by Elaine Viets
Helen stopped. “Are you speaking to me?”
“Yes. I think my parking meter has expired. Would you put some money in it?” She handed Helen two dollar bills. “I drive an eighty-six Jaguar. It’s the black XJ6 in the lot behind Las Olas. I drive one of the real Jaguars, before they became Fords. You can’t miss it in the first row.”
Ana Luisa helped Helen exchange the two dollars for eight quarters. Then Helen walked four blocks in the sweltering June heat and dutifully dropped coins into the almost-expired meter.
Two hours later, Virginia’s hair was a glorious red-gold. She paid her bill, then handed out three envelopes. “This is for you,” she said, giving Helen the thinnest envelope. Carlos got a slightly thicker one. Miguel Angel got the third, and fattest, envelope.
Helen opened her envelope and her eyes widened in surprise and disgust. “A McDonald’s coupon,” she said. “I hiked in the heat to her stupid car, and she tipped me with a McDonald’s coupon.”
“You got one,” Carlos said. “I got two. She is a cheap bitch.” With his Latino accent, it sounded like chip beech, which made the insult somehow endearing.
“Did you get money?” Helen asked Miguel Angel.
“I got coupons, too,” he said. “But because I did such brilliant work, I got five.”
“And they are worth what? One one-hundredth of a cent?” Helen said.
“They are worth nothing. And she is worth millions. She has a mansion on Hendin Island, and she inherited a share in her father’s auto-parts business.”
A standard tip for a salon like Miguel Angel’s was twenty percent for the stylist, which meant he should have had at least sixty dollars—more than the average woman paid for a haircut. Carlos should have had at least a ten spot, and Helen should have had a fiver for running an outside errand.
“How can people be so cheap?” Helen asked.
“Because they have no shame,” Miguel Angel said. “When I am tired of her, I will dye her hair orange, and she will torment someone else.”
Helen was amazed by the cheapness of the superrich. It was almost a sickness the way they clung to their money until it hurt them personally and professionally. Virginia needed Miguel Angel to maintain the illusion of youth that was so important in her circle. Few stylists could match his skill with color. Yet she’d insulted him with a worthless tip.
Helen crumpled her coupon and took a small, spiteful glee in tossing it in the trash.
She went back to dusting the salon counters, using her anger to attack the hair that drifted over everything. Humans shed like dogs. When Helen wasn’t sweeping up the cut ends, she was wiping hair off counters, picking it off shampoo jugs and shaking it out of glossy magazines. It was a battle she and a daily cleaning crew could never win.
As she worked, Helen pondered King and Honey’s fatal marriage and wondered if it was an omen for her own wedding day.
No, that was ridiculous. King had lived a dreadful life and paid the price. She wondered who’d killed him and why. Was it his bride, Honey? One of his many ex-girlfriends? His former wife? Some employee he’d groped? His humiliated daughter? A celebrity whose career he’d ruined? King’s gossip blog could be unbelievably cruel. He’d ridiculed Valencia, a runway model, for being fat. When word got out that Valencia had breast cancer and was taking medication that made her gain weight, he never apologized.
If ever a man deserved killing, it was King. Helen didn’t envy the police this investigation. She’d wandered into a few murders by accident, but she wanted to stay away from this one. She was going to be married soon.
Helen sighed happily at that thought. She imagined herself and Phil saying their vows before a minister in the soft twilight at the Coronado Tropic Apartments. Her wedding would be simple and sweet. The only guests would be their friends and her sister, Kathy. After the backyard reception, she and Phil would leave for a honeymoon in the Keys and live happily ever after.
These bridal daydreams were interrupted when a woman of about eighty tottered into the salon.
“Bernice is here,” Ana Luisa announced.
The client held herself like a grande dame and wore a flattering shade of lavender, which made her big eyes seem bluer. Her bones said Bernice had been a beauty once, but too many years and too many facelifts had taken their toll. Now her trim body sagged and her long hair was stringy.
