Permed To Death [Bad Hair Day Mystery 1]

by Nancy J. Cohen

  "It's boring sitting in a chair for an hour. Sure, customers talk to me. And usually I don't divulge what they say."

  "Hear anything relevant about Bertha Kravitz?"

  Now she knew where he was going. “Nothing important."

  His jaw flexed. “Obviously, you find your work satisfying. Did you always want to go to cosmetology school, or was this something you realized later?"

  "At first I wanted to be a teacher. But after the accident—” Marla cut herself off, cursing inwardly. Oh, he's good, she thought.

  "Go on."

  His shrewd gaze made her wonder how much he already knew. “I changed my career direction,” she blurted.

  "Why?"

  "Because ... because...” Lord save me. She didn't want to talk about Tammy.

  A series of blips sounded and he withdrew a cellular phone from where it was clipped to his belt “Excuse me,” he said to her before answering. “Vail here.” A pause. “I see. Where and when?” He listened with a grim expression on his face. “Okay, I'm on my way."

  Standing, he regarded Marla with cool detachment. “I've got to go. They've found Carlos.” He put the phone back on its clip. Taking the plastic bagged box of marzipans, he strode toward the front door.

  She hurried to catch up. “Where was his boat? Did he say anything about the murder?"

  Vail halted, turning to face her. His eyes were flat as pewter.

  "Carlos won't be telling us anything. He's dead."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 11

  Marla's mind shifted into overdrive. Carlos was dead. Did he die of natural causes? Where had his body been found? Were there any clues to Bertha's murder aboard his boat?

  En route to Zack Greenfield's office on Monday morning, she barely focused on the road ahead. Her brain filtered through the information from yesterday. Dalton Vail had dashed off, leaving her with dozens of unanswered questions. She'd spent a restless night pondering their conversation and the new possibilities that Carlos's death presented. Damn, why hadn't Dalton called her? Didn't he believe she had a right to know what was going on?

  Of course not, you idiot. He still considers you a suspect. Under the circumstances, she shouldn't expect him to share information with her. Having hoped to gain his trust, she felt a stab of disappointment slash through her. Maybe he liked her, but he wasn't the type of man to let his emotions outweigh his sense of logic. Trusting her was not something a person in his position could afford.

  An alternative explanation arose that chilled her blood. Since she hadn't heard from Wendy regarding the envelope, it was possible Vail possessed the photographs contained therein. That might explain the mixed signals he generated in her presence. On the other hand, she'd have sensed it if he'd discovered her secrets. Usually she was a pretty good reader of nonverbal cues, and his behavior didn't suggest any inner certainty on his part that he'd caught her. But even if he realized that motive and opportunity were hers, he still needed to prove she had the means to conjure up an exotic mixture of poison.

  What was monkshood, anyway? Some obscure herb? And who would know about such a thing, much less how to turn it into a powdered form not easily discernible? Cyanide was the main ingredient, she recalled. Maybe you could buy it as rat poison, or was that arsenic? Perhaps she should look them both up later, either at the library or on the Internet if such references existed. Any knowledge would be helpful, although she shuddered as an image of Bertha's death grimace returned to haunt her.

  Letting her optimism surface, she thought maybe Wendy had found the envelope but just didn't have time to phone her. She'd ask Zack about it this morning.

  At least traffic heading downtown on Broward Boulevard was light by ten o'clock. She'd figured it would be better to avoid the rush hour. The rest of the ride went smoothly, and soon she was turning into a parking garage.

  As she ascended the elevator to the fourteenth floor of a tall office building, Marla reviewed her plan. She'd pretend ignorance about financial matters, which shouldn't be too hard, considering how she'd learned about the subject in the first place. She'd gleaned her knowledge from whatever pearls of wisdom Stan had condescendingly dropped her way, then continued her education by reading financial magazines until she got too depressed by all of the self-made millionaires interviewed in their articles. Her main investments consisted of mutual funds, bank CDs, and a few individual stocks. She didn't trust insurance companies or most brokers, so she probably was a good candidate for financial analysis. But that was not her prime purpose in coming. After flattering Zack, she'd tackle him with more personal questions. If she infused just the right amount of innocence into her voice, he might talk freely.

