Beauty Shop Tales

by Beth Pattillo

  “So Mavis really was in the Witness Protection Program?” Betty asked. “Who would ever have guessed that?”

  “Is it true that Mavis had been living in some run-down house in Chattanooga?”

  Ronda stepped away from the customer she’d been back-combing, and Kate saw that it was Agnes Kelly who had asked the question. Oh dear. Of all people to be in the beauty shop during this conversation. But perhaps the gossip about Mavis and Edwin Kelly had never reached Agnes’ ears. Kate could only hope it was so.

  “Yes. Her son found her, but she wouldn’t budge, so he was living in Chattanooga as well to keep an eye on her.”

  “So, let’s hear it straight from the horse’s mouth,” Betty said. “Tell us how you found Mavis and put that monster behind bars.”

  Kate couldn’t help but look at Agnes Kelly, who had grown quite red in the face. Agnes’ hands were clenched in her lap, and her eyes looked suspiciously bright.

  “I’m sure you’ve all heard enough about it. You must be bored silly by now.” She turned to Betty. “I’m ready for a trim.”

  The chatter engulfed her as Betty walked her to the shampoo room in the back, and it continued ten minutes later when they returned to the front of the shop.

  Kate was regretting that she’d kept the appointment, when Martha Sinclair said, rather too loudly, from the front of the shop, “Well, I for one never believed that folderol about Agnes’ husband and Mavis Bixby.”

  Dead silence fell in the room. Agnes, who had been just about to get up from Ronda’s styling chair, froze in place.

  “Shh,” Dot Bagley warned Martha, but it was too late.

  “I’m sorry, Agnes,” Betty said, intervening. “That was uncalled for.”

  Agnes sagged into the chair. “I know what people have been saying, Betty. And I can’t blame them for it.” She cleared her throat, and Kate wished she could magically transport the poor woman out of the beauty shop. “I guess I should tell you all . . . What I mean to say is . . .” She couldn’t quite seem to get started.

  “Agnes, I don’t think you owe anyone here any sort of explanation,” Kate said.

  If Agnes wanted to keep her husband’s illness to herself, that was her right. Agnes’ desire for privacy shouldn’t make her the target of unwarranted gossip.

  “Actually, I do want to explain.”

  Agnes’ response surprised Kate. “What do you mean?”

  “I probably owe you and Renee the biggest apologies of all.”

  Betty stopped combing Kate’s wet hair in midstroke. “Perhaps this isn’t the best place—”

  “No, Betty.” Lines of determination lined Agnes’ brow. “I think it’s probably just the right place.”

  She took a deep breath. “I know you all think my husband was carrying on with Mavis Bixby.” She looked around the shop, meeting each person’s eyes for a brief moment. “Because I let you think it. I egged you on, in fact, once Renee started the rumor. And I did it so you wouldn’t know the truth.”

  Kate thought she could have heard a hairpin drop in the shop at that moment. Once Agnes had gotten started, though, she seemed resolved to carry on.

  “Edwin has Alzheimer’s.” She almost whispered the words, but everyone in the shop heard them. “And I was so ashamed—” She broke off, gentle sobs racking her frail body. “I thought I could care for him myself.” She gave a watery smile. “And for a while, I could. But then it got to be that he didn’t know who I was half the time.”

  Kate wanted to reach over and hug Agnes, but she kept her seat. Perhaps getting the whole story out would be good for the older woman.

  “More than a year back, I did think Edwin was seeing Mavis. He’d never been what you’d call a model husband, and I put up with it for as long as the kids were in the house. Then he seemed to quiet down, and I quit worrying.”

  Kate could have sworn that all the ladies in the shop were leaning forward in their chairs or on the balls of their feet. No one wanted to miss a word.

  “Not long before Mavis left town, I hired a private investigator from over in Chattanooga,” Agnes said. “I didn’t know then that Edwin was in the early stages of his disease. He kept staying out until all hours, and I thought he was carrying on again. I’d seen his car parked in Mavis’ driveway in the evening on more than one occasion. He always denied it, but I knew what I’d seen with my own eyes. And with her being a widow and all . . .”

