by Kyra Davis
He hesitated a little too long before replying. “Have you been stressed lately?”
“No! Not unless I grew this within the last twenty-four hours! With the major exception of yesterday, everything has been smooth as silk. I have no deadlines. Excluding last night, Anatoly and I haven’t had an argument about anything in like, a year. Everyone I care about is doing well. Financially I’m totally fine. My family has been acting suspiciously sane. Mr. Katz is thriving. I have absolutely zero to be stressed about.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
I turned my head so I could figure out what the hell he was talking about but he firmly turned it back toward the mirror. “Artist at work. Stay still.” He started working through a particularly stubborn tangle with the business end of a comb. “The good news is that with me on your team you never have to go…slate. You’ll only get blonder with age.”
I started to nod in appreciation then remembered myself and went into mannequin-challenge mode, only allowing my eyes to wander around the room. I noticed for the first time that, with the exception of the Eurasian receptionist, Marcus and I were the only people of color in the salon. Thanks to Silicon Valley and sky rocketing rents the whole city was becoming blonder with age. We used to be vanilla, chocolate chip ice cream with caramel swirls. Now the chips and swirls were becoming a little more sparse. If we kept it up, we might morph into plain ol’ vanilla.
Until yesterday, your life had become a bit vanilla too.
I blanched and cast my eyes down. I didn’t know where that little voice had come from but it was wrong. As wrong as the silver hairs on my head.
“All right,” he sighed once the knots were gone and my hair was divided up into several different sections. “Stay here while I go mix some color. When I get back you can tell me about the last twenty-four hours that were…less than smooth?”
“They weren’t even in the vicinity of smooth.”
“Oh goody. I’m crossing my fingers for scandalous. Be right back, love.”
He turned and disappeared into a back room where all the chemicals were kept. I lifted my eyes again to see my reflection in the mirror. I looked ridiculous, a black, nylon styling cape drawn tightly around my neck, covering my clothes, my hair divided into a multitude of sections with Marcus’ clips and sticking out every which way. The salon’s receptionist stopped by to ask me if I wanted coffee, or maybe a glass of champagne. I had been coming to this place long enough to know the champagne was cheap and the coffee was not, so I opted for the caffeine. As she walked away I thought I noted, through the picture windows, a man in a black baseball hat standing outside across the street from the salon, staring at me. But when I turned my head to look he was walking swiftly away. I was imagining things. At least I hoped I was. It would be super embarrassing if I scared off a stalker by looking like a crazed, greying circus clown.
But there was something about the way he walked as he disappeared out of my line of sight…why did he seem familiar to me?
“So tell me about yesterday.”
The sound of Marcus’ voice startled me. I hadn’t heard him approach. “Yesterday was not a good day,” I insisted as he began to paint each hair section with a thick goo of white, then sandwich it between tinfoil.
“Uh-huh. Tell me about it anyway.”
I sighed and laid out the whole story. London, his manic warnings and fears, his collapse, his apartment, the text, the Zipcar, the business cards, Anita, Catherine, Ms. Dogz…although I left out the part about Ms. Dogz’s given name.
“London,” he said, thoughtfully. “I like that. We would all sound so much more sophisticated if we were named after two syllable cities. Paris, London, Florence, Milan—”
“New York?”
“Okay, maybe it’s a European phenomenon.” He painted another section of hair. “So you don’t actually know if London’s married to that woman?”
“I’m pretty sure he was. I mean, he had a wedding ring so he was married to someone. I tried looking her up online before I came in today, same with London but, you know, they don’t exactly have uncommon names, or at least not uncommon enough. I couldn’t find her daughter either although I did discover that there is a Catherine St. in London, so you know, there’s that.”
“But it was Catherine who called to give you the news, right?” he asked tapping his foot along with the Bruno Mars song that had just come on. “You have her number.”
“When I call, it rings once and then goes directly to Voicemail. I tried last night and again on my way over here. I texted her too but haven’t heard back.”
