Nancy J. Cohen - Bad Hair Day 04 - Body Wave

by Body Wave

  "Where the hell do you fit in?" His voice was angry, as though it were her fault that Kim had died.

  She gave a small smile. "I was Stan's first wife. Look, I know you need time to assimilate this, but the police may come to question you. I thought I'd give you fair warning."

  His eyes bulged, and he glanced briefly at the newspaper open on the counter. Marla sidled nearer, catching a glimpse of the page listing Gulfstream horse races before he snatched it out of sight. Being closer gave her the advantage of noticing peeling paint and an accumulation of grime. None of the parts on display appeared to be in prime condition, making her wonder if Waterford struggled to maintain his business. In South Florida, that didn't seem likely considering air conditioners were in constant need of repair. So why was Gary here instead of out in the field? Maybe he had other employees, or else he mismanaged his funds. That might account for the air of desperation she sensed from his nervous mannerisms and the decaying surroundings. One other possibility sprang to mind: this business served as a front for a more nefarious activity.

  "I don't get it," he said, shaking his head. "Who would hurt Kim?"

  "That's what I hope to find out. Do you know if she still maintained any of her old friendships?"

  His gaze shifted uneasily. "How should I know?"

  "Since you'd been so close, I thought you might have kept track of her."

  "I haven't seen Kim since we broke up."

  She pounced on the opportunity his words offered. "You must've been terribly upset when she left you."

  His eyes blazed. "Sure, I was pissed. We were hot together, but I wasn't good enough for her. She chased after that fancy-pants lawyer who gave her all the things she wanted. Kim's grandpappy was rich, but her grandma holds the purse strings. Their money is all tied up in a trust. Kim was too impatient to wait for her share."

  "So you admit Kim went after Stan with the intention of breaking up his marriage?"

  Waterford lumbered to the other end of the counter, picked up a gauge, and attached it to a piece of machinery. "She had ambitions, and I wasn't part of 'em."

  "So at what point did she tell you good-bye?"

  "As soon as she got the job in his office. Kim planned to worm herself into his bed. I told her the guy sounded like a real tight-ass, but she laughed. With his ego, she felt it would be a breeze to seduce him, and then she'd be on easy street. But Kim was wrong." He paused, glancing at Marla. "She should've bailed out sooner."

  Marla leaned against the counter. "What do you mean?"

  "The bastard didn't treat her right. Kim didn't tell hardly anyone because she was afraid."

  Her pulse accelerated. "Afraid of Stan?"

  "You got it." His gaze narrowed suspiciously. "How did you say she was killed?"

  "Stabbed to death," Marla said quietly. "Stan found her in their foyer early Monday morning."

  Gary glared at her. "I hope she didn't tell him. I told her not to mention it because of what he might do."

  "Mention what?"

  "That she was -- " He caught himself, stopping with a choking cough. "She was going to walk out on Kaufman," he finished, although Marla got the impression he'd been about to say something else.

  "Kimberly was planning to leave Stan?" Now it was Marla's turn to stare. Could this be true? If so, how would Stan have reacted when he discovered his wife's intent? Or did he even know?

  "I thought you hadn't seen Kim since she went to work in Stan's office, and that was nearly two years ago."

  Waterford stiffened. "That's right. I wanted nothing more to do with her after she gave me the shaft. I, uh, heard about her from a mutual friend."

  "Name?"

  He hesitated, bouncing on his heels. "Look, don't tell no one I talked. Lacey Mills is her name. If you see her, you'd better not mention your visit here."

  "Why?" Marla sensed undercurrents racing through their conversation, and tried to focus on them. _Bless my bones, I'm getting more like Dalton every day._ What happened to the trusting individual she used to be?

  "Lacey likes me, and she'll get jealous if she knows we were talking about Kimberly."

  "But Kim is dead." _And why would Lacey be jealous if you haven't seen Kimberly for two years, pal? Something doesn't ring true here_.

  "Lacey and Kim were friends. You should tell Lacey what you've told me."

  "Sure. Can you write down her phone number for me?"

  He scribbled the woman's address, handing Marla a grease-stained paper. "Have there been any arrests?" he asked.

  "Stan has been detained for questioning."

  "Figures he'd do it, especially if he knew." His glance darted nervously toward the door. "You didn't tell him you were coming here, did you?"

  "No, I didn't. You seem anxious."

  "Kim told Lacey about his temper. Wouldn't want the man coming after me next!"

  "Stan wants to find the person who killed his wife, that's all. I promised to help him."

  "Good luck. You may not have far to look."

  As she left the shop, Marla hoped her faith in Stan was not misplaced. Doubts assailed her, not only about Stan, but also about her own motives for wanting to prove him innocent. She hadn't heard from him after their last encounter, but that was expected. Kim's funeral was Thursday, and he'd been sitting shivah since then.

  Driving home from Dania, Marla felt an urge to confront Stan but resisted the impulse to stop at his house. If any of Kim's relatives were there, she'd ruin her cover story before getting the chance to present it.

