Woodward and Bernstein wouldn’t have taken this cell phone to the cops. Then again, cell phones hit the market long after Woodward and Bernstein. Probably Woodward and Bernstein wouldn’t have known to press SEND or END. They’d be staring at it stupidly, as I was, banging it against their heads or something, like monkeys.
“Wasn’t Debbie talking on her cell when she . . . you know?” Sandy asked. “I think she was. There’s a way to find out what calls she received and what calls she made.” Sandy started pushing buttons.
Why did I have the feeling that Sandy had already checked what calls Debbie had received and made?
“See. You just press this button and then this one and, whoops, well now I’ve gone and done it.”
She was prattling faster than a runaway express train, her prior depression taking a backseat to a burst of hysterical energy. “Hmmm. Look at all these numbers. They’re the same ones. In and out. Look, Bubbles. You’re not looking.”
I was looking. It was just that the number repeated over and over had no meaning. Was it Debbie’s home? Get Together Now! Travel, where she worked?
“Hey.” Sandy tapped her chin. “I wonder if this number is the number for Jeffrey Andre of Jeffrey Andre’s Salon. Let’s look it up.”
The phonebook on Sandy’s desk was already open to ANDERSON-ARONSON. Sandy’s finger ran right down the list of names to a greasy spot by ANDRE, J.
Sure enough. The same number.
“What do you think it means?” she asked.
“That she was calling Jeffrey Andre at his home and Jeffrey Andre was calling her.” I didn’t want to hurt Sandy’s feelings by observing that maybe Debbie was arranging a hair appointment. “He could be a client. Maybe he wanted to book a trip through Get Together Now!?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Sandy said. “I think it means something else. But I can’t go down to his salon and find out because, well, because I’m not sure my legs work anymore. I’m not sure I could face him in my . . . my disgrace.”
And with that, Sandy covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
Clearly, I had no other option.
Five minutes later I was at the door of Jeffrey Andre’s swanky salon.
The “warehouse district” was on Third Street, precariously close to Lehigh Steel. To the workers slogging in and out of the Steel, as it was called, the collection of shops, restaurants and boutiques in their factory’s old warehouses must have loomed like a vulture waiting to pick apart their dying carcasses.
What was the wimpy fate that awaited the once mighty industry that constructed our nation’s bridges, its skyscrapers, the ships that carried our soldiers overseas to defeat Hitler?
Williams Sonoma. Starbucks. Jeffrey Andre.
The thing is, we fear change in Lehigh. We don’t like eating dinner after six. It’s too late, too European. And if we eat ravioli, it should be filled with meat or cheese, not pumpkin. If something’s been blackened, it’s been burned. As for coffee, it should be served in thick ceramic mugs with plenty of creamer and, no matter what, it shouldn’t cost four bucks.
Which might explain why Jeffrey Andre was not as busy as I might have expected.
“Do you halfff an appointment?” A young man with short, short black hair sat on a high stool before a podium like a maître d’, instead of at a regular desk as God intended.
“Umm,” I said, still taking in my surroundings. Wide blond oak floors. Super-high ceilings and the pervasive smell of cappuccino. It was so big and . . . bare. Not a Christmas decoration in sight. Not even one of those fruity white-and-gold trees. It didn’t even smell like a normal salon. It smelled like grapefruit . . . and cappuccino.
“We’re verrrrry busy,” Mr. Receptionist said. “We are all booked up.”
Actually, as far as I could see, there was no one here. Only . . . was that G?
G was Jane’s old boyfriend who went by one letter for a name. G, as he was fond of saying, stood for God or Genius, depending. He used to be a slacker with an incurable addiction to SpongeBob SquarePants until his true, amazing talent as a stylist emerged quite by accident.
Now G was all in demand, except by Jane, who had dropped him after “the incident.” Jane had dropped a lot of stuff after “the incident,” including her courage and ambition to become a world-renowned physicist.
“Hi, G!” I called out.
G was foiling a businessman’s hair. Seeing me, he gulped and concentrated on his foiling, as if I were a total stranger.
That wasn’t like him at all.
