Facials Can Be Fatal

by Nancy J. Cohen

  “Try another outlet,” Marla suggested once the power had been restored and everyone heaved a sigh of relief. “I have a surge strip if we need one,” she announced.

  “I’m done with the dryer. I can curl her hair now.” Nicole picked up an iron and tested its temperature while her model sat with a bored expression.

  The door burst open, and a tall, lean man with Asian features strode inside. He looked like a typical businessman in a dark suit with black hair to match. His calculating gaze surveyed the room as Dalton might for strategic entries and exits.

  “Henutt, here you are at last,” Yolanda cried. She pronounced his name hee-nut. “I need those diagrams. You can tack them up on this wall here.”

  He opened his briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of papers, then proceeded to tape them where indicated. They looked like sketches of the models and their series of dresses, divided into four columns for each scene in the show.

  Marla angled herself for a better look. Cocktail dresses would begin the event, followed by party gowns, ball gowns, and finally the bridal collection. In the grand finale, all the models would line up together on stage. There was an empty space between the brides and the finish line. What was going to happen there?

  Yolanda noticed her studying the wall. “Marla, have you met my husband? Marla Vail is our head stylist,” she told the man, who’d pulled out his cell phone to squint at the screen.

  Marla waved a comb in response. “Nice to meet you,” she called. “I’m thrilled to be here.”

  The man gave her a curt nod and then pocketed his device. He helped Yolanda unpack the items from her large metal box. A couple of tiaras came out, along with diamond necklaces and other pieces of sparkling jewelry. Lastly, he withdrew another item wrapped in velvet. This he placed very carefully in a separate spot.

  Meanwhile, Marla kept up a chatty banter with the child’s mother while watching the couple’s actions from the corner of her eye. Her hands moved automatically, using the curling iron to produce ringlets to soften the girl’s face. She pinned a section of hair off her forehead while letting curls spill down the back and sides. Once done, she fastened in place the jeweled barrettes she’d been given.

  “Where’s the guard?” Yolanda asked her husband, with a furtive glance toward the door.

  “Right behind you, ma’am,” said a man in a security uniform. With his buzz-cut head of hair, erect posture, and aggressive stance, he could have been ex-military.

  Yolanda whipped around, her robe swishing against her legs. “Stay here and watch these things. They’re extremely valuable. Many of these jewelry pieces have been loaned to me for the night. And don’t allow anyone to touch this case.” She indicated the mysterious velvet wrapping.

  Juanita’s mother addressed Marla in a low tone. “Her husband’s last name is so dumb.”

  “It’s dumb? Why is that?”

  “Because it’s spelled s-o-e space d-u-m. I never knew they were married until somebody told me. Yolanda has a different last name.”

  “She’s a celebrity. She could have kept her maiden name, or else she uses a pseudonym for her stage personality.”

  “Ayee, with a name like his, who would want to share it?” The woman chuckled.

  Henutt Soe Dum. You have a point, Marla thought. “How long has your daughter been doing these shows? And how did she get the gig?”

  “Juanita is registered with a local talent agency. She got the job through them. She’s done a couple of commercials, too,” Juanita’s mother said with a proud smile.

  “I love doing this show,” her daughter said in a girly voice. “I hope to be like them when I grow up.” She indicated the leggy models.

  “It’s a hard life,” Marla replied. “They have to diet all the time.”

  She studied the other women. Sitting in Jennifer’s chair on the far side of Nicole was a model who wore a V-necked top with jeans and comfortable flats. She had a bag at her feet. Had she brought her own dress shoes, or did Yolanda supply those, too?

  Another stylist was fixing a model’s red hair into a chignon. A fourth model had her wavy, brown hair teased in sections while the stylist applied spray. Each hairdresser worked fast, creating magic and glamour out of ordinary hair.

  “I know a guy who does body sculpting for a hundred dollars,” the makeup artist said to Yolanda’s assistant, who’d stopped by to confer with her. “You should try it, honey. He could do wonders for you.”