  Opportunity arrived on Sunday morning when she went for the interview with Florence Pearl. Kim's family lived in a reclusive compound located in an older section of East Fort Lauderdale. After finding a mailbox with the address, Marla turned down a heavily wooded road. She arrived at a circular driveway curving in front of a two-story mansion of antebellum motif. Painted white, with tall columns, the house featured a wraparound brick porch; wide, curtained windows; and mahogany doors. A separate guest cottage stood off to the side along with two garages, each holding four bays. Live oaks, sea grapes, and Queen palms graced grounds enhanced by bougainvillea and hibiscus bushes.

  Fragrance from a Hong Kong orchid tree reached her nostrils as she emerged from her Camry into the cool February air. After putting away her keys, she smoothed down her navy suit, hoping she looked adequately professional. Glimpsing her reflection in the car window, she checked her apricot lip gloss. Her hair remained softly curled inward at the ends.

  Marching resolutely forward, she pushed the doorbell and listened to chimes cascading through the house. Barely moments later, the door swung wide, and a middle-aged man wearing a black sport coat and tie bid her to enter.

  "You must be Miss Shore. I'm Raoul, one of the staff." He spoke with a clipped accent that she couldn't quite place. "Please follow me to the library. Your interview will take place there."

  Marla followed his stately figure, her gaze inadvertently drawn to the bald spot on his head. _Sorry, not much I could do about that, unless you parted your hair on the other side where it's thicker._

  She shook herself mentally, remembering she wasn't here in her capacity as a hairdresser. _You're a nurse's aide,_ she admonished herself silently. _You take care of old people for a living._ That was partially true, considering her elderly clientele. Young professionals mostly populated the area in Palm Haven where her salon was situated, but she took care of her share of senior citizens. That was why this shouldn't be such a tough job, assuming she was offered the position.

  They entered a room lined with bookshelves stretching from a cherry inlaid floor to a bead-board and tray ceiling. Furnished with leather armchairs, a massive desk, and assorted lamp tables, the library had a cozy, warm atmosphere. It smelled like furniture polish, pine, and wood smoke, the latter coming from a fireplace blazing at the opposite end.

  She'd just begun wondering why Florence had chosen this somber room instead of a sunny parlor to interview her when in stalked a tall, grave man dres
sed in a charcoal suit. He walked right up to her and stuck out his hand.

  "I'm Morris Pearl. I understand you're applying for the job of taking care of my mother."

  What happened to Florence? Gripping his palm, Marla prayed he didn't notice the perspiration beading her upper lip. "Er, yes, I heard you had an opening for Sundays when the regular nurse takes the day off."

  Morris stepped back as a heavyset woman clomped into the room. "This is Agnes. She stayed this morning so she could help me assess your qualifications. Agnes has been caring for my mother Miriam for eight years."

  Oh God. How could she deceive this woman, whose ocean blue eyes regarded her warily? "Nice to meet you," Marla murmured, assessing the newcomer. Agnes wore her prune-colored hair secured in a bun, the severe style accentuating her long nose. Guessing her age to be mid-fortyish, Marla mentally created a softer hairdo that would make her more attractive.

  "You have references, I suppose," Agnes stated, her gaze flickering over Marla's suit. Her eyes narrowed, as though she wondered how an aide could afford such stylish attire.

  "Of course." Marla had written out a skimpy resume that showed her working in a friend's hair salon as a shampoo assistant before taking the false job with Tally's mother. It also mentioned her stint at Westside Regional Hospital where Marla had once volunteered to style hair for a charity event.

  Agnes scanned the paper, then gave it to Morris, who seemed content to let the nurse handle the interview. He was more interested in examining Marla's legs. "Miriam requires help with her daily needs," the nurse explained. "Are you prepared to provide that level of care?"

  "I'm well experienced at tending to the needs of elderly ladies," Marla answered confidently. "Besides physical care, patience and praise go a long way toward making my clients comfortable. I think you'll find my performance is highly satisfactory."

  "Miriam can manage her meals, but she doesn't move well. Arthritis, you know. You'll have to help her shower and dress; take her in a wheelchair if she wants to go outside, read to her, and administer her medicines."

  "No problem."

  "Your salary requirements?" Morris demanded, his hooded gaze revealing nothing of his opinion.

  Anticipating this question, Marla had consulted her mother, whose disabled friend had a full-time companion. "Ten dollars an hour. That's less than you would pay an agency." She addressed Agnes. "Did you have someone cover for you before on Sundays?"

  "I've rarely taken time away from my duties. Miriam and I have a close rapport, and she relies on me to look after her. Unfortunately, urgent personal business requires my attention. You'll have to come at eight in the morning and stay until eight at night on Sundays. I'll be taking Wednesday evenings off, too, so we'll need you then as well."

  "I-I thought the job was just for Sundays," Marla stammered.

  "If these hours are not convenient, this interview is over," Morris snapped.

  "I didn't mean to imply -- "

  "Can you or can you not accept these terms?"

  "Well, yes," Marla said, her heart racing, "but I have another obligation for this Wednesday. I didn't realize you'd be expecting me then. Can we change the date for this week?"

