Permed To Death [Bad Hair Day Mystery 1]

by Nancy J. Cohen

  Marla glanced across the lawn to where Lucille appeared to be arguing with Roy Collins. The receptionist's shoulders hunched as she punctured the air with animated gestures, a scowl on her face. Collins looked mildly entertained. Recalling that Lucille had worked for him before her present position, Marla wondered at their current relationship.

  "We were sitting in the back row,” Nicole explained, fingering her flowered silk dress. “How about joining us for a bite to eat? We're driving to the Beverly Hills Cafe from here."

  "Thanks, but I'm going to my mother's for dinner. It's a command performance,” she said, waggling her eyebrows.

  "Too bad. How are you holding up? Any news on when we can go back to work?"

  "Detective Vail stopped by my house to ask more questions. He said we're clear for business on Tuesday."

  "Aw, heck,” Darlene said, shaking her head of wavy blond hair. She pouted her lips, colored a pastel pink shade. “Like I was hoping for a little vacation."

  "What did you do all weekend?” Nicole asked Marla. “Have reporters been on your tail?"

  "I gave one interview, just to set the record straight. Otherwise, I spent a quiet few days. Tally and I went to the Southern Women's Exposition last evening, and Friday night I went out with Ralph. I'm afraid I wasn't very good company."

  Nicole grinned. “Ralph is more interested in your looks than your brains. After all, he works in a body shop, doesn't he?” she said, winking.

  "You're right. Say, here comes Lucille."

  The receptionist was heading in their direction, her narrow hips swaying in a knee-length skirt. She wore a sleeveless blouse, showing off her supple arms. You'd never know her age from that athletic figure, Marla thought with a twinge of envy. Walking the dog was her sole form of exertion. She hated calisthenics and wouldn't be caught dead lifting weights. Besides, doing people's hair all day and listening to their gossip was enough exercise for her. The job required stamina and built character, which was more than she could say for any exercise video.

  "How ya doing, honey?” Lucille asked, her cornflower blue eyes warmly sympathetic.

  "I'm okay. I didn't realize you and Roy Collins were still communicating. Seems like you were having a disagreement."

  "Roy never appreciates me, but that's old news. You coming with us to the restaurant?” She tightened her earring, its screw back having loosened.

  "I'm going to my mother's for dinner, but thanks anyway. We're allowed to reopen on Tuesday, so I'll see you then. Bye, Nicole,” Marla said, turning to her friend.

  Nicole swatted a mosquito buzzing near her face. “Man, the bugs are out early this year. Where's Darlene? I'm ready to leave.” Marla glanced around, surprised to note the girl was heading toward a group that included Roy Collins. Striking up a conversation, Darlene assumed a provocative pose, but Collins appeared uninterested. He said something to her and turned to speak to someone else.

  "It's just like her to introduce herself to the best-looking man here,” Nicole commented. “She's a fool if she thinks he'd be interested in her. He's probably happily married."

  "Roy Collins is a confirmed bachelor,” Lucille replied, a hint of bitterness in her tone. “Darlene just isn't his type. See, he's sent her away."

  Darlene returned to her friends, a sullen look on her face.

  "I've got to go,” Marla said. “Have a nice dinner. I'll see y'all on Tuesday morning.” Slinging the strap of her black-leather handbag over her shoulder, she marched toward the parking lot.

  "Ms. Shore?” a man's voice called from behind.

  Whirling around, Marla suppressed a gasp of surprise. Todd Kravitz was rapidly bearing down on her, a fierce frown on his face. Her nose wrinkled as she took in his scroungy appearance. Boy, does he need some of my expertise, she thought. It looked as though he hadn't shampooed his dark hair in weeks. Or colored it, she noticed, startled. Dirty blond roots were beginning to show. Now that was unusual. She hadn't seen a man color his hair from any shade of blond to ebony. Usually someone with dirty blond hair would go lighter. Adding a note to her mental files, she smiled and extended her hand.

  "You're Mrs. Kravitz's son, aren't you?” she said. “I'm so sorry about your mother."

  ''Thanks.” He shook her hand, and a strange sensation shimmied up her spine. Why did his touch feel so familiar? “I need to talk to you about my mother,” he muttered. “There's something you should know."