“If you came here to socialize . . .” Mr. Receptionist was saying.
“I’d like to talk to Jeffrey Andre,” I said firmly. “It’s important.”
The man raised one—was that a plucked?—eyebrow. “I ham sooo sorry. Mr. Andre is verrry busy.”
“I’m Bubbles Yablonsky from the News-Times. I’d like to know why his home phone number appears repeatedly on the cell phone of a woman who was just murdered.” And then, in a stroke of brilliance, I remembered Mr. Notch’s constant admonition, reached into my purse and pulled out my Reporter’s Notebook.
The receptionist raised his other eyebrow at the notebook. “Oooohkay.” He tossed a pencil on the podium, slid out of his high stool and shuffled off, I assumed to find Jeffrey Andre.
I clutched my notebook and waited, feeling unreasonably nervous. I was suddenly seized by a mad wish for Stiletto to be here and was massaging my temples to make my wish go away when G popped up next to me.
“I just want you to know that even though I work here, I am totally heterosexual.”
G was holding the box of foil he’d been using a minute ago when he pretended not to know who I was. He was blonder than when I last saw him and there might have been biceps under the black sleeves of his supertight T-shirt. He looked pretty darn good.
“Okay? ’Cause if Jane hears I’m working for Jeffrey Andre, it’s gonna get all over town that I’ve gone, you know, to the other side.”
“No, it won’t.”
“I can’t take that risk. My studly quotient is everything.”
This was a total lie. Sleeping until two was everything to G.
It surprised me how happy I was to see him, though. I missed the boy. I missed the way he raided my Cap’n Crunch and left bowls of moldy cereal around the house. I even missed his smelly socks balled up on the floor.
“What’re you doing?” he cried, flinching as I held out my arms.
“Nothing. I wanted to give you a hug.”
“Ick. You’re my ex-girlfriend’s mother, Mrs. Y. That’s like incest or something. Let’s stick to Jane, okay? How is she? She still dating that jerk?”
It was my unfortunate duty to report that, indeed, Jane was still dating that jerk Jason. Jason who wore a pink buttoned-down shirt and was the high school “liaison” to the Lehigh Valley Rotarians. Jason who sported a buzz cut and wore a chastity ring and never let his jeans ride so low that you could see his underwear—unlike G.
G was obviously crestfallen.
“But don’t worry,” I said. “I have a plan. I’m inviting you to my wedding on Saturday.”
“Awesome.” G high-fived me. “You’re finally marrying that old dude.”
“What old dude?”
“Stalagmite.”
“Stiletto?”
“Yeah, him.”
“No,” I said, bristling. “And Stiletto’s not old. He’s my age.” I caught myself. I’d sounded exactly like Mama defending Clarence the pharmacist. “Actually, I’m remarrying Jane’s father.”
G jumped back. “Not the human oil slick?”
That was a pretty apt description, I had to admit.
“Our hope is that it will help Jane recover. Dr. Lori Caswell, our family therapist, is of the opinion that a nuclear family will do wonders.” No need to confess what else Dr. Caswell said about my maternal inadequacies, especially after G had just accused me of “incest.”
G shook his head. “I’m not b
uying it. I didn’t grow up in no nuclear family and it didn’t hurt me none.”
That statement said oh so much.
“What’re you doing here anyway? Heard you had some action down at the old HOB today. Seems Sandy really fu—messed up, say?”
There was muffled conversation at the far end of the salon. I suspected Jeffrey Andre was putting up some resistance to meeting me.
In a lowered voice, I gave G the quick rundown, making sure to stress that Sandy had not fu—messed up, but that Debbie Shatsky had been murdered.
“Sandy . . . a murderer?” G shouted.
I slapped my hand over the nimrod’s mouth. “Shhh. Sandy didn’t murder anyone. But it seems as if someone is eager to pin the blame on her.” I dropped my hand and explained about the two hair glues and how one was found in her private toilet. Odd, confusing thoughts were running around G’s mind. I could tell he wanted to delve further, but couldn’t bring himself to question how hair glue ended up in a toilet.
