by Elaine Viets
“Your boss is about to be featured in a special news report on the six o’clock news,” Margery said. “It doesn’t look good.”
Helen and Phil raced toward Margery’s apartment. Helen could hear a woman announcer saying “. . . an important clue in the murder of Kingman ‘King’ Oden. Channel Fifteen has obtained an exclusive video of a death threat to the late gossip king. We’ll have more for you after our commercial break.”
“Sit down,” Margery said.
“I don’t want to ruin your living room furniture,” Helen said. “I’m dripping sweat.”
Margery plunked a kitchen chair in front of the TV, then brought Helen a towel and a tall, cold glass of water.
“Is water okay?” she asked. “Or do you want something stronger?”
“Perfect,” Helen said. “I like being waited on. I’ve been fetching drinks and magazines at the salon all day.”
“You poor thing,” Margery said. Helen didn’t know if she was being sarcastic.
“Sh!” Phil said, perching on the arm of Margery’s purple recliner. “Here comes the story.”
A harried-looking woman reporter stood in front of King’s slightly smoked mansion. She was sweating, too. Yellow crime-scene tape fluttered in the hot breeze. One pink stucco wall was blackened by the fire, and Helen thought she heard a power saw in the background.
“Police say they have no leads in the murder of King Oden, who drowned in a swimming pool at his palatial Fort Lauderdale mansion on his wedding day,” the reporter said. “A fire started at the mansion as his guests fled the scene.
“There has been no progress in the murder investigation. Now Channel Fifteen has obtained a groundbreaking video. It shows King being threatened with death minutes before his murder.”
The reporter said the last three words with a dramatic flourish.
Helen felt her heart pound. This was it. The TV station was going to ruin Miguel Angel. The scene switched to a video from a camera so shaky, it was like looking in a fun house mirror.
Helen could see an enraged, bare-chested King screaming at Miguel Angel. “Listen, you Cuban bleep,” King said, as spit flew from his angry lips. “I’ve got friends in the city and state government. I can have that salon of yours closed down for so many violations, your dyed head will spin. Got it?”
He punched a sausagelike finger in Miguel Angel’s face.
Helen watched in horror as Miguel Angel shook off King’s hand, then pressed his long, sharp scissors so the points were stuck in King’s neck. “And I can kill you, you fat, lazy American,” Miguel Angel said. “No one will care.”
The video showed a shell-shocked Honey pushing her way between the furious men. “Stop!” she pleaded. “This is my wedding day. Behave. Both of you.”
There was a close-up on the drop of blood the scissors left on King’s neck, then the video faded to black.
The story was back to the reporter in front of King’s mansion. “The man in the black shirt has been identified as society hairstylist Miguel Angel”—she mispronounced it “Migwel Angel.” Even the pros couldn’t get his name right—“the person responsible for the career-saving makeover on superstar LaDonna. We talked with the police about this incriminating video. They are still refusing to arrest anyone.”
Detective Richard McNally was on camera now, looking older and heavier than he did in person. “We need evidence to make an arrest,” he said. “All we have here is a video showing two men arguing. We don’t know if the man in question acted on his threat.”
The story ended with a shot of the reporter standing on the sidewalk in front of Miguel Angel’s salon. Helen thought the woman could have used a good haircut. The reporter said, “Many famous names have passed through these doors for makeovers by Miguel Angel. No one doubts his talent. The only question is, Does Miguel Angel do killer hair?”
Helen groaned. “This is horrible,” she said.
“They were reaching for that pun,” Phil said.
“No, I mean what the reporter said about Miguel Angel. She practically called him a killer right in front of his salon. And he looked crazy-mad in that video.”
“Was it doctored?” Phil asked.
“No, I was there. That’s what happened. But it’s not fair to run it on TV. Miguel Angel has worked so hard. This story could ruin his salon.”
“How?” Phil said. “Who is going to care what’s on a nowhere local news show?”
“Everyone,” Margery said. “Helen is right. King’s gossip blog and TV show were national. The networks will pick this up so quick, Miguel Angel won’t know what hit him. Too bad. I kind of like Miguel Angel. He’s a hard worker. I hate to see him ruined by a lowlife like King Oden.”
