by Webb, Peggy
I trot toward the hot dog kiosk. As I close the distance, I notice that the owner looks at least ten years older than she did in the photograph with Carl Branson. Furthermore, her eyes are swollen and puffy, which means she has allergies or she’s been crying.
“Hello.” I give her a cheerful little wave then hurry over and lean against the serving counter. “You’ve got it smelling so good over here, I thought I’d have a hot dog before class.”
She doesn’t crack a smile. “Mustard or slaw?”
“Oh, my goodness. I like them both. What do you recommend?”
“I’d take mustard. The slaw’s soggy today.”
Holy cow! You don’t belittle your own products! Maybe I ought to offer business advice as well as a beauty make-over.
“Well, great. Mustard, it is!” I sound like a cheerleader. If Lovie were here, she’d punch me in the ribs, a reminder to dial the perkiness back a notch.
“By the way, I’m Callie Valentine Jones.”
The hot dog lady has her back to me, wrapping my hot dog, and there is no response. Not even a grunt.
Two can play this waiting game. I cross my arms and turn to look out over the lake. That’s when I see the old man on the park bench. Where did he come from? I didn’t hear another car. Just to make certain, I glance toward the parking lot, but except for my Dodge Ram and the hot dog lady’s vehicle, it’s empty.
Maybe the old man lives close by. He pulls something out of his pocket and begins tossing it to the ground. Judging by the way the ducks flock, it’s bound to be bread crumbs. Or maybe real duck food. Who knows? Apparently, he’s just a harmless old man who likes to feed the ducks.
“Calllie.” I’m startled to hear hot dog lady call my name. “Your hot dog’s ready.”
“Great!”
“Did you say your name was Valentine?”
“That’s my maiden name.”
“Not many Valentines around, I expect. Are you related to the man who owns the funeral home?”
“Yes, that’s my Uncle Charlie.” Though the last thing I want to do is eat, I take a bite of my hot dog and try to act as if I’m hanging around just waiting for baby boot camp. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Mertis….Everly.
That slight hesitation puts me on alert. I think Mertis is a woman with something to hide. I give her my best smile.
“Mertis, today is your lucky day. I’m giving everybody at baby boot camp a free hairstyle.” I whip out my business card and hand it to her.
Callie Valentine Jones
Hair.Net
Beauty Salon and Spa
Mooreville’s answer to the Riviera.
She doesn’t look impressed. If I want to find out what Mertis Everly knows, I’ve got to up the ante.
“This is a sad time for all of us, losing the clown so unexpectedly,” I say, and she listens without a single reaction. Holy cow! How can that be? According to the ice cream lady, Mertis distrusts the clown; but according to the photo Lovie and I saw, she once had very different feelings about him.
“I figure the least I can do is give everybody a nice hairstyle for the funeral,” I add “And because you’re getting the first card, I’m going to give you a free makeover, too!”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I had a cancellation this afternoon at three. I can just slide you right in.”
“You’re doing this for everybody here, you say?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been lucky enough to make my mark with Hair.Net, and I always try to give back to the community. I consider enhancing natural beauty to be a public service.” I lean back to study Mertis’ face. “I can just see how a bit of feathering around your face will bring out your beautiful blue eyes.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I never joke about beauty.”
“I haven’t had anybody call me beautiful in…oh, I don’t know how long.” Mertis takes a viscious swipe at the already clean serving counter. Beyond her kiosk, the parking lot is beginning to fill up. “You know what? I’m going to take you up on your offer.”
She swivels toward the arrivals and hones straight in on the ice cream lady, Amanda Green. Nodding in that direction, Mertis says, “You’re work is cut out with that one.”
“I’ve never seen a head of hair I can’t improve.”
Mertis guffaws, then rips into a pack of wieners with the savage intent of a serial killer.
“Well, good luck with that one.”
“Thanks.” I sashay in the direction of the ice cream stand, partially because Mertis is watching me, but mostly to find out more about their relationship.