  Giving a nervous tug to her navy blazer, she faced forward with a resolute clench of her jaw. The elevator halted, and the door slid open, revealing a reception area dominated by a blonde seated behind a mahogany desk. The woman glanced up at her arrival.

  "Hi, I'm Marla Shore. I have an appointment with Mr. Greenfield.” Stepping onto the carpet, Marla eyed the secretary appreciatively. Groomed impeccably, she exuded competence. From her emerald green suit to her button earrings, she was the picture-perfect image of an administrative assistant Even her polite expression showed dignity mixed with discipline.

  Holy highlights! Could this be the mysterious light-haired woman who'd visited Carlos at the docks? Marla's eyes narrowed as she considered the possibility.

  "Ms. Shore, please have a seat.” The woman indicated a standard sofa arrangement. “I'll notify Mr. Greenfield that you've arrived. He should be just finishing with his last appointment May I offer you a cup of coffee?"

  "No, thanks.” Much as she'd have liked to hike her caffeine intake, she declined. Already her heart was racing with anticipation, and she didn't need to be overly wired. “By any chance, were you at Seaside Marina recently?"

  Sharp green eyes met hers. “Sorry, what was that?"

  "Did you run an errand to Seaside Marina near Port Everglades in the past couple of weeks?"

  "Not me, I get seasick looking at the water.” Smiling, she turned back to her computer, effectively closing down any further conversation.

  Marla took a seat and picked up a copy of People lying on a table. She flipped it open to an article about a young actress and her latest paramour. Way to go, girl, she thought, reviewing her own love life. None of her male friends exuded an aura of power like Dalton Vail. If not for the murder case, how would he feel about her? Warmth stole upon her senses as she thought about him. Why did the man keep invading her mind? Better to focus her attention on that envelope. It was more important she retrieve the photographs before he learned of their existence.

  Reaffirming her purpose, she glanced at her watch, a square-faced Rado with a scratch-proof crystal that Stan had given her on their first anniversary. The dial read ten minutes past the hour. Compressing her lips, she dropped the magazine on the table and tapped a foot to allay tension.

  A buzzer sounded, and the secretary lifted her receiver. “Yes, sir,” she said. Signaling to Marla, she pointed to a closed door that presumably led to the inner sanctum. “You can go in now. Go straight down the corridor. Mr. Greenfield will be in the last cubicle to your left."

  Her blood surging with excitement, Marla rose from her seat and headed for the door. She swung it open and stared. Facing her was a wide aisle with executive offices to the right and small cubicles opposite lined like boxes. She'd walked halfway down when a familiar figure emerged from around a corner. Stopping short, she gasped in surprise.

  "Ken! What are you doing here?"

  Tally's husband approached, his slate gray suit fitting attire for an insurance claims representative. His wheat brown hair swept across a wide forehead creased with worry lines. Anxious blue eyes gazed at her from a clean-shaven face. Wondering why he was here, she watched as his mouth curved in a guilty grin. Disaster claims were his specialty, unless Zack's predicament counted. Not likely!

  "Marla,
good to see you."

  "Who did you come to visit?” she asked bluntly.

  "I had an appointment with Zack Greenfield,” he said, a look of puzzlement crossing his expression.

  "What a coincidence. I'm here to talk to Zack, too. I didn't know you consulted him for financial advice."

  He shuffled his feet. “We went to grad school together in Boston. That's where we got our MBA degrees."

  Marla raised an eyebrow. “Exchanging stories about old times, were you?"

  "Not exactly.” He gave a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Look, don't tell Tally I've been here, okay?"

  "Why is that, Ken?” She didn't like the notion of keeping secrets from Tally. In view of Ken's nervous mannerisms, she could tell more was going on here than friendly reminiscences.

  "I just don't want her to know. You're not going to say anything, are you?” he asked, his casual words belying a mildly threatening tone.

  "Not if you insist, but I should tell you that Tally is pretty upset with the way you've been treating her lately."

