Cold Death

by Mary Stone

  Ellie hit stop on the podcast and pushed the lettuce around on her plate, once again reminded of a few of her mom’s wealthy friends. They were the kind of women who wouldn’t be caught dead leaving the house in saggy sweatpants or without a full face of makeup. Heaven forbid they venture out into polite society without styling their hair first or be caught dead with split ends or unsightly roots. The joke about Letitia Wiggins sneaking a private hairdresser into her room wasn’t all that far-fetched.

  In the social circles her family ran in, the women who fixated on their appearances to a pathological degree rarely lowered their harsh, exacting standards as they aged.

  Chewing a bite of salad, Ellie typed “hair salons” into her phone’s search window. Results popped up in seconds. She dismissed a chain and a barbershop before landing on a local salon with a fancy name.

  Chez La La.

  The salon was located in the same little shopping village, a couple blocks up the road and less than a mile away from Letitia Wiggins’s retirement community. Ellie scrolled through the reviews. When customer after customer raved about how the results were well worth the expense, she figured she might as well pay them a visit.

  She shoveled down the rest of the salad, threw enough bills on the table to cover lunch plus a large tip, and headed down the sidewalk. Shane fell in step behind her.

  The winter sun warmed the air and was accompanied by a mild breeze that carried the lush, sweet scent of jasmine. Walkers, tourists, and shoppers sprinkled the sidewalks, taking advantage of the good weather. Ellie passed two middle-aged women in loungewear and diamonds who’d paused to peer at brightly dressed mannequins inside a boutique and a tanned, elderly man wearing Bermuda shorts with a Hawaiian shirt and yakking into a cell phone.

  If Bethany’s disappearance wasn’t pressing down on her, Ellie could have spent hours meandering along too, soaking up the sun and poking through any boutiques that caught her eye. Instead, she hurried around the slow-moving shoppers with quick strides that marked her as an outsider.

  Three blocks later, the GPS informed her that the black-and-white striped awning embellished with gold accents located a few storefronts ahead likely belonged to her destination. She drew closer and peeked at the window to confirm it. The same gilt accent color from the awning was scrawled in elaborate, cursive letters on the glass to form the salon’s name.

  On the opposite side of the glass, a handful of stylists zipped around elderly women draped in black gowns, while wielding scissors and brushes and aluminum foil squares.

  Ellie brushed a speck of lint off her black blazer, drew in a deep breath, and channeled Helen Kline at her most regal and imperious. Chin lifted and shoulders back, she sauntered into the salon with what she hoped was a passable imitation of her mother’s reserved confidence.

  The well-groomed receptionist behind the computer podium glanced up with a smile when the bell over the door tinkled a snooty warning. “Welcome to Chez La La. Do you have an appointment?”

  The woman’s face was expertly made-up, with thick, sculpted brows, cherry-red lips, and a soft glow in all the right places. A chunky gold necklace flashed beneath the collar of her white silk blouse, and large diamond studs sparkled in her ears, all of which screamed money. Ever since she’d joined the police force, Ellie had stopped paying much attention to her own clothes, but she was happy that she’d dressed with care that morning. Especially when the receptionist’s gaze itemized her outfit.

  Ellie smoothed a hand down the tailored black jacket she wore, drawing the receptionist’s sharp gaze to both the expensive cut and the gold Rolex peeking out from her sleeve. The suit had been a gift from her mom. Helen had attended Fashion Week in New York and decided her daughter simply must have something from a particular up-and-coming designer. Which probably meant the outfit cost more than most people spent on rent.

  Along with some tasteful gold jewelry, Ellie was glad she’d thought to pack the suit, especially since she ended up trying to convince Letitia Wiggins’s gatekeepers that she was worthy of an audience. That plan had tanked but dressing up might pay off yet.