  "Oh? Like what?” She scrutinized his face, but his shifty eyes wouldn't allow her to read his thoughts.

  "Like who wanted my mother dead.” He glanced over his shoulder, his expression furtive. “Can't say more here. Just come and see me this week, and I'll tell you. He had every reason to want her out of the way."

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  Chapter 3

  Marla pulled up in front of the single-family home owned by her mother and parked on the swale, the driveway already being occupied by her cousin's black Mercedes. Many of the homes in the development were similar in design, but it was better than those condos where you couldn't tell one building from the next. Marla couldn't stand to live in a place where you could hear your neighbor's footsteps overhead or you had to climb stairs holding a bundle of groceries. Anita's house suited her active lifestyle. Two bedrooms were sufficient because Marla lived nearby, and her brother had a home in Boca Raton. Anita rarely needed to house visitors.

  Speaking of visitors, she'd promised to call on Todd Kravitz after the mourning period passed. Too bad he'd refused to tell her anything further this afternoon. He'd been close-mouthed, giving her sly looks that discomfited her. Caution dictated that she should meet him in a public place, she decided, strolling along the paved walkway toward her mother's house.

  "Hi, Ma! I'm here,” she called, pushing open the unlocked front door. Anita was in the kitchen directly to her left, arranging a platter of chopped liver and crackers. Ahead in the living room sat her relatives, their boisterous conversation interrupted when she called out a greeting. Anxious to make herself useful, she entered the kitchen to ask if Anita needed help. A mouth-watering aroma of baked brisket and roasted potatoes tantalized her appetite.

  "Don't you look nice,” Anita said, wiping her hands on a limp dish towel before hugging her daughter. She wore a black-and-white top enhanced by decorative silver discs, a white skirt, and dangling ivory earrings that complemented her short, sleek white hair. Marla's glance dropped to her mother's brightly colored toenails, peeking out from a pair of heeled sandals. Not a day went by that Anita didn't wear red lipstick and nail polish. It gave her confidence, she'd said once, but Marla knew she wasn't the type to cower in the wings while a show was going on. Regardless of how she enhanced her appearance, she drew attention.

  "I went to Mrs. Kravitz's funeral today,” Marla stated, glad to be in a cheerful atmosphere after the strain of the afternoon.

  Anita returned to her preparations, decorating the chopped-liver platter with sprigs of fresh parsley. “She'd been coming to your salon for a long time, hadn't she?"

  "Eight years. I met some of her relatives."

  "Bertha Kravitz was a pillar of the community. I'll bet the chapel was crowded."

  "Yeah, it was. A few of my stylists came, too."

  "That was thoughtful of them.” She glanced at Marla, studying her as only a mother can scrutinize a child. “Are you all right?"

  "Yes, I'm fine.” An inner warmth stole upon her, bringing a sense of comfort. In the competitive world of modern society, motherly concern was a gratifying constant “The police detective came to my house to ask more questions,” she said. “He makes me feel guilty even though I didn't do anything wrong."

  "You were alone with that woman, weren't you? If I were a homicide investigator, I'd be suspicious of anyone remotely connected to her."

  "Exactly. He should be checking out her relatives. They're a strange bunch if you ask me. As if I don't have enough to worry about, Bertha's business partner is threatening to sue me for negle
ct."

  "Boy, have you got tsuris,” Anita sympathized.

  Indeed, and her woes were multiplying. “Tomorrow, I'll make a condolence call on Wendy Greenfield, Mrs. Kravitz's niece. It's the least I can do.” She didn't mention the matter of the envelope. Her mother believed she'd earned the money for cosmetology school through regular modeling jobs, and Marla prayed she'd never learn the truth.

  "How's your coalition gearing up for water safety week?” Anita said, checking the brisket warming in the oven.

  "We're sending flyers to the schools. We've got a TV commercial lined up and a meeting next week with the town council. We're pushing for a law requiring pool enclosures. It's a measure that can save a lot of lives."