  “No, thanks, I like myself the way I am.” The young woman headed for the clothing racks, where she proceeded to remove the dress tags. She recorded each one in a ledger before stuffing the tag into a manila envelope. Her black painted fingernails matched her leather bustier and skirt. “Uh-oh. We’re short the peach and white,” she hollered to Yolanda.

  “I can’t imagine where it might be. I checked everything last night. You’ll have to take the least glitzy dress and have the assigned model wear it twice,” Yolanda responded.

  “What size is this one?” The assistant fingered a coral creation. “Maybe it’ll fit her.”

  “Do you have food? I’m starving,” one of the models called. She wore a white tank top over black skinny jeans and had a crescent moon tattooed on her neck. From her stick-thin figure, Marla was surprised she ate much at all.

  “Sandwiches are over there, babe,” a stagehand said. He rolled a round table out into the hall from a storage area among the warren of rooms.

  “Excuse me?” the girl retorted. “My name is Ashley Hunt, bozo. Not ‘babe.’ Show some respect.”

  “She’s the top model,” Juanita’s mother whispered in Marla’s ear. “I don’t know why Yolanda uses her all the time. She’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “Maybe so, but I’ll bet those gowns look divine on her.”

  Marla glanced up as two more models strolled in, one with black curly hair and another with straight chestnut hair down to her waist. Now what? She hadn’t expected any others. Her stylists were all occupied with their second round. She’d have to take on at least one of these girls herself. With a second glance at the wall diagrams, she realized the scenes called for ten models each, except for the final segment. If she’d been observant, she would have noted that earlier. Five stylists for ten models meant they’d have two each, not counting Juanita.

  “You’re finished,” she told the child. “Good luck tonight. I bet you’ll be great.”

  “Thank you, miss.” The child stood, grinning at her image in the mirror before her mother led her away to the makeup lady.

  I should ask that person about liquid latex, Marla thought. She might know about the substance that killed Val.

  Unfortunately, her schedule didn’t leave a moment to spare. She signaled one of the newcomers over just as a handsome young man entered the room. He had a camera bag slung across one shoulder and a large camera in his hand. Without a single greeting, he started snapping photos. As he aimed his lens, he stepped backward in her direction.

  “Watch where you’re walking,” she warned.

  “Oh, sorry.” He spun around to face her. “I’m always amazed when I’m back here. All these gorgeous women, you understand. It numbs the brain.”

  “Do you work for Friends of Old Florida?” she asked with a smile. She could understand the sentiment, afflicted by sensory overload herself with so much going on.

  “Heck, no. Yolanda hired me. I’m Jason Faulks, the event photographer. And you are?”

  “Marla Vail, owner of Cut ’N Dye Salon.” She handed him her card. “I’m always looking for photo shoot opportunities, so please recommend me if anyone needs a stylist for a special event or advertisement.”

  “Sure thing, doll.” He took a few pictures of the models being prepped and paused to whistle at Ashley Hunt, chowing down on a sandwich and chips. “She’d kill me if I took a photo of her stuffing her mouth like that.”

  “You’re right. I doubt she would appreciate it. So tell me, have you done this show before?” she asked to distrac
t him. Maybe she could gain some information in the process.

  He nodded. “Several years in a row. I can’t wait to see what Yolanda unveils this time. She always makes a big splash in some way.”

  “I’m excited to be here. I was afraid they might cancel our participation after Valerie Weston’s death.”

  That got his attention. “How is that?”

  “Val died in my salon. I feel terrible about it.”

  His gaze sharpened. “I can imagine. Rumor has it she died from a latex allergy.”

  “That’s so, but our beautician knew about her condition and had been treating her for years. My husband is on the case. He’s a police detective.”

  “Really?” He looked like he wanted to say more but Yolanda’s spouse made a move to leave. “Yo, I’d better snap the diva and her husband while they’re together.”

  Moving off, he took a shot of Yolanda and Henutt grinning for the camera. Henutt’s smile looked like a crocodile grin.