“She’s probably blocked you,” he said matter-of-factly.
“You think?”
“When you block someone on your iPhone it rings once and then goes to voicemail.” He painted another section of hair. “Only thing is, the person who’s done the blocking never gets the voicemails, or the texts of the caller. Remember that guy I went out with, the one who lasered off his pubic hair so he could put lily and daisy tattoos on his pelvic area?”
“Flower boy!” I cried out, entertained by the memory. “You dropped him right after he gave you a glimpse of his…er…pruned garden, right?”
“Yep. And when he wouldn’t stop calling, I blocked him. The bartender who introduced us told me he’s been getting the one ring ever since.”
“Huh. Well, I hope she is getting the messages because in them I pointed out once again that I only met her dad yesterday. In other words, I’m not, not, not his girlfriend.” I paused for a moment before adding, “If she wasn’t his daughter I’d be embarrassed that she didn’t think I could do better.”
“The state of your hair probably threw her off.”
“Marcus.”
“Okay, okay.” He ran his gloved fingers over another section of hair. “So once again, the fates have aligned and a real life murder mystery has been dropped into your lap. What are you going to do?”
I chewed on my lower lip and rubbed the nylon fabric of my black cape between my fingers. “Nothing,” I eventually answered.
Marcus shifted his weight back on his heels and met my eyes in the mirror. “Say what?”
“I’m not going to do anything,” I explained. “Initially I was tempted. To you know, poke around, see if I could turn up anything suspicious. But then Anatoly weighed in. He definitely thinks pursuing this whole supposed mystery is ill advised and I have to admit he has a point.” I paused as the patron next to me squealed with delight as she tossed her newly purple and blue hair. “Dena and Mary Ann think I should leave it alone too. Hell, even London’s dog seems skeptical of my foul-play theories. And you know what? I’m finally grown up enough to listen to other people’s opinions.” I sighed and shook my head. “Plus London’s daughter clearly doesn’t want me anywhere near this thing. I really think I need to respect the daughter’s wishes, don’t you?”
Marcus went silent, allowing the chitchat and the music of the room to fill the space between us as he studied my reflection. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “Marcus?”
“No.”
“No?” I repeated.
“Hell no! That child’s mother might be a murderer! She may actually need your help, whether she wants it or not.”
“But Occam’s razor says Aaron London killed Aaron London,” I protested. “I don’t have any compelling reason to believe it was a homicide. Just a text and a hunch.” I glanced up at Janis Joplin who was sticking her tongue out at me from a 26x38 inch Rolling Stones cover.
“Something hasn’t been quite right with you lately.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Someone put Merry Christmas by the Ramones on in the background. It was one of the few holiday songs I could handle this early in the season.
“Yes, you do.” He put his brush down with a sigh and checked the clock. “For one thing, the Sophie I know would never go days without hair products.”
“Oh, come on.”
“When is the last time you got any writing done?�
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“Hello non sequitur,” I forced a laugh. My gaze slid from the poster to my feet.
“When Sophie?”
I shrugged noncommittally and ventured a glance at Marcus’ reflection. He looked firm but also concerned. Mostly he looked like he wasn’t going to take a shrug for an answer. “Ok, fine,” I said, throwing up my hands. “I haven’t written a word since I turned in my last manuscript almost two years ago. But it’s not my fault! All those years of writing Alicia Bright and now that’s done and…and it’s hard just coming up with something new.”
“Oh, you think that’s it?” he asked, flatly.
“I want it to come to me organically,” I explained, self-consciously, “like it did when I came up with my Alicia Bright series.”
“You came up with the Alicia Bright series while you were going through a chaotic divorce from an infuriating man,” Marcus pointed out. “That’s what motivates you.”
“Divorce?”