“What I want to know is why Debbie was calling Jeffrey Andre repeatedly,” I said.
G glanced over his shoulder and pulled me aside. “I don’t know what this dead babe looked like, but some chick’s been here bugging Jeffrey. Every time she shows up, he goes all crazy, starts demanding valium and bottled water with lime. Don’t ever call him Jeff, by the way. He totally freaks.”
There were footsteps echoing across the hard oak floor. I didn’t want to get G in trouble, though I was dying to hear more.
“And I heard Jeffrey tell Paul—that’s his assistant guy—that this client dying at the HOB might bring us business. He’s offering HOB clients a ten percent discount on cuts, fifteen percent on cuts and color.”
I was appalled. That was outrageous. That was worse than dogs picking over road kill. Fifteen percent! “Why . . .”
All of a sudden, G’s eyes turned to saucers. He slinked away from me as if I was repellant. Jeffrey Andre was right behind me. I couldn’t see him, but I could smell him. He reeked of syrupy aftershave that reminded me, vaguely, of my high school math teacher Mr. Zelko.
“Isss dis a friend of yours, Gerald?”
Gerald? I let out a snigger. So that was his real name.
G darted me a nasty look.
“Mother of my ex-girlfriend.” He curled his lip. “Glad that’s behind me.”
I was tempted to kick him, the little brat.
“Ah, girlfriends. Not exaccctly one of my problems. May I halp you, Ms. . . . uh . . .”
“Yablonsky.” I spun around to face the mythic Jeffrey Andre, he who was enriching himself off Sandy’s misfortune.
Jeffrey Andre was shorter than I with long silver hair and a huge piece of bling in his left lobe. Like Paul, his assistant, and G, he wore all black, including an all-black suit that seemed too loose for him. His pants were baggy and made of a thin material that undulated as he stood, giving him the impression of being fluid.
“How nice to meet you, Ms. Yablonsky.” He shook my hand tightly and made killer eye contact. Was he trying to read my thoughts? Or was this a sophisticated European thing I’d somehow missed during my Two Guys Community College course: Making A Good First Impression with Excellent European Eye Contact and Firm Handshakes.
“I am sooo sorry to hear about what happened to you at the House of Beauty,” he said.
Okay. I hadn’t said anything to Paul about being at the House of Beauty when Debbie died. All I’d told him was that I was a reporter for the News-Times.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught G slipping behind a door to get rid of his foil.
“What may I do for you, Misss Yablonsky? I haff sent flowers, of course. And my condolencesss. I’m sure you will pass them on to the appropriate peoplesss.”
“Actually, I came here in my capacity as a newspaper reporter. I have only one question.”
“Of course. Anything!” Jeffrey threw up his arms, showing he had nothing up his sleeves.
“Why was Debbie Shatsky calling you repeatedly at your salon and your home minutes before she died?”
Jeffrey turned to Paul as if Paul could translate this. “Debbie?” he said. “I know no Debbie . . . uh . . . Shitsky, is it?”
“Shatsky. That is the name of the woman who died today in the House of Beauty. And you must know her because you called her, too. Your home number is on her cell.”
“I do not know what you are talking about. I’m so sorry. I would like to help, but I am afraid I cannot. Let’s see.” He undulated over to a laptop on the podium. “Here are all the appointments. Paul. See if you can find a Debbie Shitsky.”
“Shatsky.”
Jeffrey stood aside, hands clasped, waiting for Paul to do his thing on the laptop. I wondered if Jeffrey’s hands were so skilled at hairstyling that they could not be forced to perform menial labor, like typing on a keyboard. Maybe they were insured by Lloyds of London. Or maybe, like Debbie, he suffered from some rare allergy, in his case to letters on plastic.
“Nope,” Paul said, tapping the down arrow repeatedly. “No Shatsky or Shitsky.”
These boys were being difficult. “She might have used her previous name. Bender.”
At the mention of Bender, Jeffrey Andre’s insipid smile snapped into a tight line. Paul stopped tapping, his fingers petrified over the UP and DOWN keys.
“Did you say, Bender?” Jeffrey Andre’s accent, like G, had also disappeared. “As in Ern Bender?”