  “So . . . did you tell Johnny Rydell where Mavis was out of revenge?” Kate couldn’t reconcile the thought with Agnes’ obvious distress.

  “I didn’t know the man was a criminal. He told me he was hired by Mavis’ son to look out for her interests. Said the son was out of the country but was afraid that his mother was being taken advantage of by a local philanderer.” Agnes shivered and dabbed at her eyes with an old handkerchief. “I never dreamed I’d be putting Mavis’ life in danger.”

  “So your husband and Mavis weren’t ever involved?” Kate asked.

  “No. He just got confused. Kept thinking that he was at home in our driveway, but then he’d get disoriented because he knew something wasn’t right. Her house was white, and so is ours. He’d sit in the car for hours, trying to figure out where he was. He tried to keep it from me.” She wadded up the handkerchief and tucked it into the sleeve of her cardigan. “But by not telling me the truth, he kept me believing he was involved with Mavis.”

  “And your private investigator found her?”

  “No. I had him locate the young man in the leather jacket. That was the information I gave to that other man, the one you say was a criminal.”

  “But why would you have told him that now? Mavis had been gone for over a year. And your husband’s been in the care facility in Chattanooga for that long too.”

  Agnes ducked her head. “I couldn’t bear to have everyone know the truth. I should have been able to care for him myself, but he needed help with every single thing—getting out of bed, bathing, even using the restroom. I couldn’t keep up with everything, and I know I should have. I just felt like such a failure putting him in that home.”

  Kate’s stomach clenched as she realized that Agnes had chosen to be portrayed as the victim of a cheating husband rather than the caring wife of a man who’d been ravaged by a disease.

  “Oh, Agnes . . .” Kate began, but Agnes waved her words away.

  Kate looked down at her hands, and the shop was silent as everyone took this news in. Still, though, something was bothering Kate. She cleared her throat and looked up at Agnes.

  “So you were Johnny Rydell’s informant.” Of all the people in Copper Mill, Agnes Kelly would have been the last person Kate suspected.

  “Please don’t call it that.” Agnes pulled the handkerchief back out of her sleeve again. “If I’d only known . . .”

  Kate could certainly understand that sentiment. She’d felt it herself quite a bit lately.

  “It’s all behind us now. Water under the bridge.” Kate would hate for Agnes to punish herself any more than she already had. “Johnny Rydell made a fool of all of us. If we hadn’t been so ready to jump to conclusions, he could never have gotten away with what he did.”

  “That’s what comes of beauty shop tales,” Dot Bagley said primly, for all the world as if she hadn’t been part and parcel of every conversation.

  “I don’t know,” said Betty, who resumed combing out Kate’s wet hair. “True, our chatter did cause some problems. But if it hadn’t been for our discussions, Kate would never have uncovered the truth. And Mavis would still be hiding out in that awful house in Chattanooga.”

  The other women nodded at the truth of this statement. Kate smiled and thought that she would definitely remember to tell Paul about this particular beauty shop conversation. Even he couldn’t deny that sometimes their idle chatter served a useful purpose.

  “How much do you want off today?” Betty asked Kate, who was so lost in thought she didn’t hear her and so didn’t answer. Betty took this as a license
to exercise her creativity. It wasn’t until much later, after Kate returned home, that she realized, with a sigh, just how creative Betty had been.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The annual Copper Mill Chili Cook-Off had been held at several locations over the years, but this year everyone had squeezed into the basement fellowship hall of Faith Briar Church for the competition. Before the competition had even begun, the crowded room grew stuffy from the crush of people and the strong smells of chili peppers, garlic, and onion. Kate sat behind a small table that had been pressed into service to hold a cash box, a calculator, and a large roll of tickets. Friends and family of the contestants could buy tickets to vote for their favorites, and all the proceeds would go to charity.