  Marla turned her attention to the model who had plopped into her chair. The woman chewed gum while studying herself in the mirror. Marla examined the girl’s hair, mentally configuring the best arrangement for her facial structure. Then she got to work, sectioning off long strands and using the curling iron at a frenetic pace. She fastened the coils of hair up with a multitude of hairpins. When she was done, she stood back to admire her masterpiece.

  Satisfied, she glanced at the other models in nearby chairs. One girl had her short hair pinned up in back in an elegant fashion. Another brunette had her long hair twisted into a braided design. Their upsweeps were artistic creations. Marla’s chest swelled with pride for her stylists’ work.

  Her inner antennae alerted as Dalton entered visual range. He strolled among the players, nodding to this person and that, pausing to speak to the security man guarding Yolanda’s valuables. Noting that Marla was free, he sauntered her way. In his dark suit, he looked rakishly handsome. With a surge of affection, she regarded his angular features, firm jaw, and steely gray eyes that brightened as he neared her.

  “You look harried,” he said, his mouth curving upward.

  “We haven’t had much time to do each model. What’s going on outside?” The band was playing in earnest now. Thumping music vibrated through the place, making her raise her voice.

  “Cocktail hour is over. People have sat down to dinner. Unfortunately, Kat couldn’t make it. She got a call on another case and is following through on it.”

  “That’s too bad, but you can manage without your partner. After all, you have me.”

  “I know.” He responded to her statement with a quick kiss.

  “Have you learned anything new?” she asked him, aware of his keen powers of observation and his skill at interviewing people.

  “I’ve asked around about Val Weston. She held a lot of respect. Her presence is missed.”

  “No one here has said a word.” Marla related the conversations she’d had so far. “I only talked about her with the photographer because I brought it up.”

  Leaning inward, Dalton spoke in a low tone so as not to be overheard. “Steer clear of Yolanda’s husband, will you? He’s under investigation.”

  “For what?” Marla sucked in a deep breath. It felt good to take a break, even for a few minutes. She hadn’t realized her shoulders had been so tense. A glance at her wristwatch told her they were getting down to the wire.

  “We suspect the man has a connection to the Asian mob. It’s been suggested he might be using his wife’s store to launder money.”

  “No way. Would Yolanda know about it, do you think?”

  “She may not be aware. It makes me wonder if Val stumbled onto something about him that led to her death, but all of this is supposition. Just be careful around the guy.”

  “All right. So what now?”

  “I’ll be in the ballroom. You’re coming out later to watch the show, right?”

  “Yes, we’re almost done here. Then it’ll be a matter of touching up the models’ hair in between their runway walks and helping the brides with their veils. My staff can handle it. I want to see Yolanda in action.”

  He nudged her, a teasing glimmer in his eyes. “Maybe we can catch a dance or two.”

  “We’ll see.” Her parched throat needed a drink of water. As soon as he left, she wandered toward the stash of food and grabbed a water bottle. The cool liquid eased her thirst.

  Her pulse accelerated at noting the makeup lady wasn’t occupied. Marla strode in her direction, determined to obtain some useful information. She struck up a friendly conversation, casually veering the topic toward Valerie Weston.

  “I know everybody loved her, but not me. She didn’t like to get her hands dirty,” Joyce Underwood said with a grimace.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She hired out every little job. I couldn’t believe what she asked of me. Could she employ me in advance to make her look good at her funeral?”

  Marla stared at her. “She really said that? Did she anticipate dying any time soon?”

  “How would I know? Maybe she had a premonition. I told her I didn’t do that kind of work.” A shudder wracked the woman. “Ugh, can you imagine? I mean, they do use makeup artists just like they have hairstylists in mortuaries, but that’s not for me. I prefer to work on live people.”

  “Me, too. Did Valerie ever come back here before the show?”

  “Oh, no. She was too busy out front, working the room and getting folks to donate money for the cause. I have to admit she was skilled that way. And she didn’t dare risk coming backstage with her allergies and all.”

  “I understand most people knew about her sensitivity to latex?”