Helen handed Bernice a robe and a hanger, and the woman went into the dressing room to change. When she came out, Helen settled her into Miguel Angel’s chair, brought her a magazine and iced tea. She saw an old square-cut diamond ring on the woman’s finger and felt a small pang of sadness. Bernice had been a young bride once. Now Helen could see pink scalp shining through Bernice’s carefully arranged hair.
“Miguel Angel, I want my hair to be longer and fuller,” Bernice said. “And don’t tell me to get a wig. They’re too hot in June.”
“I will do my best,” Miguel Angel said.
Back in the prep area, he mixed products while Helen dusted the shelves.
“I am forty years too late to help her,” he said. “And she is a nice lady.”
Ana Luisa glided into the room, a fearful look on her face. She stood there, not saying a word.
“Yes?” Miguel Angel said.
“Phoebe called and asked if she could get her tote bag from the staff storage area. She says she was too upset to get it when she was ... uh, let go.”
“She can get it,” Miguel Angel said. “But she’d better not come near me. She’s lucky I didn’t throw it away.”
“She’ll be here in ten minutes.” Ana Luisa looked relieved. She click-clacked away on her stylish black heels.
Miguel Angel was working on Bernice’s hair when Phoebe crept into the salon. He ignored her. The other two stylists, Paolo and Richard, were suddenly busy at their stations, cleaning drawers and examining brushes. Phoebe went to the prep area, where the staff kept their belongings.
Two minutes later, Ana Luisa was back again, wringing her hands. “We have a problem,” she said. “Tassie is here and she’s two hours early. She says she drove in from Palm Beach and couldn’t judge the time because of the traffic. I suggested she shop until her appointment, but she says she can’t wait.”
“Then Carlos can wash her hair and blowdry it,” Miguel Angel said. “If that’s okay with him.”
“I’d love to.” Carlos smiled happily. He looked for every opportunity to work on customers’ hair.
“Carlos has a gift,” Miguel Angel said to Helen. “You can tell by how he handles hair. The man is an artist with a brush.” He meant a hairbrush.
Phoebe walked by Miguel Angel’s chair, her face bright red with suppressed anger, her nose in the air. Her tote was slung over her shoulder. She didn’t say a word.
“Good riddance,” Miguel Angel said under his breath, as she closed the door.
Carlos was back at Miguel Angel’s chair, looking hurt. “Tassie said she doesn’t want me to touch her. She says she’s paying for you, not some assistant.”
“If she wants me, then she shows up at my time. I will talk to her.”
Miguel Angel marched over to Tassie. Helen couldn’t hear what he said, but there seemed to be angry words and furious hand waving. Tassie ripped off her cape and marched out. She was the second customer who left the shop angry that day. Hairstyling was an emotional business.
Miguel Angel stormed off to the prep room and fixed himself another Cuban coffee. Helen thought he had to be wired like NASA after all that caffeine.
“Hah! She says she’ll never come here again,” Miguel Angel said. “I try to be nice. I try to be cute. But there are times when I can’t. I know what this is really about. Phoebe did this.
“The last time Tassie was here she told me,‘I want my hair my natural color.’ Her hair was so neglected I couldn’t figure out what her color was. I was trying to guess when Phoebe said, ‘But your natural color is gray.’ Tassie was insulted, but it was the truth. She just didn’t want to h
ear it. Now she rejects Carlos, who is too good for her. I should have asked you to get the pills out of her cheap, fake designer purse and give one to me. Because whatever she’s on, I need it today.”
Miguel Angel drank his coffee in one gulp and went back to Bernice and her thinning hair. When he finished with her, Helen thought Bernice’s hair looked amazing for her age. But the woman wasn’t happy.
“It’s not what I expected,” Bernice said.
“I’m sorry,” Miguel Angel said. “It’s the weather.”
Bernice paid her bill with a smile, tipped generously and left. When she was gone, Helen said, “The weather?”
“Life is a hurricane,” Miguel Angel said. “She’s been hit hard.”
“You’re a genius if you can get someone to swallow that excuse,” Helen said.
“Yes, I am,” Miguel Angel said, without a trace of shame.
