Facials Can Be Fatal

by Nancy J. Cohen

  Marla whirled, her stomach plummeting at the sight of the redhead smirking at her. What was she doing here? “Well, bless my bones, if it isn’t Carla Jean Hatfield. What’s a sales rep from Luxor doing at a society ball?”

  Carla Jean smoothed down her emerald and black beaded dress as though to emphasize her status as a guest. “The company sent me to make sure we got credit for the products you used backstage. I grabbed several copies of the program to show where we were listed.” She patted the bulging tote bag strapped on her shoulder. “You might have snagged the spotlight with your work tonight, but don’t think that puts you ahead of me for the educator position.” She must have noticed Marla’s look of astonishment. “That’s right. I’m in the running, same as you.”

  Marla recovered her composure. “We’re not in a race. The best person will get the job. It’s not our decision to make.” She shivered in the night air. The temperature had dropped considerably. Or could it be the icy tone from the other woman that sent a chill her way?

  This would be a tough call. Carla Jean was always in the top ten sales positions. So why was Marla even being considered?

  “It surprises me that you’re the competition,” Carla Jean said, as though reading her thoughts. “Luxor was impressed by your work at the trade show, and you get high recommendations. But I don’t see how they can view you as a contender when you’re involved in one scandal after another. You’d better be careful, dear. The higher-ups won’t tolerate any taints on their image, especially after the trade show disaster.”

  Marla’s blood seethed as a wild thought entered her head. Maybe the sales rep had orchestrated Val’s murder to cast her salon in a negative light. The publicity from this latest incident would generate even more sensational press. Could Carla Jean be behind the nuisance lawsuit as well? Her attempts to discredit Marla might have no bounds.

  “Oops, there’s my car,” Carla Jean said with a dismissive wave. “Nice seeing you.”

  Yeah, right. In a sour mood, Marla took a cab home. She let herself in the house quietly, checked on Brianna asleep in her room, and petted the dogs who’d roused at her arrival.

  Too wired to go to sleep, she sat at her computer in her nightshirt to check email. Her eyes widened when she saw what popped up on the screen. Jason Faulks had sent her a message? When was this? The time stamp said nine forty-five. That was before the fashion show had concluded.

  He’d attached two jpg files along with his email, which said exactly nothing. How peculiar. She opened the first picture. It showed Yolanda’s spouse, Henutt, conferring with another guy in a hotel corridor. The second shot showed two middle-aged men together. Marla thought the features of one of them looked familiar but couldn’t place him. Why did Faulks send these to her? Did he mean for her to show them to her husband, a homicide detective?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Marla mentioned the photos the next morning while she prepared Sunday brunch in the kitchen. Still fatigued from last night’s events, she’d thrown on a pair of jeans and a sweater and a smidgen of makeup. She flipped blueberry pancakes on the electric griddle while Brianna set the table. Dalton, already seated, separated the sections of the Sun Sentinel and sipped from a mug of fresh-brewed coffee. The dogs, having completed their business outside, roamed the kitchen sniffing for morsels of food.

  “I have news,” she began. She put down her spatula and grabbed her cell phone. “Jason Faulks sent me a couple of photos last night. I noticed them after I got home and checked my email. Here, I can show you.”

  Dalton squinted at the images as she displayed them. “Weird. I recognize Henutt Soe Dum but I’m not sure about these other guys. How about sending me copies so I can add them to my case file?”

  “Are you involved in Jason’s murder investigation? Doesn’t it fall under another jurisdiction?”

  “Yes, but our departments are cooperating since our cases are connected.”

  “What happened, Daddy? Why did you get home so late?” Brianna, still in her pajamas, regarded him with curiosity.

  He gave his daughter a brief summary. “I didn’t expect theft to be added to the puzzle.”

  “Do you think Jason’s murder could have been a smokescreen?” Marla asked. “Like, somebody wanted to distract people’s attention so the thief could steal Yolanda’s headpiece?”