“Hi, Amanda.” I hand her a card and go into the same spiel I made with Mertis. She claps her hands like a little girl.
“Mercy, what a blessing! I said to myself this morning, ‘Amanda,’ I said, ‘you need a root touch-up.’ But given the state of my bank account I figured I might as well wish for the moon.”
“Why don’t you come on in around 3:30 and I’ll take care of those roots for free.”
“Good. Did you tell old sourpuss over there?” She nods toward the hot dog lady.
“I did.”
“Well, I’ll just say one thing. If you can improve her looks it’ll be like turning water into wine.”
“I think Mertis Everly will be in good hands with me.”
“Everly, my fat foot!”
“That’s not her name?”
“Not unless she’s married again while I wasn’t looking. She’s Mertis Branson.”
“Branson?”
“The dead clown’s wife.”
“I thought he lived alone.”
“He did. It’s strange as all get-out. There’s just no understanding human nature.”
“You’ve got that right.” My agreement is heartfelt. Why on earth would the ice cream lady lie about Mertis’ last name? And how did she know? I certainly can’t pose that question to her without raising suspicious. “Oh, my goodness. Nature is calling.”
I trot to the outdoor toilets like my pants are on fire. The minute I get inside, I check the stalls to make sure they’re empty, and then I call Lovie.
“You’re not going to believe this.” I tell her about Mertis’ two names, and she says, “I’m all over it, Cal.”
“Good. I’ll see you in about thirty minutes. I’m going to cut baby boot camp short.”
Famous last words. As I trot toward the mats Betty Sue has spread, a blood curdling scream pierces the air.
Wouldn’t you know it? It’s Laura Lane Gillentine again, and this time the thief has taken Harley Boo’s favorite teething ring. Naturally, it’s the only one that will keep her quiet. Given the fact the screams coming from a little person who weighs less than thirty pounds have now reached ear-piercing decibels, everybody drops to the ground and begins a frantic search.
Need I say, it’s also useless?
I never even had time to pass out my cards. Which is a blessing, really. Not that I mind dispensing free hair styles to everybody here, but the whole purpose was to hook the kiosk ladies, and I’ve done that in spades.
I search the crowd for Betty Sue to tell her I have to get home. But it’s not Betty Sue that sends my instincts on high alert: it’s the hot dog lady, the so-called Mertis Everly Branson, slinking through the trees near the lake. What’s she doing away from her hot dog stand?
There’s nothing but open space between us so I drop back behind a massive oak tree to watch. Just my luck, Mertis is fast disappearing into the trees. I’m about to give up when I see the old man leave his park bench and head to those same trees. Coincidence? Or a planned meeting? I spy on them until they have both vanished, and then I seek out Betty Sue.
“I know this is a bad time,” I tell her. Any fool can see that. The chaos of women and children crawling and screaming all over the park makes me glad Jack is not here. “I have to leave early, but I’ll be happy to go ahead and pay for my part of the funeral arrangement for Car
l Branson.”
“You can pay me later. I don’t even know how much it will be.”
“Great. I’ll do that. By the way, who is that old man who comes every day and sits on the park bench?”
“I don’t know. But Mertis might. I’ve seen him at her hot dog stand.”
I tell her a quick thank you, and then hurry off to my Dodge Ram before she can wonder why I’m asking questions. Once I’m on the road, I whip out my phone to tell Lovie the latest development.
She says a word I’ve never heard then says, “This Mertis woman sounds like she knows more than she’s telling.”
“Have you found out anything about her, yet?”
“No. The computer search turned up eighteen Mertis Everly’s, none of which could be our gal.”
“What about Mertis Branson?”
“Fifteen. Again, no matches to our hot dog lady.”
“No Facebook or Twitter? No Pintrest?”
“Nothing. It’s like she’s flying way under the radar, Cal.”
“We’ve got our work cut out for us. “
“I’ll tell Aunt Ruby Nell and Fayrene to liquor up the Prohibition Punch. We’re going to need it to loosen some tongues.”