  Ellie tossed her head before leaning on the marble counter, ensuring her jacket sleeve hitched up enough to showcase the Rolex again. “Actually, I’m hoping that someone is available for a last-minute job. I’m new to the area and on the hunt for a good salon. I’m sure you know how stressful that can be.” Ellie fanned herself with one hand, and after a lingering glance at the Rolex, the receptionist’s expression turned sympathetic.

  “Oh, I do. Isn’t that the worst, trying to figure out who you can trust with something as important as your hair?”

  “Right? Hair is so important. I thought I’d have more time to search, only someone sprang a surprise engagement on me tonight, and I need to look my best.”

  The receptionist nodded. “Trust me, I completely understand. Hang on, let me check and see what I can do.” She tapped at a few keys and beamed. “It looks like you’re in luck. We’re usually booked weeks, sometimes months out, but we happen to have a brand-new stylist with an opening. Would that work for you?”

  “Oh, that’s fantabulous, thank you.” Ellie cringed inside. Fantabulous? She didn’t think she’d ever said that word in her entire life. Even Helen Kline wouldn’t be caught dead forming the word. “I only need a wash and a trim, so that should work out fine.”

  “Perfect. Go ahead and take a seat, and I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  Ellie settled on one of the two fancy loveseats crafted from red cushions and gold metalwork and inspected the salon during the wait. Glossy black workstations stretched toward the back wall, each dominated by a massive gilt mirror. A stylist swept hair clippings from a cream-and-black floor that appeared to be genuine marble, or at the very least, a damned good imitation.

  If Letitia Wiggins didn’t frequent this salon, Ellie bet she was a client at one every bit as lavish. This place even smelled good thanks to the lit candles scattered all around. Like peaches and cream instead of the typical color solution and hairspray.

  “Ellie? Hi, I’m Holly, and I’ll be your stylist today. I can take you back now.”

  The woman who bounded up to Ellie appeared younger than the rest of the hairdressers, somewhere closer to Ellie’s own age. Her short hair was dyed black and razored into multiple layers around a heart-shaped face. Holly led her to an empty chair closest to the back wall, chatting the entire time as she draped Ellie in a black gown.

  Ellie laughed and replied and nudged her to keep talking. The more loose-lipped her stylist, the better.

  Once they both faced the mirror, Holly fingered one of Ellie’s waves. “So, what are we doing today? Your hair is so pretty.”

  “Just a wash and a trim.”

  The stylist pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, thank goodness. I was half-afraid you wanted me to cut it all off.”

  Ellie reached for her hair, flinching. “No, no, just a trim. An inch at most.” Not that she believed hair was as life-and-death as the receptionist seemed to, but still. Ponytails and braids were simple and quick and suited her busy lifestyle. Short hair required too much work. Plus, okay, she admitted that maybe she was just the tiniest bit vain about her long curls.

  The stylist washed Ellie’s hair with a delicious mint-scented shampoo and chattered away about her boyfriend and his new job and the weather. Ellie coaxed her along every once in a while, peppering in questions about how Holly enjoyed working at Chez La La so far and if the clients were nice.

  After that last question, Holly paused her snipping. “A lot of them are really great. I love my little old ladies who come in and tell me all about their grandbabies and dogs. Of course, there are always a few who can be a little…demanding.”

  She brushed out a new section of Ellie’s hair and clipped off the ends while little red pieces fell to the floor. “I understand completely. Actually,” Ellie lowered her voice, like she was sharing a secret, “my aunt can be a little like that sometimes. She sprang a l
ast-minute dinner party on me for tonight, and I didn’t dare show up with split ends, or I would have never heard the end of it. She’s the one who told me about this place.”

  Holly made a sympathetic hum. “Oh boy, do I know the type. Who’s your aunt?”

  Ellie waited until the stylist met her gaze in the mirror. “Letitia Wiggins.”

  Holly winced, and her mouth formed a circle. “Oh.” She ducked her head and busied herself lining up a new section of Ellie’s hair.

  “I’m guessing from that reaction that you know her. Come on, you can tell me. She’s my aunt, remember? I know she’s a pill, so it’s not like you’d be sharing something new.”