  Paul had been up most of the night, slaving away in the kitchen over several different batches of chili. Kate had stayed out of his way—mostly by keeping her regular appointment at Betty’s. He’d made his feelings on the matter of her assistance quite clear. But when he took a break to shower and dress after she’d returned from town, Kate couldn’t help but slip into the kitchen and sneak a small taste from each of the pots.

  They were all good. Fine, really. But they lacked that something special that set a great chili apart from the mere pretenders. And at that moment, she’d no longer been able to resist. She stepped softly over to the cabinet and drew out the container of unsweetened cocoa powder she’d purchased from Sam Gorman that day she’d first heard about Mavis Bixby’s house being up for sale. She grabbed a measuring spoon from the drawer and scooped a tablespoon of the dark powder into a waiting pot. A quick stir with a long-handled wooden spoon, and the evidence of her tampering blended in with the other ingredients. Well, that was it, then. She would leave it to Paul to choose the best, although she had little doubt which one he would pick.

  By the time he returned to the kitchen, Kate was sitting in the living room leafing through a magazine and humming to herself. It wasn’t until they were ready to leave for the church that she peeked into the kitchen to see which pot of chili he’d chosen, and then she smiled with satisfaction.

  But her feelings of triumph faded as they entered the fellowship hall. The other competitors had arrived early, and each man had set up his station around the perimeter of the room. Some of the contestants had gone all out, with themes and decorations that matched.

  Sam Gorman’s table boasted a banner that read Working Man’s Chili, and had decorated his table with saws, hammers, and assorted other tools from the Mercantile. A volunteer fireman was there in full uniform to make the case for his Three-Alarm Chili, and even Livvy’s husband, Danny Jenner, had bundled up in a parka to tout his Ward Off the Chili.

  Kate and Paul had rushed around the church and managed to contrive a theme at the last minute. So now Paul presided over a table piled with Bibles that pronounced his entry as Chilier Than Thou.

  Kate happily collected money from the familiar faces that came through the door. A number of the beauty shop ladies, led by Betty herself, arrived en masse, followed by the members of Renee Lambert’s bridge club. Clifton Beasley and the retirees who drank coffee in front of the Mercantile filtered in, as did many members of the church. Livvy arrived with her teenage boys in tow. She stepped around the table to give Kate a quick hug.

  “Don’t ever do that again!” she scolded, although there was more concern than censure in her voice. “You took at least a decade off my life and are responsible for a number of these new gray hairs.” She pointed to her head, but Kate couldn’t see anything but Livvy’s lovely auburn color.

  “Believe me, I don’t intend to repeat that experience anytime soon,” she assured her friend.

  “What happened to that man? The fake marshal?”

  “Sheriff Roberts told me he’s back in federal prison. He’s facing enough new charges, not to mention parole violations, that he won’t be bothering anyone anytime soon.”

  “You don’t think he’ll send someone after you?” Livvy’s brows knitted together in concern.

  “If Mavis and Kevin Baxter aren’t afraid to go on with their lives, I don’t think I need to worry too much. Besides, Skip Spencer has patrolled past the parsonage so many times the past few nights, I can’t sneeze without him knowing.”

  “Good. I hope he’ll keep that up for a while.”

  When Kate had volunteered to sell tickets, she hadn’t thought about having to discuss her recent adventures with each and every resident of Copper Mill who came through the door. So by the time the room had filled to capacity, she was more than ready to relinquish her job to another member of the church’s Ladies Auxiliary.

  Kate was on her way to Paul’s table to check on him when Steve Smith intercepted her.

  “Kate? There you are. You’ve been a difficult lady to get ahold of the past couple of days.”

  “Oh, Steve. Hello.” Nervous energy flooded Kate. She looked into his eyes, hoping for a clue about his decision on her stained glass. “How are you?”

  “Fine, fine. But I’m glad I ran into you.”

  He looked awfully serious, Kate thought with a nervous flutter, and she felt disappointment rising in her chest.

  “Did you have a chance to look at my portfolio?” she asked, grateful that she could attribute her sticky palms to the heat of the crowded room.