  “She was quite verbal about it. I warned her to steer clear of this area myself, just in case. I’d heard she died from a reaction to the stuff. Is that true?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Would you know anything about liquid latex in particular?”

  “It’s popular in the film industry for special effects. I don’t normally keep the stuff in my kit, though. Other people use it for all sorts of enhancements.”

  “Her case has been declared a homicide. Do you know anyone who might have had a grudge against Val?”

  “Like me, you mean?” Her expression darkened. “Val and I attended the same high school. She stole my boyfriend and ended up tossing him away. I might have married the guy if we’d stayed together. Instead, I fell for the next jerk that came along. Our marriage lasted six miserable years before we got divorced. If not for Val, my life might have been better.”

  “Did you resent her enough to kill her?”

  Joyce snorted. “Certainly not. If I hated her that much, why wait until now?”

  “Good point.” Although, every murderer had a trigger, Marla thought. Something might have happened more recently to provide incentive. However, she went on as though she believed the woman. “So who else might have done it?” she asked in a sweetly innocent tone.

  Joyce’s glance flickered toward Ashley Hunt. “Can’t say, luv.”

  You can’t or you won’t? Marla didn’t press for answers. She wished the lady good luck for the evening and wandered off to pack her supplies.

  Yolanda bustled about barking orders, her jewelry glittering. A guy wearing an earpiece intercepted her.

  “You can’t change the order last minute like this.” He thrust a bunch of papers at her. “I won’t do it. We’ve the lighting set and everything.”

  “Very well, we’ll stick to the original plan. But next time, I’ll want to work with someone more flexible.” The designer lifted her chin and stalked away. “Girls, it’s eight-fifteen,” she called to the models. “Hurry and get dressed.”

  Marla glanced at her stylists. Nicole was finishing an updo on a girl with reddish-blond hair while one more model sat in front of a mirror with her hair being done in a braided design.

  Oy, it was hot. Marla wiped beads of sweat from her brow. Either the temperature had risen as the
room got more crowded, or the pounding music—along with the strong scent of hair products in a confined space—was getting to her.

  Yolanda approached, her face harried. “It’s almost time. We’re on right after the fundraising speech. I’m going to throw up.” She tapped Marla’s arm. “I’d like to introduce you on stage, so be ready behind the curtain after the grand finale.”

  Marla gulped with sudden stage fright. “Okay, thanks.” Her gaze swung from the woman’s expensive designer watch to the diamond necklace she wore around her neck and rose to inspect Yolanda’s hair. “Uh-oh, some of your hairs have come loose. Let me fix it.”

  She sat Yolanda down in a chair and fluffed her layers, curling a few ends that had flattened.

  “Thank you, darling.” Standing, Yolanda flashed her a smile. “I have to go.” She pressed on an earpiece, speaking to the stage manager from what Marla could gather.

  In the middle of the room, the models tossed off their street clothes in full view of everyone. Breasts got exposed as bras were cast aside. They all wore thongs and flesh-colored tights.

  “Line up as soon as you’re ready,” Yolanda commanded, a sheaf of notes in her hand.

  Marla spoke to each of her stylists. Two of them would leave. Nicole and Jennifer would remain backstage for touchups. She could slip inside the ballroom now and find a corner from which to view the event. Before the finale, she’d enter the backstage area.

  A model wearing a cream confection with rosettes and a gathered bodice teetered past in a pair of stacked heels. She began the line as directed. Other girls fell into place behind her.

  Marla hastened into the hallway, leaving her box of tools with Nicole for safekeeping. She glanced up and down the corridor. On the right, steps led to the immediate backstage area where a black curtain obscured the view. Music blared from the ballroom. She hesitated, enjoying the blast of cool air that refreshed her. Speaking of refreshing, she should use the rest-room before the show started. The fundraising spiel would be going on now.

  She passed guys wearing headsets rushing to and fro, carts stacked with table linens, and piles of stacked chairs. The aroma of roasted beef drifted her way from the kitchen at the far end, causing her mouth to water.