“I think it’s going to take more than that with the hot dog lady. She’s a tough nut to crack.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Cal?”
“Massage table,” we say at the same time, and I tell her to go ahead and get the massage room ready. “And Lovie, since the vendors have seen you as Dimples, I have a feeling you’d better wear that disguise.”
“What about Darlene?”
“I suspect Fayrene’s already told her what we’re up to, but just in case, go ahead and tell her.”
As far as I’m concerned, you can never have too many smart women in on a clandestine operation.
By the time I get in viewing distance of my beauty shop, I’m thinking of what all can go wrong in a dark room with only two people – and one of them the consort of a mysterious duck feeder and a murdered man.
I just hope we don’t get more than we bargained for. I make the turn to Hair.Net and glance in my rearview mirror. There is Bobby in his powder blue antique Chevy Nova, following so close I nearly make out his psychic eye. I hope he’s packing heat. I have a feeling things are going to get hairy at the beauty shop. And I’m not talking style.
Chapter 7
Female Power, Prohibition Punch, and a Can of Worms
No matter what’s going on around me, I always get a lift when I pull into the parking lot of my hair salon. Last year, I had this cute little pink sign that says Owner painted for my parking space. Even though I park behind the building and leave the front for customers, I still get a kick out of seeing that sign. Lovie’s van is parked next to my space, and Darlene’s car is already here, too.
The minute I get out of my truck, I hear gravel crunch. I peer around the corner of Hair.Net and there is Bobby’s car, pulling up as big as you please. I can’t help but giggle.
Ordinarily, I’d let myself through the back door and nab my pretty pink hair cutting apron. Today, though, I sashay around front.
“Hey, Bobby. What brings you here?” As if I don’t already know.
“I thought I’d get Lene to do my nails. You know how hard my job is on them.”
For Bobby, a man of almost no words, this amounts to a Presidential State of the Union address.
“I do. So is mine.” I pat his arm. “It’s good to have you here.”
I’ve never meant that more sincerely. Though it’s summer, Bobby is wearing a seersucker jacket. Much to my relief, I spot a bulge under his jacket that can only be an ill-concealed shoulder holster. I don’t know why this reassures me. I’ve never seen him use a gun. All I can say is that I hope his aim is better than mine.
I link my arm through his and his face turns red all over. “Bobby, I’ve got to confide in you. I’ve got two women coming in today from baby boot camp and there could be trouble from one or both of them.”
“Gosh, Callie. Who are these ladies?”
He’s a terrible actor. I have no doubt that Uncle Charlie has already briefed him, and that’s he’s prepared to charge to the rescue in his inimitable, bumbling Bobby way.
I describe Mertis and Amanda to the tee. “Just hang out with me till they’re gone. Okay?”
“Not a problem.” He runs his hands under his collar. “You know, I think Lene is a peach.”
“I know, Bobby. She likes you, too.”
“For real?”
I don’t know why he can’t see the truth. I know for a fact that they’ve already kissed.
“As real as it gets.”
I’m not telling him a lie just to make him feel good. Darlene’s already had two husbands, and Fayrene says her daughter has sworn off men. But from what I’ve seen, Darlene is liable to be the next Mooreville resident who walks down the aisle, and Bobby will be the most unlikely groom in the South.
I spot Lovie through my etched glass-front door.
“Prepare yourself, Bobby. Lovie’s in disguise.” About that time, she opens the door and strikes a pose. And trust me, all 190 pounds of Lovie posing is a sight to behold. To top it off, she’s added a wad of bubble gum to complete the effect, and she blows a series of little pink bubbles. Bobby stumbles over his own feet. “I’m sure you won’t give her away,” I tell him.
“Nope.”
“Good. Let’s get this show on the road.”
I step inside and instantly feel good. Everything is done up in pink, even Darlene’s cat, Mal, who is stretched out on the windowsill behind the manicure table. She’s painted his toenails deep rose and he’s sporting a pink bow. Fortunately, he doesn’t have a gender identity problem. Also, fortunately, this is a pet-friendly salon. Still, I’m glad Elvis is with Jack. Mal is his mortal enemy, and it’s only for the sake of beauty that he keeps his cat animosity under control here at Hair.Net.