  Dalton grimaced, his coffee cup poised midair. “They could be unrelated acts. Or maybe Jason took a shot of the thief without realizing its significance. The fact that a screwdriver was used to kill him indicates a crime of opportunity.”

  “A screwdriver? Ugh.” Brianna turned back to setting utensils on the table.

  Marla remembered various bits of equipment lying around the storage areas. “You’re thinking one of the guys in the photos stabbed Jason because of his snapshot?”

  “It’s a possibility. These photos must mean something important for Jason to have sent them to you. And that would explain his missing camera.” Dalton put his cup down with a worried frown. “Uh-oh. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “What’s wrong?” Brianna brought over a pitcher of orange juice that Marla had handed her.

  “We didn’t find a cell phone on the victim. That might have been taken along with the camera. And if the killer checks for outgoing calls, he might target you next.”

  “Oh, great.” Marla felt as though a big red bull’s eye had just been painted on her forehead. “I assume you’ll try to track his phone?”

  “Yes, but I’m more concerned about you. You’re already involved by virtue of Val’s demise happening at your salon, and now this. Whatever is going on, you need to lay low.”

  “No problem. I’ll be too busy at work and preparing for the holidays to do anything else. Just solve these cases so we can enjoy the season, will you?”

  Despite her words, when Monday rolled around Marla decided to pay a visit to Yolanda’s boutique. She didn’t get there until two o’clock, after meeting Dalton’s mother for lunch and completing some chores. The glitzy establishment on Las Olas Boulevard had drool-worthy window displays.

  Inside, gowns in every color embellished with beads, crystals, pearls, and other exquisite design elements met her awed gaze. She dared to examine one price tag. Five thousand two hundred and eighty dollars. Whoever bought this dress probably would not wish to be seen in the same garment twice.

  Hmm, maybe Marla should look for a consignment shop in the vicinity . . . not that she had an occasion to wear such frivolity. Besides, princess-type ball gowns weren’t her style. Oh, but she did like that flowing chocolate brown strapless beaded creation that molded to one’s body. Dalton would love it on her, although he’d likely be more eager to divest her of the dress.

  “May I help you?”

  The shop girl’s inquiry splashed cold water on her daydreams. Marla studied the employee, whom she recognized from the fashion show. The young assistant wore her black hair in a short, spiky style. The stark color was too harsh for her pale complexion. Her black leather mini-skirt, tank top, thigh-high boots, and silver nose stud added to her overall gothic look.

  “Hi, is Yolanda here?”

  “She’s stepped out for a moment. Is she expecting you?”

  “No, but I’ll wait for her. Or you can notify her that I’m here. Marla Vail, remember?”

  Another woman bustled forward from a back room. A middle-aged lady, she wore a tape measure around her neck and a conservative skirt ensemble.

  “Are you the Mrs. Vail? Stacey, I’ll take over now. You can help count inventory. Hello, my name is Eve Grimes. I’m the senior sales associate.”

  Marla shook the older woman’s hand, not wishing to disavow her of the notion that she was an important customer. “Um, I’m looking for a dress to wear at a holiday party.”

  “Any particular color or style? Keep in mind that we do our own alterations, so if you find something and it’s the wrong size, we can make adjustments.”

  “I’ll take a look around. I want someth
ing fairly simple.” Marla glanced at the glass display cases by the cash register. One of them held designer costume jewelry and another had beaded evening bags. Toward the back of the store were a variety of shoes. Likely they had the proper undergarments hidden away somewhere.

  “I attended the fashion show,” she said to the clerk, hoping to gain information while Yolanda was gone. “Her headpiece is amazing. Did she find it yet?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean. I was off yesterday. Yolanda brought the gowns back then and returned the borrowed jewelry this morning. We haven’t had a chance to touch base.”

  “Oh, well you should ask her about it then. Or maybe Stacey can fill you in, since she was there.” Marla pretended to examine various dresses Eve offered to her, resisting the urge to try them on. “Does Yolanda’s husband come into the store often?” she asked in a casual tone. “I met him last night.”