“I think I’ll have that drink now,” Helen said.
Chapter 14
Helen woke up with the sun streaming in her bedroom window. Too bad the sunny weather didn’t match her mood. Helen had that uneasy, stomach-full-of-snakes feeling she got when things were going wrong. It had nothing to do with her upcoming marriage. That couldn’t be better, once Margery had agreed to perform the ceremony.
Helen was worried about Miguel Angel. The Cuban stylist could lose his salon. He’d worked many long, hard years to get where he was. He didn’t deserve that. She didn’t, either. If the salon closed, Helen would be out of work, and for a dead-end job, this one was cushy.
Helen mentally ticked off the advantages: She spent her working day in a pleasant salon. The heaviest lifting was picking up the fall fashion issue of Vogue. Mostly, she fetched cold water and hot tea and swept up hair clippings. She’d had worse jobs.
Telemarketing won the booby prize for worst verbal abuse. Cleaning hotel rooms was a job that still made her back ache. And talk about lifting. As a hotel maid, she’d hauled heavy vacuums and piles of unspeakable laundry, and pushed a cleaning cart that weighed as much as a minivan.
Working for Miguel Angel was easy in comparison. Thanks to his quest for perfection, her hair almost always looked good. He couldn’t resist correcting her homemade attempts at styling. Helen had one of South Florida’s most expensive hairdressers itching to style her hair. For free.
If you have such a terrific job, you’d better get there, Helen told herself. She gave her hair one last brush, and knew that was a waste of time. Miguel Angel would restyle it the moment she walked into the salon.
She finished her coffee, grabbed a bottle of water, and started the short walk to work.
Even at nine in the morning, the June humidity was like a thick, damp pillow over her face. She could hardly catch her breath. She could feel her hair frizzing as she moved.
Helen had barely rounded the corner onto Las Olas Boulevard when she saw the throng of TV vans parked by the salon door.
Uh-oh. Media ambush.
They were after Miguel Angel. She could see the CLOSED sign was still on the door. The shades were drawn. Was the salon going to open today?
Helen ran back to the Coronado and knocked on Phil’s door. He wasn’t home. She used her key, unlocked his door, and called the salon from Phil’s phone.
The answering machine clicked on, and Ana Luisa’s voice asked her to leave a message.
“Ana Luisa, is the salon open today?” Helen asked. “I saw the TV vans. Should I come into work or not? Is Miguel Angel okay? Is—”
Ana Luisa herself picked up the phone. “Miguel Angel is avoiding the TV cameras,” she said in a whisper. “The press is camped out in front and in back. He called me. He’s parked his Jeep in the metered lot off Las Olas. He’s sitting there while we find a way to sneak him into work.”
“I have an idea,” Helen said. “Tell him to wait for me. I’ll be at the lot in fifteen minutes.”
Helen ran home and searched her closet. She found a soft blue blouse in a matronly style. She rarely wore it, except when she went to job interviews. She threw her makeup into a small plastic bag, added a brush and hair spray, a pair of gold clip-on earrings, a plastic disposable razor, a hotel
toiletry bottle of hand lotion, and crammed them all into a big green tote.
Then she knocked on Margery’s door. Her landlady was still wearing her purple robe. She looked bleary-eyed.
“Do you have to break the door down?” Margery asked. “What time is it?”
“Nine twenty,” Helen said. “What’s wrong?”
“I slept late for a change,” Margery said. “What’s your problem? Tell me you didn’t break up with Phil.”
“No, we’re fine. I have an emergency. The press is after Miguel Angel and I have to help him. Do you still have that wig you wore at Halloween?”
“The black curly one?” Margery said. “I looked like an Omaha church lady.”
“I don’t know,” Helen said. “I’ve met some stylish women from Nebraska.”
“I’m trying to say it’s an awful wig,” Margery said.
“That’s why I want it,” Helen said.