  "I suppose so," Agnes said grudgingly. "I don't dare leave Miriam by herself."

  Morris gestured. "You're forgetting that my sisters and I are here. If you really need to take this Wednesday off, we'll watch over her."

  "No, that's all right, sir. I'm just concerned that Miriam gets the special attention she needs."

  "We've had a death in the family," Morris explained to Marla, "so things aren't well organized right now. Why don't we make it for Thursday next week? We'll expect you to wear a white uniform when you report for work."

  Marla glanced at Agnes, who wore slacks and a pullover sweater. Did that mean the nurse was already off-duty?

  "You can run off now, Agnes," Morris said, answering Marla's silent question. "Miss Shore will begin at once."

  Marla nearly dropped her handbag on the floor. "Now? But I'm not ready ... I mean, this was just supposed to be an interview. I thought you said you wanted me to start on Thursday."

  "It doesn't matter that you're not in uniform today," Morris said. "Come upstairs, and I'll introduce you to my mother."

  "B-but what do I do? Agnes, aren't you going to instruct me?"

  "I already did." Agnes paused. "Good luck, Miss Shore. May I call you Marla?"

  "Of course."

  The woman's gaze cooled. "A word of caution, Marla: Mrs. Pearl is a special lady, and I care deeply about her. See that you follow her orders explicitly. If she has any complaints, I'll hear about them. I may be an employee here, but I report directly to Miriam. She'll listen to me if I advise her to dismiss you."

  * * *

  *Chapter Five*

  Marla stood in the center of Miriam Pearl's bedchamber, staring at the shriveled woman lying in a queen-size canopy bed. After muttering a quick introduction, Morris had left her to her duties. The old lady peered at her with sharp black eyes, a diminutive figure among volumes of bedcovers.

  Laying her purse on top of a dressing table, Marla approached the matriarch. "I'd like to get started. What shall we do first this morning?" she asked, wondering how old Miriam was and if she retained her wits.

  "My glasses are on the nightstand," Miriam rasped. "Give them to me so I can see you better."

  Marla complied, waiting patiently while Miriam inspected her. The collar of her suit itched in the stuffy, warm atmosphere. The heat must be turned up to eighty degrees, she thought, sucking in a dry breath of air.

  "Nervous, are you? You're sweating," the old lady pointed out with a smirk.

  "It's awfully hot in here. May I open the drapes and lower the thermostat? I think you'd be more comfortable."

  "My body is thin. I'm always cold."

  "Perhaps what you need is a hot bath. Did you have your breakfast yet?"

  Miriam shook her head. "You have to call downstairs, dearie. Dial number eight on the phone, and ask for Kathleen. She'll bring it up. I take my pills with meals."

  "Oh, right." Her responsibilities included administering medications. Unfortunately, the nurse had been in too much of a hurry to provide details.

  A quick survey of the room revealed an absence of medicine bottles, so Marla headed for the lavatory, a spacious area nearly as big as her bedroom at home. _I'd spend hours in here if this were mine,_ she thought enviously, admiring the sunken bath and separate glass-enclosed shower. A gleaming bidet caught her eye. Although it was the first she'd seen, her mother had described the European device.

  She found the medicine containers lined up like soldiers on parade atop a marble vanity. Checking the labels, Marla frowned. They made no sense to her at all. She'd have to ask Miriam which ones she took in the morning.

  She reentered the bedroom just as a middle-aged woman with silver-streaked auburn hair entered bearing a laden tray. She wore a maid's uniform, so Marla assumed this was Kathleen.

  "Hi, I'm Marla Shore. I'll be taking care of Mrs. Pearl on Agnes's days off."

  Kathleen grinned, her face transforming into an impish expression. "Aye, and it's a blessing to get a breath of fresh air in this place." She spoke with a pleasant lilt as she placed the tray on a portable table in front of Miriam.

  "Would there be anything else you'll be needing now, madam?" Kathleen asked the old woman.

  Miriam grimaced at the items on her food tray. "Not in here, but I noticed the silver on the sideboard downstairs needs polishing. See that you get to it today."

  "Aye, madam." The maid exchanged glances with Marla, raising her eyebrows slightly as though to commiserate.

  "Speaking of fresh air," Marla said after Kathleen had left, "let's brighten up this room. It's gloomy in here."

  "Don't do that!" Miriam exclaimed when Marla drew apart the curtains. "The sunlight will fade the fabrics. Besides, we're in mourning." Her hand trembled as she lifted a spoonful of oatmeal to her lips.
r />   "Here, let me help you." Marla rushed over to tuck a napkin under the woman's chin. "Mr. Pearl said you'd had a recent death in the family. I'm so sorry."

  "My granddaughter Kimberly was murdered." Miriam stated it matter-of-factly, but an expression of pain crossed her wrinkled face.

  "How horrible." Marla pulled up a chair, then proceeded to spread jam on a slice of whole wheat toast. The old lady set aside her spoon as though she'd lost her appetite. "Now listen, you have to eat in order to gain strength, Miriam. Tell me about your granddaughter while you finish your cereal."