The salon door opened, and a uniformed police officer came in with a man in a navy blue suit. Helen’s heart sank. It was Detective Richard McNally—and he wasn’t there to get his gray hair colored.
“Miguel Angel?” Detective McNally said.
“Sí?” Miguel Angel said.
“Don’t sí us, Mr. No Spik English. Your English is fine, except when you’re talking to the police. But we have an interpreter this time. Officer Gomez speaks fluent Spanish. We have a warrant to search your salon and your apartment.”
“What for?” Miguel Angel said.
Helen noticed that his accent, which was usually only a trace, had thickened so much she could hardly understand him.
“A blue dress, among other things,” Detective McNally said.
“What blue dress?” Miguel Angel said.
“The one you wore when you killed King Oden.”
Chapter 10
Miguel Angel sat at his workstation, like a toddler in timeout. He gripped the chair arms with shaking hands. Helen couldn’t tell if he was afraid, angry or too wired by the Cuban coffee to stop shaking. He’d been ordered to sit down by Detective Richard McNally.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Miguel Angel said.
“If you can’t keep quiet, I’ll have to detain you,” McNally said.
“But—” Helen said.
McNally interrupted her before she could finish her sentence. “You be quiet, too,” he said. “Take that chair over there.”
Helen sat in the client chair on the far side of the room. That gave her the best seat in the salon for watching the drama. Ana Luisa sat, in tense silence, across from Helen. Once again, she raised that expressive eyebrow. Her creamy skin was flushed, her lips compressed. One lock of blond hair straggled down her forehead. Helen knew that Miguel Angel would be itching to fix it. He couldn’t stand a hair out of place on his staff.
A half-dozen uniformed officers were searching the shop. Helen could hear drawers, cabinets and closet doors slamming. There was a crash of glass, and Helen wondered which product jar had been broken. Some of the hair compounds sold for two hundred dollars or more.
One officer pawed through Ana Luisa’s desk, heaping papers, pens and notepads on the desktop. When he pulled out a box of supersized tampons and poured the contents on the desk, Ana Luisa went rigid with anger and embarrassment.
A pudgy younger officer was going through Miguel Angel’s station drawers, ignoring Miguel’s glare. A brown-haired officer, who looked like an anteater, carried in the stylist’s salon makeup case from the prep area.
“Sir, there’s a hypodermic needle in among these bigger brushes,” Officer Brown reported.
“Bag it,” Detective McNally said.
Miguel Angel twitched and moved uneasily, but said nothing.
“Sir, there’s a suspicious white substance in one of these makeup wells,” Officer Brown said.
Miguel Angel could keep quiet no longer. “It’s eye shadow,” he said.
“It’s not in cake form, like the rest of the makeup,” Officer Brown said.
“Then we need to field test it,” Detective McNally said. “Do you have a field-test kit?”
“Yes, sir. And I’m trained to use it,” Officer Brown said.
Helen watched him open a small box printed with NIK PUBLIC SAFETY, INC. and take out an even smaller packet and something labeled LOADING DEVICE. He took a tiny amount of the “suspicious substance” for testing.
“It’s tested positive for heroin and opium alkaloids,” Officer Brown said.
Helen could tell by the stunned look on Miguel Angel’s face that he had no idea there was heroin or a needle in his case.
“No!” Miguel Angel said. “I no use drugs or needles.” His English deteriorated as his fear grew.
Helen figured there was only a small amount of heroin in the makeup well. How much trouble could her boss be in?
Detective McNally seemed to read her mind. “There’s probably less than ten grams of heroin,” he said. “But you don’t need much. Heroin is sold on the street in bags of about fifty milligrams, or five-hundredths of a gram. Ten grams of heroin would make up about two hundred bags.”
“No, please!” Miguel Angel said. “I don’t need to sell drugs. I make enough money at my salon.”
“Really?” McNally said. “This is quite an expensive operation you’ve got here. When times get rough, even the rich are short of money. They can go to Supercuts and save a couple hundred a month. But a junkie can always find money for a fix. They’ll lie, cheat and steal purses for the cash.”
