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

by Body Wave

Stella, who'd been sitting in a bedside chair, rose at her entrance. "It's about time! I have to get ready for dinner. At least _we're_ conscientious about watching the clock. Morris has a fit if any of us hold up the cook. What was all that ruckus in the hallway?"

  Marla felt like a schoolgirl confronting her teacher. "I tripped on the stairs."

  "Figures. Hereafter, I won't wait around for you. You'd better be on time when you come next week. Mother needs help with her meal. See to it."

  Marla turned her attention to Miriam. "Why are you in bed and wearing a nightgown already? It's just after six. And what is that awful stuff you're eating? It looks like baby food."

  "Nice to see you again, dearie. This is my usual dinner. Can't chew well, you know."

  "Nonsense, you can do better than this. No wonder you're so thin. Why don't you join the family downstairs?"

  "I'm too weak."

  "I'll help you get up. Does Agnes feed you in bed every night?" she asked, appalled.

  "Of course she does. Agnes knows what's best for me."

  "What time do your children gather for dinner?"

  "Seven-thirty." Miriam's sad eyes regarded her from behind a pair of round eyeglasses. "I haven't made it down there in ages."

  Marla cast a quick glance at Miriam's disheveled gray hair. "How about if we give it a try? If you get too tired, I'll bring you back to your room. Let's get you dressed, and then I'll fix your hair."

  "I don't know. Agnes said I may be getting sick. I've been coughing ever since Sunday when you took me outside."

  "You sound fine. What you need is some decent food and a change of scenery. I insist."

  "You're a stubborn girl, aren't you? My teeth are in a cup in the bathroom. You'll have to clean them."

  _The things I do to gather information._ How could she broach the topic of Jeremiah Dooley? Maybe by asking about Kim's relatives on her father's side. But how to get started?

  In the lavatory, Marla discovered a set of false teeth soaking in a glass. She brushed them with toothpaste and rinsed them under cold water.

  "Here," she said to Miriam, handing her the bridge.

  "You'd better check my temperature before going to all this trouble," Miriam advised after fitting in her teeth. "You wouldn't want me getting worse sick by going downstairs."

  "It can't do you any good to stay in bed all day," Marla muttered. She noticed the disapproving look on Miriam's face. "Oh, very well. Where's the thermometer?"

  "Look in the bathroom, top right drawer."

  Marla hadn't seen an old-fashioned mercury thermometer in years, but then she rarely took her own temperature. "Open your mouth," she ordered the old lady when she returned.

  "Don't you know anything? That's a rectal thermometer."

  Marla's nerveless fingers nearly dropped the instrument on the floor. "Excuse me?"

  "You have to shake it down first. Look at the silver bar to get a reading."

  Marla shook the thermometer then peered at the instrument, but for the life of her, she couldn't figure it out.

  "Where's the lubricant?" The old lady gave Marla an exasperated look.

  "Huh?"

  "You need to put some K-Y Jelly on first. You'll find it in that same drawer."

  "Oh, right."

  While Marla scurried to comply, she heard Miriam mumble, "If that gal is a trained nurse's aide, then I'm twenty years old."

  Back in the bedroom once again, Marla squeezed the petroleum jelly around the thermometer's tip. _Uh oh, I should have brought a tissue,_ she thought when it dribbled onto the bed linens. _This is worse than that bikini wax I did in my first job as a beautician._ She'd never forget the customer who'd demanded that particular wax job, and Marla had vowed never to repeat the experience. _This holds a close second,_ she thought, perspiration beading her brow.

  "Look, I can't do this," she confessed. "There has to be an oral thermometer in the house. They make those digital ones now."

  "Oh, forget it, dearie. I wouldn't be getting so riled if I was sick. It makes me wonder, though, where you received your education."

  Marla straightened, squaring her shoulders. "I learned on the job. What I do doesn't require formal nurse's training. I've had plenty of experience caring for elderly ladies." _That's it, girl, the truth is always best._ "We'll get you dressed, then I'll do your hair," she added in a firm tone. She'd spiff the old lady so that she'd look good, and that in turn would make her feel better. It was amazing what proper grooming could do for a person's sense of well-being.

  After helping Miriam change into a royal blue slacks outfit, she transferred her patient to a wheelchair and rolled her into the bathroom.

  Within fifteen minutes, she'd curled, teased, and sprayed the old lady's coiffure. "You need some color on your cheeks," she added, applying some cosmetics found in a drawer. They were dried from disuse; she'd have to take the old lady shopping to buy a new supply.

  Satisfied with the results, she turned Miriam to face the mirror. Pride swelled as a look of stunned surprise spread on Miriam's face.

  "I can't believe it! You've made me look years younger."

  "You'll look even better after I give you a perm on Sunday. Let's go down to dinner. You don't want to be late."

  "Hmph! I must say you're a better hairdresser than you are a nurse, dearie."