  Tammy's house didn't have a pool fence; nor was the patio door locked. Just because she'd baby-sat for the family before, Marla shouldn't have assumed the door would be secured each time. She'd been on the telephone taking an important message when Tammy let herself outside. Having been instructed to expect the phone call, she'd thought Tammy was safe. Little did she know the toddler had learned to climb out of her playpen. The parents had blamed her, even though they should have taken better precautions.

  Drowning was the number one killer of children four years and younger in Florida. Tragedy had taught her it was a preventable accident. Now she advised others what she'd learned the hard way: Put childproof locks on all exterior doors. Build an enclosure around the pool. Begin swimming lessons as early as possible. And never leave a small child unattended. Saving lives by educating the public gave Marla redemption for the loss she'd caused, but nothing could ever assuage the grief she still carried in her heart.

  "Here, see if your cousins need refills,” Anita said, thrusting a bucket of ice cubes in her direction. “Say hello to everyone. We'll talk more later."

  Glad to be roused from her morose thoughts, Marla joined her relatives. “Uncle Moishe!” she exclaimed, greeting the elderly gentleman seated on the brocade upholstered couch. “Has it really been two years since I visited you in Denver?” Leaning over to kiss his cheek, she clutched the ice bucket to her chest.

  His wrinkled face split into a grin. “It's good to see you! I hear you've been having some excitement at your job."

  "Did one of your customers really get murdered?” chirped Aunt Selma, a diminutive woman who had always reminded Marla of a parakeet with her beak like nose and brightly colored clothing. She sat next to Uncle Moishe, her gnarled hands neatly folded in her lap. An untouched lemonade rested on a side table.

  "Yes, but I'd rather not talk about it.” Making the rounds of greeting her cousins, she plopped ice cubes into drinks that needed refreshing.

  "Tell us the details,” demanded Julia, taking a sip of white wine from a Waterford glass. Married to Alan, an accountant, she hadn't worked a day since they were married. Even so, she always looked hassled. Sitting on a plush armchair, she kept crossing and uncrossing her ankles. Her layered, shag-cut dirty blond hair could have used more care, as could her peach lipstick, blurred at the edges. She'd put more effort into choosing her wardrobe, a tailored beige-silk blouse and dark brown slacks.

  "There's not much to say,” Marla replied, putting down the ice bucket. Clearly, she wasn't going to get away with avoiding the topic. “I wrapped Bertha's hair for a perm, then gave her a cup of coffee. After a couple of sips, she was dead."

  "Wasn't she the head of Sunshine Publishing?” asked Alan, glancing at his watch. He checked the time at regular intervals, giving the impression that he compartmentalized his life into prescribed zones. “I seem to recall reading about the company in one of my journals. They were being investigated for tax evasion."

  "When was this?” Marla gave him a sharp glance.

  Anita strode into the room, bringing the chopped-liver platter and a bowl of pickled herring. “Help yourselves,” she said, placing the dishes on a cocktail table. She went to the bar to pour herself a wine cooler.

  "The incident occurred some time ago,” said Alan, stooping to smear a spoonful of chopped liver onto a wheat cracker. Stuffing it into his mouth, he frowned. “I don't remember hearing anything else about it. Maybe the case was dropped."

  Lucille might still have been working there, Marla thought. This might be worth following up on.

  "How's the beauty business?” crooned Cynthia. Seated beside Julia, she'd maintained her glacial aloofness until this point, buoyed by her husband Bruce, who stood stiffly by her side. The eldest of her cousins, their wealth provided an excuse to look down their schnozzles on the rest of the family. Marla tolerated them only because she liked going to their villa by the sea each year for the Passover seder. Her scornful gaze swept their coiffeurs before she replied. Cynthia's hair was teased so high it reminded her of a beehive, and Bruce's stood on end as though he'd been hit by lightning.

  "Business is fine, thanks,” she retorted. “Maybe you'd like to stop in at the salon and update your style. Besides, you could use a new color rinse to get rid of those brassy tones."

  "How's your love life?” Julia probed.

  Marla bristled. “I'm seeing a few guys, no one serious.” Not that it's any concern of yours. “How about yourself, sweetie? Now that tax season is over, are you and hubby getting reacquainted?"

  Julia ignored her barb. “I understand Stanley remarried.” Her singsong voice told Marla what a fool she'd been to let such a prize go.