  The stylist bit her lip and checked the workstation closest to them, but her coworker was busy chatting away with a white-haired elderly woman. Still, Holly scooted closer and lowered her voice. “Everyone knows Letitia. She comes in every four weeks to get a root touchup and make sure her style stays perfect.”

  Ellie rolled her eyes in the mirror. “Yup, that sounds like Aunt Letitia. She can be a lot. So demanding. Don’t tell her I said this, but I feel sorry for her poor stylist.”

  Holly snipped away. “Me too. I guess she always stares at her hair in the mirror for like five minutes after Bev finishes. She twists every which way and frowns, like she’s never quite satisfied with how it turned out. She even points out spots that Bev needs to touch up.”

  “Oof. Though, I’m not surprised. I remember when I was younger, she used to make her housekeeper cry. She can be pretty terrifying.” Ellie clapped a hand over her mouth. “Please tell me she’s not due in today. I’d die if she marched over and started bossing us around. She always has very particular ideas about what I should do with my hair.”

  Holly’s eyes rounded. “Oh, Lordy, I hope not. What day of the week is it again?”

  “Wednesday.”

  The stylist heaved out a breath. “You’re so lucky. You missed her by one day. She always comes the third Thursday of the month. Ten thirty, like clockwork.”

  “Whew! I definitely dodged a bullet there.”

  While Holly finished touching up her hair, Ellie thanked providence for smiling down on her. And when she walked out of the salon ten minutes later, she smiled while patting her curls.

  Sixty-seven dollars for a wash and a trim plus information on how to bump into Letitia Wiggins despite an overzealous security guard? That was money well spent.

  20

  Katarina spent a good chunk of the night and all the next morning creating and rejecting escape plans.

  Her first idea centered on waiting for a busy period like lunch to provoke a fight between two of the more volatile patients, one or both of whom could be counted on to freak out. When the staff rushed in to neutralize the situation, she’d use the resulting chaos to sneak away.

  The bed whirred when Katarina hit the control panel. She scowled through the open doorway as her top half lifted into an upright position. Great idea, except for one tiny detail. This stupid place hadn’t seen fit to put her into any group therapy sessions yet, or a communal lunch.

  No, Katarina was sentenced to this miserable room, chained to the bed like a naughty puppy. The nurses barely even visited, popping in only a few times a day to check her wound dressings and change them if necessary unless she hit the call button.

  When she was released, she was going to call whatever healthcare regulatory agency oversaw conditions like these. Right after she found her daughter, which took her right back to forming escape plans.

  Jasper was her second idea. Given a few weeks, she was confident of her ability to charm the cute CNA under her spell. Except, she didn’t have a few weeks. Even a few days seemed too long to remain trapped in this bed while Kingsley had Bethany. Way too long.

  Besides, she’d taken a few shots at sinking her hooks into Jasper, and each time, she’d quit too soon to stand a chance of reeling him in. All because of a dead man. Her heart and mind were too painfully full of Clayne.

  Katarina shifted her shoulders back and forth on the bed, attempting to scratch an itch on her back that her bound hands made impossible to reach before slumping. Great. Maybe she could stand some mental health care, after all. That first session with a new therapist would be a real gem. Katarina could picture it now.

  So, the thing is, I kinda offed my boyfriend on purpose in order to save my daughter from this psychopath who was basically a father figure to me. He’s the one who taught me how to slit someone’s throat in just the right place to kill them…the very technique I used on my boyfriend. Got any exercises or meditations to help me fix that? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve killed other people before him and even enjoyed it sometimes. For some reason, though, this particular murder keeps bothering me.

  Yeah, right. They’d report her ass to the police before the session even ended, and Katarina would wind up in prison. She seriously doubted that the AG was waiting in the wings again with another get-out-of-jail-free card, so she’d do hard time.

  Not an option when Bethany needed a mother.

