Working Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  “Just because I won’t get on the stretcher?”

  “That’s right.” She sighs heavily. “Look, I’ve spent too many years working on clients who are in a reclining position. It’s what I’m used to. It’s how I visualize the hair and makeup. I can and will sit you up when I cut the back of your hair but I’ve tried to do the rest of it when people are upright and it never comes out right. Sorry, but that’s how it is.”

  I blow out a breath of exasperation and tap my foot as I weigh my options. My hair does need a touch-up—okay, more than a touch-up. It needs a major overhaul. And Izzy has generously given me the time off and vouched for Barbara’s results.

  Barbara glances at her watch and raises her eyebrows at me. “I have a body coming in at four o’clock that I need to fix up for a viewing tonight. The clock is ticking. What’s it gonna be?”

  The thought of laying on the stretcher is one thing. The thought of laying there while a corpse waits in the next room prompts me to action. “Okay, let’s get this over with.” I climb up and lay down, my hands folded over my lap in perfect repose. Oddly enough, it feels kind of natural.

  Barbara walks over and stares at me for a minute, then her face splits into a smile. “You won’t be sorry,” she says, beaming. “I can see it in my mind’s eye already. I’m gonna do great things for you, Mattie Winston.”

  Chapter 14

  An hour and a half later, Barbara and I have planned out my entire funeral, including the music, my dress, who will be invited, and which coffin I’ll be buried in. I take Barbara’s advice and opt for the mahogany box with the blue satin lining. At first I think it makes me look too cold, but once Barbara finishes my makeup and lets me look in a mirror with the blue satin beneath my head, I have to admit it looks quite stunning.

  And speaking of stunning, Izzy was right—Barbara truly is a whiz at her work. My hair is the color of sun-baked wheat with subtle highlights of golden flax. The conditioner she uses has left it feeling incredibly silky, yet she’s managed to give it more body than it’s had since the time Teddy Laver’s bratty little brother got cotton candy in my hair when we were riding in Teddy’s convertible with the top down.

  Even more amazing is my makeup. Barbara introduced me to a whole new color scheme based on brown and russet tones that I likely wouldn’t have experimented with on the bravest of days. And I’ve done some experimenting. In the hall closet of my old house is a box filled to the brim with makeup orphans I’ve bought and tried over the years: foundations, eye shadows, blushes, lipsticks, concealers, powders…you name it.

  I would have sworn the colors Barbara used on me are all wrong for my complexion and yet she’s managed to turn me from a pale ice queen into a warm vibrant woman—and all without making me look like a hooker. After providing lengthy instructions on the techniques she uses to apply the stuff, she gives me some samples and a list of the brand names and colors so I can go out and buy some for myself.

  By the time I rise from my stretcher like Elsa Lanchester in The Bride of Frankenstein, I know I’m looking better than I have in a decade or more. I am a woman transformed—perfectly willing to have my hair done for the rest of my life on an embalmer’s table.

  And despite her rather droll appearance, Barbara is a lively and entertaining conversationalist. During the course of her ministrations, we discuss everything from men and clothing to local politics and world peace. It is a life-changing experience for me—I’ve finally found a hairstylist I can keep, right through to eternity.

  And that gets me to thinking about Karen Owenby. I know Deborah Martin, Karen’s hairdresser, because I went to Deborah myself once on Karen’s recommendation. I never went back, but not because Deborah’s haircut was the worst I’d ever had; that credit went to a Vietnamese woman named Mi at a place called Hairy Kari. Mi’s understanding of English was poor at best and after several attempts to communicate what I wanted, I resorted to making chopping motions to the side of my head while I said, “Layer it.” Mi’s enthusiastic nod led me to believe she understood. During the subsequent translations by the owner, which were triggered by the scream I let out when I looked in the mirror, I found out that Mi thought I was saying “Razor it.”