“Well, hold on and let me find it. Maybe I’ll find my head while I’m at it.” Margery really did look her age for once. Helen had always seen her landlady as indestructible, but this morning she looked frail, and yes, old. Helen felt a small flash of fear. What would she do without Margery? Her landlady was one of the pillars of her world.
Helen followed Margery into her bedroom. “Can I fix you some breakfast?” Helen asked.
“You? Cook? Then I’d really be sick.”
Ah, that was better, Helen thought. Margery sounded like her surly self. The landlady got down on her knees to look in the lower dresser drawer, and Helen heard her joints pop and crack.
“I could buy you a muffin or pick up something at the bakery,” Helen said.
“I can light my own cigarette and turn on the coffeepot. And I will, as soon as you leave,” Margery said. She rooted around in her lower dresser drawer and pulled out something black and hairy. She handed it to Helen.
“It’s either road kill or your curly black wig,” Helen said.
“Are you going to insult it or take it?” Margery said. “I want a cigarette and my coffee. I’m in no mood for your wisecracks.”
Helen stuffed the wig into the tote before Margery changed her mind. “One more thing,” she said.
“Yes, Columbo?” Margery said.
“May I borrow that purple throw on your living room chair?” Helen asked.
“Take it, take it,” Margery said, waving her toward the door. “Just bring it back. And don’t slam the door.”
Helen stuffed the purple throw into the tote and closed the door so softly the jalousie glass didn’t even rattle. She ran the three blocks in the other direction, and arrived out of breath at the steaming parking lot.
She spotted Miguel Angel in his black Jeep. He beeped his horn in greeting.
“Ana Luisa said you were on the way,” he said.
“I’m here to sneak you into the salon,” she said. “I brought some makeup and a wig.”
“The wig is ugly.” Miguel Angel made a face.
“It’s supposed to be. You’re a tourist. Put it on.”
Miguel Angel fussed with the fake hair. Then he put on the matronly blouse.
“I brought the razor and hand lotion so you can shave your beard,” Helen said.
He made some quick swipes, then put on Helen’s makeup.
“This lipstick is not the right color for me,” he said.
“You’re not supposed to look good. Wrap this purple throw around you and hide your hands,” Helen said. “You’re my sickly auntie. We’re checking into the Lauderdale Las Olas Hotel.”
“But I have to go to work,” Miguel Angel said.
“And I have to sneak you past the TV cameras. Move over into the passenger seat.”
Helen drove Miguel Angel’s Jeep to the hotel’s check-in side. A valet rushed out to meet them.
“My aunt is recovering from surgery,” Helen said. “She feels ill and needs a wheelchair. Do you have one?”
“We can get one,” the valet said. He returned with a folding wheelchair and helped Miguel Angel into it. Helen carefully arranged the purple throw to cover the stylist’s lap and hands and tipped the valet ten dollars.
“I’d like to leave my car here and get my aunt breakfast, then take her down Las Olas for some fresh air. We’ll be back in a bit. Can we keep the chair for the day?”
“Certainly,” the valet said. “There will be a thirty-dollar rental charge.”
“Terrific,” Helen said. She filled out the paperwork. Miguel Angel handed the valet forty dollars. The valet started to give him change, but Miguel Angel shook his head.
“Thank you, ma’am!” the valet said.
Helen wheeled the chair toward the hotel’s front door. When she looked back, the valet had driven off with the Jeep. She pushed the chair two blocks up Las Olas. Their progress was slow and the chair felt like it was going to tip over.
“Can you go faster?” Miguel Angel said.
“I’m trying, but the pavement is uneven and you’re heavier than you look.”
“It’s my arms and hands,” he said. “They’re all muscle.”
“It’s your Cuban sandwiches,” Helen said. “Good thing you’re a cross-dresser. It makes it easier to carry this off.”
“I am not a cross-dresser!” Miguel Angel said, his voice fierce with anger. “That is someone who does not know who he is. I know who I am. I am gay. I am a hairdresser.”
“I’ve known straight hairdressers,” Helen said, “and please lower your voice.”
“In Cuba, if you style hair, you must be gay,” Miguel Angel hissed. “No real man plays with women’s hair.”