  “He stops by now and then. How about this red dress, dear? It would look ravishing on you with your coloring.”

  Marla couldn’t help admiring the short, beaded number. It was gorgeous, but where would she wear it? “That’s a possibility. So tell me, is Yolanda the sole owner of the store? I’m a businesswoman myself,” she admitted, even though it might disavow the saleswoman of the notion that Marla was a renowned socialite.

  Before Eve could respond, the chimes over the door tinkled. Marla glanced up at Yolanda’s breezy entrance. Too bad. She might have been able to squeeze more info from the clueless clerk. Clueless about Marla’s identity, but not about the owner, perhaps.

  “Marla, what a pleasure. I didn’t expect to see you in my shop.” Yolanda strode forward and embraced her like they were old friends.

  The designer’s genuine warmth surprised Marla. She grinned in response. “I was looking through your lovely creations. I have some parties coming up, and I couldn’t resist coming here after drooling over your gowns Saturday night.”

  Yolanda poked her. “Don’t let the prices frighten you. I’ll give you a discount.” She stashed her purse behind the counter with the cash register.

  Eve excused herself while her boss took over. She disappeared behind a curtain into the rear to join the younger woman counting inventory.

  “Did you ever recover your headpiece?” Marla asked, stating the first thing on her mind.

  Yolanda’s brow folded. “Unfortunately, no. We searched everywhere, even in the van in case someone had inadvertently packed it away.”

  Close up, Marla could see her heavy application of makeup. She wore a lime green patterned dress with matching high heels that gave her a few extra inches of height. With her slash of bright red lipstick, she reminded Marla of a brightly colored parrot.

  “I’m sorry. Is it that the stones themselves are valuable or the technology? You’d said something about the piece having military applications.”

  Yolanda sighed, wringing her hands. “I suppose someone could pry the stones loose, but individually, they are worth nothing. My creation contains several thousand of them. They’re made of magnesium aluminum and coated with my proprietary chemical ink. This causes them to change color in response to the wearer’s mood.”

  “So how is it worth more than an expensive mood ring?”

  Yolanda chuckled at her ignorance. “My dear, besides changing color, the stones can measure brain waves. Your brain is constantly generating an electrical field. My stones are highly conductive and act as a wireless transmitter of your brain patterns. It’s great for biofeedback. But think about military interrogators using such a device. Even something as small as a cell phone could be used as a receiver.”

  “So your crown is a glorified lie detector?” Marla had trouble understanding the significance of the theft.

  “That’s a simplified way of putting it.” Yolanda paced back and forth, while Marla leaned against the counter. “Biochemical inks are finding more uses today. These chemicals can change color based on the pollution in the air or the temperature of your skin. The healthcare industry is also interested in possible applications. Imagine if you could transmit your health status via your clothing.”

  Marla knew of color-changing tee-shirts but had never considered them anything other than a novelty. The thought of bad guys getting hold of a brain-wave reader was scary. They might even miniaturize the tech so people who put on a pair of eyeglasses wouldn’t know it was transmitting. Or what if they learned how to reverse the signal to influence someone’s brain pattern? Good God, you’d have mass mind control.

  “What did you intend to do with this device?” she asked Yolanda.

  “My primary goal is to sell it as a fashion accessory. It’s an exquisite design. And the mood-changing factor appeals to people. It would be my signature piece. But I might also license it for research in certain arenas.”

  “So who do you think stole it?”

  Yolanda glared at her. “Anyone who hopes to make a profit. It could easily sell on the black market. My husband is on the lookout. He’ll know if it comes up for sale.”

  Marla ignored her implication that Henutt had access to the black market. “Wouldn’t a collector of eclectic items also be interested? Maybe it’s destined for a secret stash somewhere.”

  “Henutt has a wide ring of associates. He has them sniffing in various corners. If anyone can recover my treasure, he can do it.” Her wide mouth curved with pride. “You should talk to him, Marla. He was interested to learn about your salon.”

