed she was ill. I won't permit this flagrant lack of responsibility to go unpunished.” His eyes narrowed menacingly. “My attorney will be in touch with you."

  With a supercilious tilt of his chin, he stalked away and joined the cluster around Wendy and
Zack.

  Her blood boiling, Marla strolled to a corner and leaned against the wall to observe the proceedings. Watching the interactions of Bertha's relatives, she determined not to let Roy Collins unnerve her. He wouldn't have a leg to stand on in court, she told herself reassuringly, ignoring a pang of doubt.

  When the doors to the chapel opened, she marched inside, her spine stiff. She sat through the service with quiet respect. Wendy sniffled in the front row, flanked by her husband and the man Marla assumed was Todd Kravitz. The rabbi eulogized Bertha for her numerous charitable works and her contribution to the regional publishing scene. She'd started Sunshine Publishing Company from scratch, using funds provided by her banker husband. When he died, she continued to make the business a profitable enterprise. She'd been a shrewd businesswoman, Marla conceded, even if she was ruthless.

  A brief gravesite service followed, after which the guests dispersed. Marla's heels sank into the soft ground as she approached Mrs. Kravitz's niece.

  "Please let me know if there's anything I can do for you,” she offered, squinting against the bright sun.

  "It was kind of you to come,” Wendy replied. Her eyes were rimmed in red, but her waterproof mascara kept her makeup intact. Marla noticed a tissue clutched in her hand.

  "I'd like to talk to you again.” Marla wished she could bring up the topic of the envelope now, but other guests were hovering to say their farewells. “Can I call you at a more convenient time?"

  "We'll be sitting shivah for the next few days at our house. You can stop in if you like. I know my aunt went to your salon often. You can't blame yourself for what happened,” she said, patting Marla's shoulder.

  Marla smiled at her, grateful that at least one person in the family was friendly. Hope swelled within her that she'd be able to obtain the envelope easily. Then she could put the matter to rest once and for all.

  She turned to go, nearly bumping into another woman. “Darlene ... and Nicole! What are you two doing here?"

  "We thought we'd pay our respects,” Darlene said, chewing a wad of gum. Garbed in a brown-leather miniskirt, boots, and a skimpy halter top, she seemed dressed for a picnic instead of a funeral. “Lucille's here, too. We kind of figured you'd need our support."