“You know him?”
Jeffrey stared at me dully. This was not the meaningful French eye contact of minutes before. He was not connecting. He was remembering. Recalling.
He was seething.
“Let me give you a piece of advice,” he said. “Sometimes it is best to let sleeping dogs lie, you know? As my grandmother in the old country used to say, the more you stir the shit, the more it smells.”
Okay, that was the grossest line ever. I hate that line. What kind of grandmother talks about stirring shit?
“Are you telling me to stop asking questions?”
Jeffrey ran his finger under his lip, thinking. “What I am telling you is that you are a little hairdresser who works for a little newspaper in a little town. I have been around the world. I have lived in Paris, Milan, London and New York, though actually in Montclair, New Jersey, but close enough.”
Paul put a hand on his shoulder, encouragingly because Jeffrey was getting quite agitated, perspiring and confessing about Jersey and all.
“I have learned from being worldly that sometimes the truth one finds is not always the truth, you know?”
“No.” That made no sense whatsoever, in fact.
“Of course not. You are American. You can see only black and white. You cannot see all the other colors in between.”
That was completely untrue. Yes, I wore a lot of black and white, but also, pink, purple, hot red and the occasional silver sequins. I could see them just fine.
“So my advice to you is to leave this be,” he said firmly. “What has happened was for the best. You do not understand that now, perhaps. You may not understand it soon. But someday you will come to accept that what I have said is right and that is what you Americans love—to be right.”
“I’m not going to quit here,” I warned him, ignoring his anti-American prejudice. “I have no intention of backing down just because you’ve told me to.” I did not add that coming from a Frenchman, his threats sounded more like menu recitations than scary intimidations.
He stepped closer. His pores were very large, too large for a man in the business of beautifying skin. “Drop this investigation for your own safety, Miss Yablonsky. I don’t know how I can be more clear. No one wants there to be, how you say”—he glanced at the ceiling—“more killings.”
Then he abruptly clapped his hands three times, a signal to Paul, who snapped to his side.
“This interview is being concluded. I am bored with you now.” And he and Paul undulated away, like snakes.
It was definitely time to meet
this dreaded Ern Bender.
Chapter Six
The Christmas tree lot at the corner of Broad and Union was the sorriest Christmas tree lot ever. It was creepier than Jeffrey Andre’s penetrating eye contact and about as depressing as Sandy’s coffee-stained dingy yellow sweats. My first instinct was to get the heck out of there.
So was my second instinct. In fact, all my instincts were screaming at me to turn around or, at least, wait until daylight to hunt down Ern Bender. Although it was only four thirty, it was already dark, aside from the string of broken multicolored lights that illuminated the lot. And it was cold.
I positioned the Camaro in the driveway of a neighboring pizza joint, which had been closed years ago for health issues. Snow was falling. Not real snow. Flurries. This was the kind of evening meant to be spent inside eating tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, maybe writing a few Christmas cards and wrapping presents.
This was not the kind of evening to be out picking up a Christmas tree or hunting down a paroled drug-pushing pharmacist.
The commuter traffic was heavy but no one seemed interested in stopping by CHRISTMAS TREES—CHEEP! Then again, it was kind of difficult to read the misspelled sign, seeing as it was one side of a cardboard box propped up against a telephone pole.
I’d never questioned before how the enterprising arborist claimed Christmas tree lots. I mean, one day the abandoned lot is home to used Chevys or outdoor-grilled barbeque. The next day it’s sporting Christmas trees. How does that happen?
And in this day and age of high unemployment, in a town where laid-off steelworkers roamed the streets and packed the unemployment offices hungrier than the undead in search of flesh, who in his right mind would hire a felonious pharmacist to sell trees?
I got my answer as soon as I stepped out of the car, heard the bell ringing and saw the lanky elf in a red suit and white beard waving at cars, hoping to solicit their Christmas tree business.
Ern Bender: Anorexic Santa Claus.
“Christmas trees,” he droned, clanging the bell in a funereal rhythm. “Ho . . . ho . . . ho. Christmas trees. Cheap.”
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