“Craziness!” He put his hands on his hips. “Drama! Big giant messes! I have news for you, girlfriend, you are not wired like the rest of us. Throw you into a stormy sea and you’ll swim like an Olympian. Drop you in a glassy lake and you’ll sink like a Jimmy Hoffa.”
“I am not sinking!”
“Really? Tell that to your follicles!” he retorted.
A large truck passed the salon making the ground rumble beneath me as I angrily gripped the armrests of my chair. “Just a few minutes ago I was telling you how great things were going for me!”
“You told me how smooth things were. Totally different. And I bet things don’t feel quite the same between you and Anatoly these days either!”
“Don’t be ridiculous! We’re absolutely in love.”
“Oh, go put it in a Hallmark card. Like I said, you’ve been off lately. But when you came in today, you seemed a little better, and that’s because of the craziness of yesterday.”
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Uh-huh. You once told me you and Anatoly could survive anything except decaf and boredom and you are bored out of your frizzy haired skull.”
I glanced around the bustling room. No one was looking at us now which was odd because I felt like Marcus had just busted open my whole psyche and laid it out on the floor. I shook my head, causing the many bits of tinfoil in my hair to brush against each other. “I guess I’ve been feeling kind of…empty lately.” The words burned my throat, scorching me with humiliation. “I am happy a lot, but, I don’t know, I’m missing…I guess I’m missing my spark. And things have just been weird. Every once in a while I’ll think someone’s watching me, and then I look and no one’s there and rather than be relieved I’m like, disappointed because if someone was spying on me at least that would be interesting. Which is crazy. I’m crazy.”
“All the most interesting people are,” Marcus countered.
“Yeah, but that’s not…I mean, oh, I don’t know, Marcus…I guess I’m embarrassed.” I hung my head, letting the tinfoil crinkle. “I’m embarrassed that I’m struggling to fully be the person everybody knows me to be. I can’t write, Marcus. What do I do?”
“Two things,” he said, solemnly.
I looked up at him, ready to take his words as soul-saving commandments. Whatever advice came out of his mouth would be my new gospel.
“Are you ready for this?”
“I’m ready,” I replied, meekly.
“All right. Number one,” he held up one finger, dramatically, “deep condition.”
“Oh for God’s sake.” I had never punched Marcus before but I was tempted.
“Two,” Marcus continued, “solve a real life murder mystery…again.”
“I don’t get it. You’ve always counseled me to behave…well, reasonably. And now you want me to slip on my gumshoes in order to investigate the marginally suspicious death of a total stranger.”
“Because that is reasonable for you.” He gently swiveled my chair around so I was facing him directly. “It’s not that you’re a drama queen--”
“Gee, thanks.”
“It’s that you’re a drama goddess. You have a sacred duty to follow drama wherever you see it, and you see it now. Nobody dies of pneumonia these days.”
“Actually, pneumonia kills over fifty-thousand people per—”
“Don’t bore me with statistics,” Marcus said, theatrically. “Follow the breadcrumbs, jump in and ride the breaker. Make sense of it. It’s what you do, Sophie.”
“This is insane,” I said with a laugh.
“Exactly!” Marcus replied. “Trust me, Sophie, if you let a little crazy seep back into your life and a little moisture seep back into your head your life will be the glorious mess you need it to be. And your hair,” he added with a sniff, “will just be glorious.”
“People used to call me stubborn and anal-retentive. Now that I have a few million in the bank, they call me determined and detail oriented. Too often the things we’re told are flaws are the very things that we need for our success.”
--Dying To Laugh
Hours later I sat in my car with beautiful hair and a troubled mind. I was still in my parking spot, five city blocks from Marcus’ salon, which, in San Francisco, is considered a convenient spot (any parking spot in San Francisco that is close enough to your destination not to require hiking boots is worth celebrating). To my left and right were Victorians and Edwardians all converted into apartments and condos and in my hand was a business card. The Nolan-Volz business card that I had been carrying around with me since I found it in London’s apartment last night.