  No, the reason I never went back to Deborah Martin is because she wears a ton of perfume—and not particularly good perfume either. It’s a noxious, floral scent that, after my one visit with her, had my sinuses messed up for a week. Though I must confess, when I consider that my current hairdresser smells like formaldehyde, Deborah’s perfume seems like a minor transgression.

  I know that Karen saw Deborah regularly and, with most women, that’s the next best thing to a shrink. Women tend to treat their hairdressers as confidantes, the intimacy of what they do promoting a sense of trust and revelation. If Karen Owenby followed true to form, then Deborah Martin might have some insight into what was going on in Karen’s life right before she died.

  Izzy is waiting for me outside and the look on his face confirms what I already know. “Damn,” he says, followed by a low whistle. “She really is good.”

  On the way back to the office, I share my thoughts about Karen Owenby’s hairdresser and Izzy agrees it is worth a shot. I debate making an appointment and approaching Deborah that way, but at the last minute I decide it will be better to use the same “official” approach I used on Molinaro. After calling the salon where Deborah works and discovering that she will be there until seven that evening, I tell her what I want and arrange to meet her at the end of her shift.

  I spend another hour or so in the library studying up on my new profession and then wander upstairs to see what Arnie is up to. I find him in his office but he isn’t alone. In the middle of the room stands a giant of a man with a surprisingly baby face. His crew-cut hair nearly brushes the ceiling, his feet are the size of a Sasquatch, and his neck looks as big around as a tree trunk. I figure he weighs at least 350, maybe more, although he doesn’t look fat so much as he simply looks huge.

  When Arnie sees me, he lets forth with a low whistle. “Wow,” he says. “You look fantastic.”

  “Thanks,” I say, glowing. He continues to stare at me longer than is comfortable and I realize the big man is gawking at me as well. I make a self-conscious swipe at my nose, suddenly worried I might have a booger hanging there or something.

  Arnie finally breaks the tension by introducing me to his visitor. “Joey Dewhurst, this is Mattie Winston, Izzy’s new assistant.”

  Joey thrusts a paw as big as my head at me and says, “Hi. Nice to meet you.” I brace myself as I place my hand in his, fearing a bone-crushing grip or, at the least, to have my arm shaken out of its socket. But he surprises me. His shake is firm but gentle, with very little motion. The smile he gives me is dazzling.

  “Nice to meet you, too, Joey.”

  “Joey works as a field technician for a local computer company,” Arnie explains. “He goes out and troubleshoots whenever clients have a problem. He’s been doing it for…what’s it been now, Joey? About ten years?”

  “Eleven,” Joey says proudly. He continues to stare at me with that unblinking gaze for several seconds, then says, “Wow. You’re big for a girl.”

  “Pardon me?” My smile dissolves, as does the glow I was feeling on the heels of Arnie’s whistling praise.

  Joey’s face morphs into a horrified expression. “Oh, geez…I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t mean anything bad. It’s just that most girls make my neck hurt when I try to look at them. I’m pretty big, you know,” he says, totally deadpan.

  He’s big, all right. Huge. And intimidating. Yet despite his size, there is something sweet about him, a bumbling innocence that charms me. “No offense taken,” I say. “You’re right. I am big for a girl.”

  The smile he flashes at me is so brilliant it’s almost blinding. “It’s hard to be big,” he says. “My clothes don’t fit good, cars are too small, and sometimes I scare little kids, even though I don’t mean to.”

  “Can’t say I’v
e scared any kids, but I can relate to the rest of it,” I tell him.

  He cocks his head to the side. “I’d love to have a girlfriend as big as you,” he says wistfully.

  I smile, not sure if I should feel flattered or insulted.

  Arnie clears his throat. “Joey, you don’t want to be late for your next appointment.”

  “Oh.” Joey glances at his watch. “Yeah, okay. I should get going.” He flashes his megawatt smile again and blushes sweetly. “It was very nice meeting you, Mattie.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Joey.”

  “Bye, Arnie.”

  “See ya later, Joey.”