  “Yes, I did. And I have to say—”

  Someone bumped into Kate from behind, interrupting Steve’s answer. He caught Kate’s arm and steadied her. “Sorry.” He smiled sympathetically. “I know this isn’t the best place to tell you this—”

  “It’s okay, really.” Kate interrupted him before he could deliver the blow. “I know you have many professional artists you stock. I’m just getting started. Perhaps in a year or two?”

  “In a year or two, I expect to have sold a number of your pieces,” Steve said with a smile. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I’d like to come to your studio in the next week and pick out some pieces for my shop.”

  “Really?” A smile split Kate’s face, and she knew she was grinning like a fool, but she didn’t care. “Of course! That would be wonderful.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, and we can make an appointment.” Steve patted her shoulder. “You’re a woman of many talents, Kate.”

  He waved and moved away through the crowd, leaving Kate rooted in place, too happy to move until a second person jostled her from behind.

  With a laugh she made her way to Paul’s table to check on him and stuff a wad of tickets she’d purchased for herself into his jar. “Do you need anything?” she asked, the broad smile still on her face.

  “No, no. I’m good.” He winked at her. Paul was having fun ladling out Dixie cups full of chili and persuading everyone that his was, in fact, the best.

  Kate lingered for a while, enjoying his pleasure in the event and the compliments he received. Then she slipped away to sample some of his competitors’ offerings. By the time the pots of chili were emptied, and everyone had eaten their fill, she was convinced that Paul’s was indeed the best. Thanks to a little help from her grandmother’s secret ingredient.

  The ticket jars were collected, and an excited buzz filled the room as the crowd waited for the results to be announced. A year’s worth of bragging rights were at stake, and Paul looked as anxious as any of the men to hear who the winner was.

  Finally, when the crowd began to grow restless, Lawton Briddle, the mayor, stood up on a chair to announce the results.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to present the award for the best chili in Copper Mill to . . .” He paused, and someone beat on one of the tables to simulate a drumroll. Kate held her breath. “Our own Reverend Paul Hanlon, for his Chilier Than Thou. Congratulations, preacher.”

  Beside her, Paul beamed and stepped around the edge of the table to go and collect his prize—a large blue ribbon that would have been just as at home at a horse show.

  “Thank you, everyone. I really appreciate it.” He waved in acknowledgment of the ho
nor. The crowd clamored for more of a speech, but Paul shook his head and returned to Kate. He gave her a quick hug. “Thanks, honey. I know I’ve tried your patience.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve been much harder on yours.”

  They were interrupted by LuAnne Matthews, who had turned in her apron and order pad for the day to enjoy life on the other side of the counter.

  “Preacher, it’s been a long time since I’ve had chili like that, but once I tasted yours, it all came back to me. My grandmother made it the same way. I’d forgotten about the cocoa powder.”

  “I’m sorry?” Paul asked. “What cocoa powder?”

  LuAnne looked puzzled. “Isn’t that your secret ingredient? I sure tasted it. Brought back a lot of good memories.”

  Paul was very still for a long moment, and then he turned slowly toward Kate. She swallowed and prepared to take her lumps.

  “Kate, could I speak to you upstairs?”

  At least he had the good grace to wait until they were in his office with the door closed before he started to fuss at her.

  “I specifically told you I didn’t want help.”

  Kate blushed. “I know. I’m sorry. But it was just so hard to sit there, knowing what your chili needed, when you wouldn’t let me do anything.”

  Paul wiped a hand over one eye. “Well, I guess I’ve been hoisted by my own petard.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Now it’s my time to confess. I made a sort of . . . wager, I guess you’d call it, on this chili cook-off.”

  “You made a bet on the outcome?” That was so unlike Paul. “With who?”

  “With Clifton Beasley.”

  “And what was the nature of this wager?”

  “Well, he bet me that I couldn’t best Sam Gorman without help from anyone. Said that if I did, he’d start coming back to church every Sunday for at least a year.”

  Kate couldn’t help but be amused. Paul had gone to some lengths over the years to round up some lost sheep of his own, but this was the first time she remembered him using a wager to do so. “And what did you bet?”