  "Yes, he did. Kimberly is a real gem.” She didn't bother to hide her sarcasm. Living in a six-bedroom mansion at exclusive Mangrove Estates wasn't good enough for Stan's new wife. Kimberly insisted a house on the ocean would be more fulfilling.

  In order to finance this dream house, Stan had been nagging Marla to sell their jointly owned property, which generated steady rental income. The divorce settlement had given her funds to establish the salon, but that money was gone. Now she needed the extra income to maintain her lifestyle.

  Hopefully she wouldn't have to call Stan for legal advice as Detective Vail had suggested, because she knew he'd take advantage of her. She'd never sell her share of their property, not under any circumstances.

  I warned you to hold on to Stan,” said Anita, wagging her finger. “He was a good catch. Now look at you, Marla Shorstein! You have to work for a living, and none of the men you date are Jewish."

  "I like my work, Ma, and I changed my last name to Shore if you'll recall. So what if my dates aren't Jewish? Neither are my best friends for that matter."

  "There's no one closer than one of your own kind."

  "Sorry, but my values are different. And excuse me, but who I choose to be my friend is my decision. I don't fit in with Stan's crowd, which is where you'd like me to be."

  Stuffing a cracker with chopped liver into her mouth, she chomped resentfully. Anita implied that she needed a Jewish man to make her life worthwhile. Marrying Stan had been a mistake, although at the time it seemed like the right thing to do. She'd learned that following other people's well-meant advice often turned out to be a bad choice.

  Aunt Selma wobbled over and placed a hand on her arm. “You're out of sorts by all that's happened,” she warbled. “Well, you just ignore these yentas and come with me, bubula.” Under her aunt's kind tutelage, Marla took her seat at the dining-room table. Her mouth watered at the presentation of gefilte fish and red horseradish. At least she could count on a good meal when she visited her mother.

  For the duration of dinner, she listened to family gossip. Her mind couldn't concentrate on what anyone was saying. Instead, she thought about tomorrow and what she'd say to Wendy Greenfield when she called upon her.

  The Greenfields lived in Jacaranda, a pleasant suburban enclave of Plantation, which used to be the upscale neighborhood until people moved to Weston or Coral Springs to maintain their status. Driving the streets was similar to being at a car show: Mercedeses, Lexuses, and Jaguars were the norm. Live-in domestic help went along with the ride, as did designer labels. Marla preferred to think her tastes were simple but
classier.

  She pulled to a stop at a sprawling house with a mixed stone-and-stucco exterior. No barrel-tile roof here. The sipping roof consisted of traditional white tiles, coated with mildew. A yellow fire hydrant, paint rusted from well water, sat on the swale. Her gaze swept the sabal palms, red hibiscus bushes, and spiky ground-cover plants that complemented the freshly cut lawn. The estate appeared to be well maintained, although it could use a roof cleaning and a coat of sealant on the driveway.

  Her Toyota was the only vehicle parked in the circular driveway. Marla assumed that meant the stream of visitors had let up for the moment Her heartbeat accelerated; it would be a lucky break if Wendy was alone.

  Warm, humid air scented with a spiced fragrance filled her nostrils as she stepped from her car. Her white blouse stuck to her back, but there wasn't much she could do about it. Sweat came with the territory in south Florida. After smoothing down her skirt, she reached inside the car and grabbed the box of cookies she'd picked up at a local bakery. Hopefully this visit would yield results.

  Undaunted by ferocious barking coming from the house, she locked the car door and strode forward with an eager step.

  "Marla! How kind of you to come,” said Wendy, greeting her with a friendly smile. For someone in mourning, she didn't exhibit any signs of grief. Marla's glance raked over her casual attire. Make that casually expensive, she amended. Wendy wore a navy-silk shorts outfit which went well with her petite figure. Low-heeled pumps were dressy enough for company but comfortable for the feet Marla liked the way she'd fixed her hair, a short wavy style that framed her face.

  As she stepped inside, two golden retrievers bounded at her like attention-starved children. They must have smelled Spooks because they slobbered all over her. Grinning at their antics, she thrust die bakery box at Wendy. “Here, I brought this for you.” She bent to scratch one of the dogs behind the ears.