In my head, I could hear Anatoly telling me to toss it. I could see Dena rolling her eyes at the very idea that there was something significant about this thing.
And I could hear Marcus’ voice, Drop you in a glassy lake and you’ll sink like a Jimmy Hoffa.
Images of Anita sitting in the hospital waiting room, anger and fear in her eyes as she ordered me to leave. Sounds of her daughter’s voice as she coolly told me her father had died, told me her mother never wanted to speak to me.
Follow the breadcrumbs, jump in and ride the breaker. Make sense of it. It’s what you do, Sophie.
I pulled my phone out of my bag and dialed the number on the card.
“Nolan-Volz, Gundrun Volz office, may I help you?” a woman asked. She had the kind of voice that sounded sexy, bored and vexed all at the same time. I could imagine her doing phone sex for men who got off on being demeaned by hot chicks.
“Yes, um…I was hoping to reach Gundrun Volz.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, which was nice. She could have easily come back at me with no shit. “And this is pertaining to?” she pressed.
“Aaron London?” I asked uncertainly, clueless as to how to proceed. “I’m not sure--”
“He doesn’t work here anymore,” the voice interrupted.
I hesitated a moment. “Come again?”
“Aaron London left the company almost six months ago. He is no longer associated with Nolan-Volz.”
I continued to hold the phone to my ear. I was pinching the business card so hard my fingertips had gone white. “I…okay,” I tried again, but words were failing me now. What the hell could Aaron London have done for Nolan-Volz? “Could you tell me who holds his position now?”
“The position of Sr. V.P. of R and D? That would be--”
I hung up.
“Oh my God.” My heart was thrumming against my chest with so much force you’d think it was being operated by a hardcore techno DJ. This whole thing was getting weirder and weirder and a lot more suspicious. Even Anatoly would have to see that now.
Speaking of which…
Smiling I called him up, eager to hear his voice as he realized that there really was something odd about London’s death. And maybe I was just a little excited to hear him say, wow, you were right!
“Hey,” he said. His Russian accent was a little more pronounced this afternoon, something that happened
when he was irritated, turned on or not properly caffeinated.
“Hey you. Have you managed to track down Anita London yet?” I asked. “About the dog?”
“Not yet, I’ve been swamped. But I’m about to start working on it.”
“Uh-huh.” A large moth landed on my windshield, resting its little insect legs against the glass. “I just found out Aaron London was a V.P. for Nolan-Volz.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“Anatoly?” I asked. “Are you still there?”
“Are you sure?” he finally asked.
“I just called the company. I’m sure.”
“Why did you call the company?”
“That’s what you’re focused on?” The moth took off to eavesdrop on somebody else. “He was a Sr. V.P. of R and D. He left a little less than six months ago. I don’t know if he was fired or if he quit but when he was going off on that company, I mean, that wasn’t random. He wasn’t talking out of his ass. He actually knew how they operate.”
Again, there was silence on the other end of the line. He was probably in shock. “So?” I pressed when I couldn’t take it any longer. “What do you think?”
I could picture him sitting in his office chair, slowly getting to his feet as he took in the implications of this news. I leaned forward, almost pressing against the steering wheel, waiting for one of his Russian curses followed by an admission that something was rotten in the state of Denmark. “I think,” he finally said, drawing out the words, “that London was a disgruntled employee who had a breakdown.”
So that was not the reaction I was hoping for. “But…don’t you think it’s possible he was a whistleblower?” I asked.
“If he was a whistleblower he would have gone to the press or a government official. He wouldn’t have come to us. The man who walked into my office yesterday may have been sane six months ago, or at least sane enough to hold down a corporate job, but clearly something happened to him.”
“You mean like, he was poisoned?” I didn’t like the zeal that was in my voice. A woman and her three toy poodles walked past, all four of them dressed in holiday sweaters for the seventy-one degree heat. I hoped to God I didn’t sound as silly as they looked.