  “Jesse? Where are you? Jesse!” A wail drifted into her room from the patient next door, an elderly woman who called out day and night for some phantom person named Jesse.

  Katarina whacked her head against the pillow. Escape was the only option, and soon. The longer Bethany spent under that monster’s control, the more time he had to inflict permanent damage.

  “Jesse? Jesse!”

  Plus, the longer Katarina was subjected to that screeching, the more likely she was to actually lose her damn mind. She slammed her head into the pillow again. But how? How the hell did she get out of this shithole? Not like she could climb out the window, since this pit of a room didn’t have one. And no chance of getting out of the locked psych ward without an employee to open the doors.

  She wiggled her toes in the neon yellow socks. Plus, on the off chance she managed to overcome the wrist restraint and door problems, these stupid Day-Glo socks marked her as a runaway mental patient.

  Katarina groaned and dug her heels into the bed. There had to be a way out. There had to be, and if there was, she would find it. No excuses. The man who’d raised her might be twisted as hell, but he was smart too. Genius-level. That was how he’d evaded capture for so many years.

  If Kingsley were in her position, he’d have ditched this dumpy room and freed himself days ago. All she needed to do was think like him, and she could ditch this place too.

  When you decide upon a goal, my sweet Katarina, the most crucial element to reach that goal is your plan. If your goal is large, you’ll likely need to break it down into a series of smaller goals. Start at the beginning and map them out in order, step by step. Once you have your plan, take time to memorize each component, then once you’re certain of your success, execute.

  Right. Start at the beginning. In this case, the restraints. Her gaze landed on the material binding her to the bed frame. Overpowering them with brute strength was out. She either needed a knife or sharp object of some sort—a joke in this place, where they didn’t even allow drawstring pants or freaking plastic forks—or to grab her opportunity during a time when the restraints were removed.

  So far, that only happened when she ate the slop they called food, or on toilet trips, or when they paraded her like a pony through the halls every afternoon for daily exercise.

  Bathroom trip it was. If she got lucky, they’d send a small female nurse. Someone easy to overpower, who was wearing any color sock besides yellow.

  She puffed her cheeks with air before blowing it out. Okay, supposing she managed to steal socks and overpower the nurse…what would prevent the staff from issuing a lockdown before she ever reached the door?

  Step two: distraction. This escape plan required a distraction, one that happened while she was restraint-free in the bathroom.

  “Jesse? Are you there? Jesse!”

  Oh my god, not this again. Katarina had no clue who Jesse was or why the woman wanted him or her so bad, but she
wished someone would find the asshole already. “Would you please shut up? I can’t think straight!”

  She banged her fist twice on the bedrail for good measure, but stopped before the third strike when an idea materialized.

  Oh, this could work. This could definitely work.

  Without pausing to assess her idea further, Katarina slapped the nurse call button. So what if she’d skipped Kingsley’s memorizing-all-the-pieces-of-the-plan step? The asshole wasn’t here to lecture, and patience had never been her strong suit.

  The nurse took seven minutes to respond, and Katarina used every last one to plan. By the time Jasper hurried in, her body buzzed with anticipation.

  “You rang?” He smiled down at her, and her excitement grew. Forget a small female nurse. The flirty, young CNA could definitely work in her favor.

  “Yeah. Sorry to bother you, but I need to use the bathroom.”

  He gasped and slapped a hand on his chest. “How dare you interrupt my busy schedule with such a frivolous request.” Jasper grinned as he began loosening the restraints. “Trust me, there’s no need to apologize. You should hear some of the reasons patients give for calling us into their rooms.”

  The left strap fell free. Katarina shook out her wrist as he moved around the bed to the right. “Like what?”

  His fingers worked at the material. “Like, ‘oh, can you help me find my glasses? I’ve looked all over, and they aren’t anywhere!’ Narrator’s voice: ‘The patient did not look all over.’” Jasper laughed. “Half the time, they’re sitting on top of the patient’s head.”