  "I've got things on my mind. Zack is helping me out, so you don't need to concern yourself."

  Marla felt hurt by his attitude. Here she was trying to help them, and Ken wouldn't confide in her. Now she understood Tally's feelings. How did you deal with a man so stubborn?

  "I think Tally would feel better if you shared your worries,” Marla advised. “She's your wife, and she feels you're excluding her. It makes her wonder if you're seeing someone else as in, you know, another woman.” She gulped, hoping she hadn't overstepped the bounds of friendship.

  Ken's eyes widened in astonishment. “You're kidding!"

  Leaning against the wall, she regarded him calmly. “No, I'm not. Yesterday when you left to play golf, she was sure you were going to meet a lady friend. You've been tuning her out lately, and she feels neglected."

  "Well, it's not that at all. This is something I have to deal with on my own. Besides, why should she care? She's so busy at her boutique shop that I rarely see her anymore."

  Marla couldn't believe his bitter tone. “Maybe the two of you need to sit down and talk. It sounds as though you both have some misguided ideas about each other.” Reaching out, she touched his arm. “Please, Ken."

  He shook her off. “I'll get things straightened out first, then we'll talk. I promise,” he added, noting the doubtful look on her face. “You've always been a good friend. Don't let me down now."

  "Ms. Shore?” Zack peeked around the corner of his cubicle.

  "I'm coming.” She waved in his direction, thinking Zack could tell her what was bothering Ken if she played her cards right. Returning her attention to her friend's husband, she offered a reassurance that pained her.

  "I won't say anything for now,” she told him. “But talk to Tally, will you? And let's go out together again soon.” They'd double-dated before. Maybe she'd ask Dalton to be her escort. A delicious shiver shimmied up her spine at the thought. Play with fire, and you might get burned, girl.

  "I'll keep in touch,” Ken said. “And don't worry. Things will turn out okay."

  "I hope you're right,” Marla muttered on her way to Zack's cubicle. With Zack being a prominent financial advisor, she'd have expected him to inhabit an office like the vacant one across the aisle with an expansive window view of downtown Fort Lauderdale. Either he'd fallen on hard times, or he rented a smaller space because of frugality. This tiny space didn't inspire confidence. In order to attract prosperous clients, he should make an effort to appear more successful.

  Zack, sitting at his desk, which was curiously devoid of papers, leapt up at her arrival. He must have seen her talking to Ken and figured he could wait a few more minutes for their appointment to begin. A gratified smile curved her mouth. She'd always felt her time was as valuable as the next guy's. Why not return the favor and let him wait for her? Doctors’ offices were the worst. You might wait two hours to see the specialist who'd spend three minutes with you and then send a bill for hundreds of dollars. Someday she'd mail an invoice for the hours she lost while in the waiting room.

  Zack's limp handshake and artificial smile put her on alert. “Please take a seat,” he said, gesturing toward a chair with torn vinyl upholstery. The man didn't even rate decent office furnishings. What kind of advice could he give to people when he needed some himself? “How can I help you?” he asked, lowering his slim frame into a chair in worse condition than hers.

  Marla managed a smile. “I'm sure Wendy told you I visited her after the funeral. She'd mentioned you were a certified financial advisor, and I need help with my investments.” Her tone had a singsong quality on purpose. If she came across as the ditsy type, Zack might lower his defenses. She'd play into the common male misconception that women were financially inept.

  He straightened his spine, letting her know the strategy worked, and gave her a supercilious look over his long nose. “I'll need a list of your current assets,” he informed her.

  Marla handed him a paper she'd prepared listing her allocations. A discussion ensued in which she was pleasantly surprised by his sound advice. Giving him a disarming smile, she crooned: “You know, I can't understand why someone with your expertise isn't inhabiting one of those larger offices with a picture window.” She swept her hand in a vague gesture.

  Zack's expression darkened. “You're absolutely right."

  "The one directly across from this cubicle is empty."

  He regarded her with cold, dark eyes. They were small and round in his narrow face, almost overwhelmed by bushy eyebrows and a wide mouth. “You take a wrong turn around here, and your efforts aren't appreciated. That's what happened to me."