  He moves with amazing grace considering his size. As I watch him leave, I notice a wide rectangular piece of red material hanging from beneath his shirt, the end reaching halfway to his knees. It’s odd-looking to say the least and as soon as he is out of sight, I look over at Arnie, my eyebrows raised in question.

  “Don’t worry, he’s harmless,” he says. “Sweetest guy you’ll ever meet. He suffered some sort of brain damage at birth and as a result he’s mildly retarded and has a few odd quirks.”

  “Like a total lack of sartorial sense?” I ask.

  Arnie looks puzzled.

  “I’m referring to that huge piece of red material that was hanging out from under his shirt.”

  Arnie smiles. “Oh, that. That was his cape. You see, Joey is an idiot savant. Despite his overall mental limitations, he has this incredible ability when it comes to computers. He can take them apart, put ’em back together, or even build them from scratch. He can write programs and troubleshoot existing ones. And his hacking abilities are absolutely amazing. He’s quite proud of what he does and thinks of himself as a kind of superhero. He has this little red outfit he wears under his everyday clothes that’s part of his alter ego. He’s Hacker Man. He even has a big yellow letter H on the front of his outfit.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. He can get into any computer anywhere anytime,” Arnie says, misunderstanding the genesis of my sarcasm. “He’s dug up stuff that will blow your mind.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the two dozen or so people that Clinton had contact with who turned up dead under the most mysterious of circumstances. Or the fact that our government routinely runs tests on the populace without our knowledge. Or the CIA document that talks about remote viewing and mind control. That kind of stuff.”

  I don’t know what to say. I like Arnie, but his conspiracy theory mentality is starting to wear a bit thin.

  “I think he has a crush on you,” he says then.

  “What?” I blurt out, startled by the quick change of subject. “Who? Joey?”

  “No, Clinton,” Arnie says, rolling his eyes. “Of course, I mean Joey. Didn’t you see the way he was looking at you? And the way he blushed?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.

  “You’ll see,” Arnie says. “I’m pretty sure Joey’s got it bad for you. Something tells me you’ll be seeing a lot more of him in the days to come.”

  Arnie is right. I do see more of Joey. In fact, I see him later that same night as I am getting out of my car at Shear Indulgence, the hair salon where Deborah works. The place is fairly crowded when I arrive and one of the customers just happens to be Joey, who is paying for his haircut and preparing to leave. Deborah is finishing up with a customer and says she’ll be with me in a minute, so I have no reasonable excuse for escaping Joey’s doe-eyed stare and blushing cheeks.

  “Hey, Joey,” I say when he sees me. “Fancy meeting you again.”

  “Hi, Mattie. You’re not getting your hair done, are you, because you don’t need to. It’s very pretty already.” His face takes on an “Aw, shucks” expression and he drops his gaze to the floor, where he starts drawing imaginary lines with the toe of his shoe.

  “Thank you. But I’m just here to meet someone.”

  He peers at me from beneath lowered lids and as soon as he sees that I’m watching him, his gaze falls again. “You are very pretty, Mattie,” he says in a low whisper. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No, I don’t. But I don’t want one right now,” I add quickly, lest Joey get the wrong idea. “I’m going through a divorce.”

  “Oh. Okay,” he says. “Well…I gotta go. Bye.”

  He turns and ducks as he goes through the door to keep from hitting his head. I note that the red cape is no longer showing and wonder if he’s taken it off or if it’s merely tucked away inside his outer clothing. As soon as he’s outside he begins to whistle and then he starts skipping. The incongruity of that huge hulk of human flesh skipping along like a child makes me smile.

  “You ready?” asks a voice behind me. I turn and find Deborah standing there with her jacket on, her purse slung over one shoulder. I follow her through the salon to a back door, the stench of her perfume wafting along behind her, mixing with the acrid scent of permanent solution and hair bleach. By the time we reach the alley behind the store, my eyes are burning and I have an instant, throbbing headache.

  “So you work for the medical examiner now, huh?” Deborah asks me once the door closes behind us.

  “I do.” I show her my badge and she glances at it, clearly unimpressed.