Miguel Angel had been in America long enough to know his salon could be seized if he was convicted of selling drugs. “Check my hair,” he begged. “That will prove I don’t use drugs. Hair keeps a record that does not lie. You will know I’ve not used drugs for ninety days. I will give you my hair without asking for a lawyer.”
The detective read Miguel Angel his Miranda rights, then clipped a sample of the stylist’s hair as close to the scalp as possible. Miguel winced at the inexpert cut. The tiny hair bundle was about as big around as a shoelace tip. McNally dropped the hair in an evidence bag and labeled it.
“We should have the results from the lab two to three business days after they get this hair sample,” Detective McNally said. “I’m overnighting it this afternoon.”
“There’s something you should know,” Helen said.
McNally cut off any further conversation with a curt, “I’ll find out when I talk with you, miss, after the search is conducted.”
Miss. Well, that is better than ma’am, she thought, then was disgusted with herself. Great. You’re about to get hauled off to jail, and you’re worried about whether you look young. Orange jumpsuits are so flattering.
The salon door opened and a dark-skinned officer stood in the doorway. Helen could see sweat dripping off his shaved head and dark sweat circles under his armpits. “I found these in the Dumpster behind the store.” He held up a wrinkled peacock blue dress and one black high-heeled sandal.
“Are those your clothes?” Detective McNally asked the stylist.
“No, it is not my dress,” Miguel Angel said.
That was the truth, but not the whole truth.
Please don’t lie, Helen prayed silently. The police will figure it out and then you’ll really be in trouble.
“I can have it tested for DNA—your DNA,” Detective McNally said.
“Okay, I wore it,” Miguel Angel said.
“Then it’s your dress,” McNally said.
“It’s Honey’s dress. I borrowed it the day of the wedding.”
“Oh, were you a bridesmaid?” Detective McNally’s sarcasm could have curled hair.
“No, I had to leave in a hurry,” Miguel Angel said.
“Most people ran out the door,” McNally said. “They didn’t take the time to cross-dress. Especially when the house was on fire.”
“I am not a cross-dresser,” Miguel Angel said.
“Then what were you doing in a dress?” the detective said.
“It was the easiest way to
leave,” Miguel Angel said.
The detective held up the heel. “This doesn’t look easy to walk in. You’re wearing black cowboy boots right now, pardner. Much easier to run in those.”
“I am famous. I am a celebrity stylist,” Miguel Angel said. “There were television cameras all around, King’s rivals in the gossip business. My reputation would be ruined if I was seen there. My top clients would think I gave him information. I needed to disguise myself.”
“So you stole the bride’s dress?”
“She won’t miss it,” Miguel Angel said. “She has a closet full of dresses.”
“Not if she has many friends like you,” the detective said. “Why did you run?”
“I am not from this country,” Miguel Angel said. “I didn’t think the police would believe me.”
“We don’t believe liars, no matter what their country of origin,” Detective McNally said. “I’ve got a bit of advice for you. Don’t leave town until the hair test results come back. Otherwise, I will hunt you down. You can go now.”
Miguel Angel grabbed his already-searched satchel from the bottom drawer at his station, and left without another word. Detective McNally pushed Ana Luisa’s desk chair over to Helen and sat down. Helen felt sick with fear. This man was smart. He frightened her.
“Let’s talk,” he said. “What were you dying to tell me earlier?”
“I think Miguel Angel was set up by an employee,” Helen said. “Her name is Phoebe, and she was pretty useless.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Helen could see Ana Luisa nodding in agreement.
“Her boyfriend, Ramon, is a drug dealer,” Helen said.
“And how do you know that?” McNally said. “Ever see him sell an illegal substance?”
“No, not really. I just heard that’s what he was.” From Miguel Angel, she remembered. Helen’s voice withered and died, strangling her next words. “It was gossip.”
“And you hear a lot of gossip in this place,” McNally said.
“Yes,” Helen said. “But I could see Phoebe was furious at Miguel when he told her to leave. She set him up. She forgot her tote bag and had to come back. She was alone in the back prep area for several minutes. I think she planted drugs that she got from her boyfriend and put the needle in Miguel Angel’s salon case.”