  "Yes, I recall Wendy mentioning some concerns about your situation, but I don't understand."

  "She'll have nothing to worry about soon.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “My personal fortune took a downturn recently, but I've a big comeback planned."

  "Oh dear, then what I heard is true?” she asked in her most child like tone.

  "What's that?"

  "Well, I don't believe it, of course. You're obviously a competent advisor, so you'd know better."

  "What did you hear?” he snapped.

  "In addition to your own loss, you've had to borrow money to repay clients whose investments soured last year. And the loan is being called in."

  Hunching forward, he scowled. “Who told you that?"

  "Todd Kravitz. He suggested you might need his mother's money to dig yourself out of a hole."

  "That scumbag. Ask him how he makes a living! Why, he was spooked when Aunty Bertha said she was going to write her memoirs. I'll bet he was afraid she'd reveal his dirty deals."

  Marla's heart thumped wildly at this new information. “How does he manage to get by?"

  Zack grimaced. “I've been in his apartment. He's got stuff lying around that doesn't belong to him. Fancy electronics, jewelry. You get my drift?"

  "I'm not sure that I do.” She fluttered her eyelashes, attempting to appeal to his masculine ego.

  Zack snatched up a ballpoint pen and clicked it on and off. “Those goods are just passing through his place. He finds a buyer. Get it?"

  Marla slapped a hand over her mouth in pretended shock. “Oh, my goodness!"

  "You can't rely on anything he tells you."

  "Well, you may be right. So this business about you taking out a loan isn't true?"

  "Oh, it's true all right.” He puffed out his chest. “But I'll be repaying it pretty soon. Wendy shouldn't worry about things so much. Ken trusts me, and we're in this together. You'll see, we'll surprise everyone."

  Marla felt a rush of alarm. What if Zack was talking about Wendy's inheritance? In what way was Ken involved? Did the threads of this reach farther then she'd imagined? Her mind flitted to the possibility that whoever paid Carlos might have poisoned the creamer. Where had Zack been that night? For that matter, how about Ken? He could just as easily have sent one of his female colleagues to take a
cake to Carlos. What was the significance of the cake?

  "The night before Bertha—” Her throat squeezed, but she forced herself to continue. “The night before she passed away, were you home with Wendy?"

  Zack threw her a startled glance. “Why are you asking?"

  "I'm just curious,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Detective Vail questioned me about my activities. Remember, I was alone with Bertha in the salon. I gave her the cup of coffee, and although I wasn't the one who poisoned her, Roy Collins has threatened to sue me. I've no doubt Vail considers me a suspect. In case he asks me about you, what should I say?"

  His eyes narrowed. “I was home that night. Vail has no reason to blame me."

  "So who do you think did it?"

  He scratched his head. “How should I know? Collins gets the business, and Todd gets off the hook if his mother was going to expose his illegal schemes."

  Inwardly, she sighed. It appeared this track was leading in circles. “Bertha kept an envelope addressed to me that I need returned. Did Wendy mention finding it yet?"

  Zack shook his head. “Not that I've heard."

  "I like Wendy,” she said softly. “This must be a difficult time for her, especially when she's pregnant"

  "It's been tough,” he agreed. “Wendy always felt close to her aunt, even after we were married. She could use a friend like you, Marla."

  "Is Todd her only living relative?"

  "Yeah. Wendy had just turned twenty-two when her father died. That was ten years ago. Her mother, Maureen, passed on four years later. Maureen was Bertha's younger sister. Bertha took over as a surrogate mother, treating Wendy as the daughter she'd never had."

  "She must have been excited to learn Wendy was pregnant."

  "Naturally.” His mouth curved downward. “It gave her a better opportunity to offer unwanted advice."

  "Wendy said you and Bertha had problems getting along."

  His scorching look spoke volumes. “She was always giving us orders, believing her money entitled her to rule our lives. At first, we needed her help, so I swallowed my pride. But I hated her for meddling, especially when Wendy supported her views instead of mine."