  “Interesting change of jobs. What made you decide to switch?” She is rummaging around in her purse and finally extracts a bent pack of cigarettes.

  “You don’t want to know,” I tell her, knowing full well she does. “When was the last time you saw Karen Owenby?”

  “Two weeks ago.” She pauses, shakes out a cigarette, and lights it. As she sucks in that first drag, she assumes a momentary expression of ecstasy. Then she starts talking with the exhale, adding smoke to the assault on my sinuses. “She came in for a color touch-up and trim. She was always good about that. Regular as clockwork. Never let her hair get shaggy or let her roots show to any degree.”

  Chalk up another point for Karen.

  “Did you know Karen was a natural blonde?” Deborah asks, sucking down another drag. “It’s rare for a blonde to want to go dark. Seems everyone wants to be blonde these days. Especially around here.”

  I know what she means. The original settlers to this part of the country, assuming you ignored the Indians who had been here all along, were Scandinavian. Consequently, the ratio of blond-haired, blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked people is high. I wonder if Karen’s dye job was part of her disguise.

  “Did Karen talk much when she was here?” I ask. “Did she ever mention anything about work?”

  “Sometimes. I know she was pretty excited about some sort of investment scheme she had going on at work with some of the surgeons.” She shrugs. “Mixing business with pleasure, I guess.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure she was sleeping with at least one of the doctors, because she told me. And I kind of think there may have been others.”

  “Did she mention any names?”

  Deborah drops her cigarette and grinds it into oblivion with her shoe. Then she gives me a long, assessing look. “Your husband is a doctor, isn’t he?”

  “He was. I mean, he is. A doctor, that is. He won’t be my husband much longer.”

  Deborah nods. “I see,” she says pointedly. She gives her watch a meaningful glance and says, “Anything else? I need to be somewhere by seven-thirty.”

  I shake my head and thank her for her candor.

  “I hope you catch the bastard who did this, Mattie,” she says. “Karen was a really good tipper.”

  As I watch Deborah leave, I conjure up an image of a gravestone with SHE WAS A REALLY GOOD TIPPER engraved on the surface.

  I walk around front to my car and am about to start it when I hear an odd chirping sound. I have no idea what it is at first, but after tilting my head this way and that, I finally determine the sound is coming from my purse and guess that it’s probably my new cell phone. I dig around until I find it, then fumble with it for s
everal seconds in the dark as I try to figure out which button to push to answer it.

  “Hello?” I say finally.

  “Hey, Mattie.” It’s Izzy. “Where are you?”

  I tell him. “I’m just getting ready to head home now. Why? Do we have a call?”

  “No. But you need to call your sister right away.”

  “Why? What’s wrong? Is she okay? Did something happen to the kids?”

  “Don’t panic. Desi’s fine and so are the kids. But I’m not sure David is doing too well. Steve Hurley hauled him down to the station for questioning this afternoon and he’s still there. It must be serious because David called for Lucien. He says he needs a defense attorney right away.”

  Chapter 15

  A quick call to Desi gets me some details. She tells me that Hurley showed up at David’s house with a search warrant in hand and, after going through the place, he then invited David downtown for some questioning. David went along willingly and when Hurley asked for a blood sample, David went along with that, too.

  “Lucien called just a bit ago with an update,” Desi tells me. “Among the stuff they seized during the search warrant were some hairs from David’s brush and some fibers from the living room carpet. Apparently they hope to match those up with stuff that was found on the dead woman’s body.”

  I grimace, remembering my own thoughts about the trace evidence.

  “It’s not looking very good for David right now,” Desi goes on. “Apparently when the detective asked him whether or not he’d seen or been with the victim on the night of the murder, David said no. But it turns out that the detective has evidence to the contrary.”

  I wince.

  “Lucien says he doesn’t think they have enough to hit David with a homicide charge yet, but if they want to play hardball, they could toss him in jail for a while on an obstruction-of-justice charge or something like that. He says the detective on the case is something of a hard ass.”