  _Don't I know!_

  The surprise Miriam had exhibited at her new appearance was nothing compared to the shocked glances in the dining room. Six family members, seated around a rectangular dining table covered with a lace cloth, gaped at the matriarch.

  "Mother! What are you doing out of bed?" Stella shrieked.

  Morris, at the head of the table, shot to his feet. "You aren't well enough to join us."

  "What happened to your hair?" Florence chimed in.

  "Sit down, all of you. Kathleen," Miriam addressed the maid, "set an extra two places for us."

  "Aye, madam."

  Marla hadn't expected to be seated at the family dinner table. Swallowing hard, she took a place next to a woman seated on Morris's left. Across from them sat them a couple of teenage boys. The old lady introduced everyone. Barbara, Morris's wife, gave her a friendly smile. It was a much warmer welcome than the frosty glares she got from the two sisters.

  "Mother, are you sure you're up to this?" Morris asked, concern etching his features. "Agnes said you were ill."

  The old lady raised her eyebrows, darkened with the help of a cosmetic pencil. "Do I look sick?"

  "You look wonderful," Stella gushed. "I love your hair that way, and you must be feeling good enough to put on makeup."

  "Marla deserves the credit. I was feeling low before she came, but now I'm much better."

  "You'll be stronger after a real meal," Marla inserted.

  Their gazes swung to her in silent scrutiny, and she flushed. Wearing a white uniform made her self-conscious, especially when the others had dressed for dinner. Stella wore a satiny jacket dress that slenderized her stout figure. Its leaf green color enhanced her auburn layered hair and fair complexion. Not to be outdone, Florence had encased her tall, svelte shape in a silk sheath tiger print. It matched her dyed blond hair swept into a French twist. While her sister wore a sparsity of cosmetics, Florence had applied enough foundation to cover every wrinkle. At least Barbara wore a less pretentious pants set, Marla thought, instinctively liking the woman.

  During the soup course, she chatted amiably with Morris's wife, careful not to reveal too much about her own background.

  "They own coffee plantations in Costa Rica and South America," Barbara explained in response to Marla's question about the family business.

  "Harris's father bought the plantations in eighteen-ninety," Miriam announced proudly, listening in on Marla's other side. "I reviewed the accounts yesterday with Agnes, and I noticed severely reduced profits. Morris, you didn't tell me we were having a problem."

  Her son straightened his tie. "Prices are higher due to frost damage in Brazil. Our warehouse i
nventories are one third of last year's level."

  "What are you doing about it?" the matriarch demanded, pinning him with her penetrating gaze.

  "Not much we can do. The frost damaged nearly half of the country's three billion coffee trees. Our prices have gone up almost two dollars a pound since this time last year."

  "Soon your product will match the cost of gourmet shade-grown coffee," Barbara commented. "Didn't I tell you to invest in some of those farms?"

  "What's that, dearie?"

  Barbara addressed her mother-in-law. "I belong to a bird conservation group. We're concerned about migratory birds who seek refuge for the winter in tropical tree canopies. More than one hundred and fifty species of songbirds nest in those trees, and the coffee plants that grow beneath them mature in the shady habitat. Unfortunately, the rain forests are being razed, so coffee growers can produce higher-yield crops sustained with pesticides and fertilizers."

  "That's a shame," Marla mumbled. She appreciated the value of healthy trees to earth's ecology.

  "Supplies are too limited to offer a single brew based on shade-grown plants," Morris countered. "We're having enough inventory problems with the frost damage. It's more cost-efficient to produce larger yields using modern technology. Our methods are becoming more widespread throughout the industry."

  "I disagree." Barbara's tone indicated this was an ongoing argument. "Some of the finest coffee in the world is grown on thousands of low-tech farms where the cherries ripen in the shade without help from chemicals."

  "Cherries?" Marla asked, confused.

  "That's the name for the red fruit," Barbara explained. "When the cherries mature more slowly, their natural sugars increase. It makes a better-tasting coffee. You can buy these products now if you look for the songbird labels."

  Marla was more interested in the financial problems plaguing Morris's company. Would Kimberly's share of their inheritance infuse needed capital into a floundering enterprise?

  "Florence is helping plan our fund-raiser," Barbara said, beaming at her sister-in-law. "Stella, would you like to do the centerpieces?"

  "Your money comes from _our_ plantations, girls," Miriam snapped. "You should be supporting your brother."

  "Sure, I'll help you," Stella replied, ignoring her mother.

  "Was your daughter involved in this bird group as well?" Marla asked.

  Stella gave a startled look as though she only just realized Marla was present. "She didn't care a whit for the family business or for volunteer work. Like me, Kim had a flair for design, but then she got bitten by the genealogy bug."

  "Researching family trees is a popular pastime." Marla noticed an exchange of glances between Morris and Florence.

  "Yes, and that's one of the reasons why I want our family albums back," Stella said. "I'm hoping to continue Kim's work, but I have to preserve the albums first. The photos need to be transferred to acid- and lignin-free pages. That lousy husband of hers won't give them to us." She clasped her hands and moisture tinged her lashes.