  “Oh? Why is that?” Dalton’s admonition that the guy might be associated with the Asian mob and using his wife’s shop to launder money came to mind. She glanced around, wondering how he might benefit. Did he buy the fabrics and accessories for his wife’s store with his excess cash? Or maybe he funded the labor force overseas that made these creations?

  “Your stylists do a lot of haircuts, right?” Yolanda wagged a finger at her. “Sometimes he buys the cuttings. I don’t mean the long banded pieces like you’d snip off for Locks of Love, but hair from the floor.”

  “What for?” Marla couldn’t think of anything more gross.

  “Henutt has connections in China where they make wigs. It’s quite a profitable business. You’d be surprised at the extent of the industry there. Didn’t you know that’s where most of your hair extensions are made? Well, aside from India.”

  Marla’s heart thudded in her chest. Valerie Weston’s sister had cancer and might have needed a wig. Had Val done research into where the hair originated? Maybe she’d discovered some irregularities that led back to Henutt. It was a wild supposition as a murder motive, but as Dalton repeatedly said, people had been killed for less.

  “So are you saying that I could make money by selling cut hairs to your husband? And he, in turn, would sell them to wig makers in China?” Marla grimaced at the notion.

  “It could be a good source of income.” Yolanda swept her arm in a broad gesture. “Then you could come in here and buy any gown you liked.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I’d better get going on my errands. I really enjoyed working with you, Yolanda. I hope we can do it again sometime.”

  Her thoughts troubled, she scooted out of there, forgetting until later that she’d meant to mention Jason’s death and show Yolanda his photos, including the one with Henutt. Now she’d have to return to the shop another time. Then again, Dalton had warned her against getting involved in his case, especially when Jason’s killer might be on to her. If Henutt was involved in something shady, she could be digging her grave deeper by speaking to his wife.

  Back home after completing her errands, she let the dogs out and made herself an energizing cup of coffee in the kitchen. While waiting for it to heat up, she called Dalton.

  “I stopped by Yolanda’s shop to thank her for letting me work with her,” Marla said to explain her visit before mentioning the gist of their conversation. “Who would want to buy discarded hairs from a salon that have fallen onto a dirty floor? We usually throw the
m away. Can you imagine using it to make wigs?”

  “Maybe Yolanda’s suggestion is an excuse for Henutt to get closer to you, so he can learn what you know.”

  “I suppose that’s possible.”

  “You didn’t show her the photo of Henutt that Jason sent you, I hope?” Dalton said, disapproval in his tone.

  “I forgot about it.”

  “Good. It’s always possible Henutt stabbed Jason because of that photo. He might not have wanted to be seen with the other guy for some reason. It’s bad enough the killer knows you have those photos. You don’t want to be bandying them around town.”

  “Why not? Somebody might recognize one of those other men.”

  “Let me deal with it.”

  “Could Val have caught onto Henutt’s schemes? She might have done research into wigs for her sister’s sake and discovered something unsavory about his Chinese connection.”

  “It’s possible she might have uncovered an item of importance, although not necessarily related to Yolanda’s husband. When I went to her house to interview the staff, her employees said the place had been broken into recently. Val’s home office had been ransacked. She didn’t report the incident since nothing was stolen, but it made her nervous.”

  “Did you speak to her estate attorney to see who inherits her stuff?”

  “He’s on vacation for the holidays. But the brother-in-law, Sean, said Val had told her sister that she would be leaving a bequest to Friends of Old Florida. The remainder, plus her personal property, goes to her sister’s children now that Cathy is dead.”

  “Is Sean serving as executor?”

  “No, apparently it’s the same person who’s currently serving as her trustee. The attorney should be able to provide more information. I’ve asked his secretary to try and reach him so he can call me, but he’s overseas.”

  “Didn’t Val have any other relatives?” How sad to be so alone.

  “Nobody whom she would appoint to such a significant role.”