“That’s stupid,” Helen said, steering the chair toward the alley. “Miguel Angel, call Ana Luisa on your cell. Ask her to open the back door when we knock three times. Promise me you won’t say a word while I get us through the press corps and inside.”
Miguel Angel speed-dialed and delivered the message.
“Put your head down,” Helen said. “I don’t want anyone to get a good look at your face.”
“Me, either,” Miguel Angel said.
“Keep your hands under that throw,” she said. “They look too strong to belong to a sick old woman.”
Helen was rolling the chair around the news vans when the first reporter approached, a bleached blonde with dark roots. She could have used a consultation with Miguel Angel.
“Excuse me,” the reporter asked. “Do you feel it’s safe to come to this salon?”
“Miguel Angel has been doing my poor, sick aunt’s hair for years,” Helen said. “She’s not feeling well. Please let me get her inside, out of this heat.”
Miguel Angel hung his head like a wilting violet. The wave of reporters and videographers parted. Helen wheeled the chair up to the back door, knocked three times, and Ana Luisa opened it. One more push over the threshold, and Miguel Angel was inside. Ana Luisa slammed and double-locked the door.
Miguel Angel stood up, pulled off the wig and shook out his own hair.
“How is it going?” Helen asked.
“Horrible,” Ana Luisa said. “Manhattan Fashionista canceled their shoot, and so have three other New York magazines. The television bridal show canceled. LaDonna suddenly doesn’t need Miguel Angel for her tour.”
“That ingrate,” Helen said. “After Miguel Angel saved her career.”
“There’s more,” Ana Luisa said. “Three MTV dancers called to say they won’t need their hair done after all. Valencia is sending her assistant to pick up her extensions. Someone else will put them on her.”
Helen watched the color drain from Miguel Angel’s face. He knew what this meant: slow death. The major magazines and celebrities that gave the big stylists their earning power were running away.
Miguel Angel’s fame—and his fortune—would soon be gone. He would no longer be able to afford the pricey shop on Las Olas. The glittering Miguel Angel salon would slowly sink into the sleepy, low-paying life of a neighborhood beauty shop.
The dead King w
ould drag him down into ruin.
Chapter 15
“Are you sure you want to cancel?” Ana Luisa whispered into the salon phone. Her computer screen glowed in the darkened room.
She listened a moment, then said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Ana Luisa clicked some keys and said, “I’ve canceled your appointment for tomorrow, but you may not be able to get another one at the last minute.” She hung up and sighed.
Miguel Angel hovered nearby. “Who else canceled?” he asked.
“Kim Hammond.”
“The supermodel who said she couldn’t live without me? Now she cancels at the last minute?”
“She said she didn’t need her hair fixed after all,” Ana Luisa said.
“She has a South Beach photo shoot,” Miguel Angel said. “I don’t think so. Last week, I was a genius. Now I don’t exist.”
The lights were off in the front of the salon, and the shades were drawn. The phones hadn’t stopped ringing. Helen, Miguel Angel, and Ana Luisa were huddled in the darkened store like burglars, hoping the reporters wouldn’t notice them. Carlos hovered and looked worried.
“We’re down to one celebrity for the week.” Ana Luisa’s voice was gloomy. Even her blond hair seemed to droop. “The good news is we’re getting lots of appointments from people we don’t know, so we’re still booked. But they only want Miguel Angel, not Richard or Paolo. I think they’re tourists.”
“They’re vultures,” Miguel Angel said. “I am a scandal, and they want to see me.”
“The first vulture arrives shortly,” Ana Luisa said. “We’d better turn on the lights. Carlos, guard the front door. If any reporters want in, Miguel Angel is not here.”
“How can I tell who they are?” Carlos asked.
“The real customers have confirmation numbers,” Ana Luisa said. “If you have any doubts, I have the numbers here.”
“But what about your hair?” Carlos asked. He’d been trying to talk Ana Luisa into dyeing her blond hair red. “You have beautiful skin. If Mother Nature knew what she was doing, you’d have been born with red hair.”
“No,” Ana Luisa said. “The last stylist cut my hair so badly it took a year to grow out.”