  Marla busied herself cutting the old lady's steak into tiny pieces. "I'm so sorry. Miriam told me what happened to your daughter. Perhaps her husband feels the albums are important to the police. I imagine he's anxious to find her killer."

  "The cops should have kept him in jail! He wasn't the right man for her," Stella said, her words ending in a sob. "My poor baby."

  "What a tragedy for someone so young," Marla commiserated. "Her funeral must have been well attended."

  Stella sniffed. "Not really, just her friends and us."

  "Oh? She didn't have any relatives on her father's side?"

  "None who could come: an elderly aunt in a nursing home and a cousin in California whom she'd never met."

  "Her father didn't have any brothers?"

  Morris's coffee cup clattered into its saucer, sloshing the dark liquid onto his shirt.

  "Marla, perhaps you'd be kind enough to help my mother with her asparagus? She's having trouble slicing it." He eyed the others. "Let's dispense with discussing business at the dinner table, shall we? Boys, let's hear from you," he said to his sons, who ate silently with bored expressions.

  The rest of the evening wasn't nearly so stimulating as Marla prepared Miriam for bed and waited for the nurse to return. Agnes stalked in at five minutes past ten.

  "I heard all about you," the heavyset woman said in a grating tone. They stood in the hallway so as not to disturb Miriam who'd fallen asleep. "If you hope to take my place by insinuating yourself into this family, you're mistaken, young lady. Miriam needs me to look after her properly. Now that you've exhausted her, it'll be the worse for me tomorrow when I have to return her to health."

  "There's nothing wrong with her." Marla clutched her bags in one hand. "Miriam perked up this evening after I fixed her hair and put some makeup on her face. She was delighted to join the family. It isn't right to treat her like an invalid."

  "She's eighty-five years old. The woman is frail and doesn't do well being exposed to the elements."

  "Miriam is strong-willed and not as fragile as you think. She's sharp and alert for someone her age, especially if she can still review the family's financial accounts."

  "What do you know about that?" Agnes stepped closer.

  "She'd mentioned that she went over the books with you and found some decreased profits from the business. Morris explained about the lower inventory in their warehouses related to frost damage, and how that led to higher prices for their coffee."

  Agnes's shoulders hunched. "You had no business listening in on a family discussion. It's not your place."

  "My place is wherever Miriam wants me," Marla retorted. "But don't worry. I already work for another lady full time. I don't want your job."

  As she walked toward the staircase, she felt Agnes's eyes on her back as though they were torches. She'd reached the foyer, almost joyful with relief, when Florence appeared around the corner. Raoul was noticeably absent from his post at the door.

  "Oh, here you are," Kim's aunt said, approaching with the slinkiness of a cat. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, then lowered her voice. "I wanted to mention one thing before you left. My niece was murdered. It can be dangerous to ask too many questions, if you know what I mean."

  * * *

  *Chapter Ten*

  Marla had little time to contemplate Florence's words of warning on Friday morning. Her ten o'clock appointment at the School of Arts and Design preoccupied her mind. When she arrived at the massive pink-facade building on Hollywood Boulevard, her hopes rose that this visit would produce something of value. So far, she hadn't any strong leads regarding Kimberly's killer. Everyone who knew Kim seemed to have something to hide.

  A directory led her to the admissions office on an upper level. After giving her name to a receptionist, she took a seat and nervously thumbed through an _Entertainment Weekly_ magazine. Five minutes later a man wearing a black suit and a friendly smile approached.

  "Miss Shore? I'm John Crawford, one of the admission counselors. Please follow me to my office."

  As soon as they were alone, Marla offered her rehearsed speech. "I was referred here by Kimberly Kaufman. I know you share in my sorrow about what happened to her. I'm interested in your interior design program, but this is an upsetting time for me. I'm a close friend of the family," she added in what she hoped was a convincing tone.

  "We were stunned to hear the news of Kimberly's death. She was well liked by her peers." The admissions counselor opened a packet on his desk and picked up a pen. His brown eyes regarded her curiously. "What made you interested in interior design, Marla? I presume you're in some other field right now."

  "I'm a hairdresser, but I don't like the long hours of standing on my feet. Creatively, I'd rather work with colors and design."

  "Our program is very intensive, but you don't need any prior experience. Have you taken any college courses?"

  Noticing his pen poised to write, Marla moistened her lips. She didn
't have time for a lengthy interview. "Before we fill out any forms, is it possible for me to peek at some of the classes Kim attended and talk to her friends? She spoke so highly of your school, but I'm not sure about the level of commitment I can make right now. I'll have to work part time."

  He nodded sympathetically. "Our average student is twenty-seven years old. Many are making career changes. They do quite well because they're already experienced in the working world."

  His expression sobered, reminding Marla of a former math teacher who'd spent numerous afternoons tutoring her on the complexities of college algebra. "We expect you to attend classes regularly, including summers," he said in a didactic tone. "Here's a schedule of the sessions."