Somebody, probably Darlene, has lit pink candles everywhere and my salon has taken on a romantic glow that makes me wish Jack would walk through the door. Instead, it’s Bobby. Still, I’m generous-hearted enough to be glad the candles won’t go to waste. When Darlene sees him, she lets out a squeal and races over to drag him back to her manicure table. I can’t tell whether she plans to buff his nails or have him for an afternoon snack.
“I knew you were coming, Bobby,” she says.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“My horoscope said this was my lucky day and yours says you’ll see somebody who is hotter than a pistol, so natch I put two and two together and came up with us!”
“Well, gosh, Lene…”
Bobby’s face is now day-glow pink, but he’s smiling from ear to ear. And no wonder. Darlene has aptly described herself. She’s taken a page out of my fashion book and is wearing red Bernardo sandals that match her red polka-dot sundress. Her long blond hair swings from a sleek ponytail.
She’s come a long way on the road to beauty since she’s been working here, and I’m proud to say that I had a big hand in it. I smile at her and Bobby.
“You two have fun over there.”
Darlene winks at me. “We’ve got it covered. And don’t you worry about a thing. I can handle those suspicious ladies with one hand tied behind my back.”
“Speak of the devil,” Lovie says, and I glance into the parking lot to see Mertis emerging from her car. Any other woman coming for a free beauty makeover from yours truly would look happy, but Mertis is her usual dour self.
“Looks like we’d better start with a large helping of punch,” I say to Lovie.
“I’ll go tell Aunt Ruby Nell and Fayrene.”
Lovie disappears toward the break room while I greet Mertis at the door.
“Welcome to Hair.Net.” When Mertis walks into the shop, I notice that Mal doesn’t even move a whisker, and I take this as a good sign. Animals have instincts that most people have civilized out of themselves. I’m glad to say I’m not in
that number. Though I could pass muster with the Queen of England, I’m still in touch with my mystical side.
“I started not to come.” Mertis is clinging to her purse like it contains the Holy Grail. “And then I thought, why not?”
“Why not, indeed!” Mama swishes in wearing a pink and purple striped caftan and bearing a large pitcher of Prohibition Punch. Behind her is Fayrene carrying a tray of pink plastic cups and wearing a cabbage green jumpsuit that needs some letting out in the seat.
“Have some refreshment, Mertis,” I tell her. “Compliments of Hair.Net.”
“I’d better not.”
“Flitter,” Mama says and fills a cup, anyway.
“Drink up!” Fayrene thrusts the cup into Mertis’ hand. “You won’t survive without it.”
“What do you mean?” Mertis casts a glare at Fayrene and Mama that shivers me all over. I swear, she looks diabolical.
“It’s hotter than my girdle out there,” Fayrene says. “And with politicians blowing hot air right and left, getting ready for that big erection, we’re all going to need something to cool us off.”
Mertis tips back her cup and empties it in one long gulp. Then she wipes her mouth and holds it out for seconds. I don’t know if she’s friends with alcohol or she’s in shock. Either way, all that libation makes it easy for me to drape her in a pink cape and lead her to my beauty station.
“I thought we’d start with a massage,” I tell Mertis. “Between that and the punch, you’ll start out your beauty experience completely relaxed.”
“I’m not about to get on a massage table.”
“Well, then we’ll go straight to my famous deep-sea, mud-pack facial,” I tell her, and Mama pipes up, “I want one, too.”
“So do I,” Fayrene says. “I’ve been practicing tiramisu with Jarvetis, and it’s stressing my skin.”
Holy cow! I don’t even want to picture that!
Mertis holds her cup out for another refill, and I punch Lovie, who is about to burst out laughing.
“Dimples,” I say to her, “can you help out with the facials?”
“Just show me the mud and pass the punch.”