“So you kept track of her movements? What did you do while she was gone?”
“What is this, an inquisition?” Jan said, anger flashing in her hazel eyes. “I told you, I had work to do.”
“A little birdie mentioned that you’re taking pills for depression. It would be easy to hate Chris after she screwed your investments. She was responsible for putting you in the hole financially, wasn’t she? Is that why you switched medicines on her? You knew she couldn’t tolerate the brand you’re taking?”
Jan shot to her feet so fast that her chair crashed back. “If I wanted to poison Chris, I wouldn’t have had to go to her hotel room. I’d have slipped the stuff in her drink at the cocktail party.”
“Exactly.” Marla smirked before noting that other conversations around them had fallen silent and everyone’s eyes were on them. “Hey, go back to work,” she yelled to her cohorts, stepping forward to right Jan’s chair.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t me who bought the bitch a drink.”
“Could anyone have gotten hold of your medication, taken one of the pills to switch it for Chris’s?”
“I’m on the newer kind without the bad food interaction. Come into the back room a minute, Marla.” Jan waited until Marla followed her into the storage room and they stood crowded amongst the tubes of coloring agents and developer bottles. “Promise me you won’t let this go farther than this room.”
Marla bit her lower lip, unwilling to withhold information that might contribute to the murder case. “I’ll be discreet,” she hedged.
“Amy Jeanne and I…we were together.” She must have noted the puzzlement on Marla’s face because her skin reddened. “We have a relationship,” she explained, nodding as though that would prompt Marla to comprehend.
Marla’s eyes widened. “Oh! I mean, I would never have guessed. The two of you are…” Her cheeks warmed. They’d hidden their sexual proclivities well.
“Amy was just as resentful against Chris as me, but neither one of us could kill anyone. We didn’t shed any tears when Chris died, but we’re not murderesses. Go ask my girlfriend. She’ll confirm what I say.”
Marla took Amy Jeanne aside, ostensibly to review her inventory of Luxor supplies. But once in the rear, she confronted the salon coordinator with Jan’s statement.
The sleek dark-skinned woman pursed her lips, expertly filled in with mahogany gloss. “Shut my mouth. Janice didn’t tell you about us!”
“Tell me the truth, Amy. Did you know Jan was taking antidepressants, and if so, why didn’t you tell Masterson?”
“It had nothing to do with his case. Jan made sure to count her tablets. Not one was missing, so she didn’t see any sense in blabbing her personal history. At any rate, her medicine isn’t the same kind as made Chris sick.” Opening a gum wrapper, she popped the stick of gum into her mouth.
“The detective did a background check on all of you. What do you think he found?”
“Nothing that makes the cops suspect us,” Amy Jeanne said, chewing. “Aren’t you forgetting about Heather?”
“What about her?”
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation down in the Keys. I didn’t mention this at the time, because it didn’t enter my mind, but Sampson went ballistic when she accidentally took one of his hairbrushes.”
“Huh?” Marla shook her head, confused by the new tangent.
Amy Jeanne’s eyes glittered. “Luxor ships in special brushes for Sampson. They’re made out of boar bristles in China. I always believed Chris catered to him just to appease his ego, because the cost must have increased the company’s expense budget quite a bit. She’d been looking for ways to reduce cash outflow, and that expense could have been on her list to pare down. Go ask Jan. She’ll know more about it.”
“You may be onto something,” Janice said to Marla when she queried her. “The containers are shipped from China and off-loaded onto trucks at Port Everglades. From there, the cargo is delivered to a local warehouse, where it’s packed into smaller cartons before being sent to our main supply depot. Chris was considering eliminating the middleman as a way to cut costs. She hoped we could increase our donation to the melanoma society if our profit margin improved.”
“That’s interesting. Sergeant Masterson told me that not all the money being donated to the cause gets into the group’s coffers. Someone is skimming at one end or possibly both. Were you aware that Heather worked for Dr. Greenberg, who was Chris’s contact at the melanoma society?” Maybe Heather, not the dermatologist, had schemed to rip off the charity. Had Heather been in cahoots with someone from Luxor? Chris could have found out and been killed for it. Then Heather’s partner might have knocked her off to avoid exposure.
Jan tilted her head. “No, I didn’t know that about Heather. I think Chris mentioned something about checking out the warehouse. She may have driven up there before the show.”
“Do you have the address?” Marla didn’t see how Sampson’s hairbrushes entered into the equation, but she remembered wanting to ask about them. Regardless, Chris’s movements were important to track. It was more likely the former company director had discovered a bookkeeping deficit, in which case Marla felt at a loss. No one present from Luxor would have been responsible for writing the contribution check. That would have come from the home office, or so she assumed. Chris might have been authorized to write a check to the society and hand it to Dr. Greenberg while she was here, but that didn’t account for the rest of the year.
Financial trails were too hard for her to follow. She’d have to leave that to Sergeant Masterson’s skills. Otherwise, she’d waste time interviewing financial officers at Luxor and at the charitable society’s headquarters. She had neither the resources nor the time to accomplish that task. However, driving to a warehouse somewhere in the area was within her grasp.
“I may have the place written down somewhere,” Jan told her, riffling through one of the folders in her possession.
Marla shot a glance at Sampson, who’d been demonstrating a feathering technique to a couple of Marla’s stylists. His animated face and gestures showed he was enjoying his teaching role. Remembering the check he’d written to Chris, she wondered if it had anything to do with the special orders. Maybe he gave Chris a kickback for ordering his hairbrushes.
“Why are the imported hairbrushes so important to Sampson?” she asked Jan. “I mean, I know boar bristles are softer and less damaging to the hair than other kinds. I prefer using them myself. But can’t you buy them in this country? Or are they mass-produced elsewhere and just sold at retail outlets here?”
“Sampson orders at bulk rates.” Jan lifted a paper from her folder. ‘This is peculiar, now that you mention it. Here’s a bill of lading. It lists Luxor Products as the buyer and gives an address in Belle Glade.”
That’s a bit north from here. May I see that paper, please? It must be the warehouse where the shipments go before they’re repackaged.” Her heart thudded when she saw the heading.
Bell Farms.
So Heather had been onto something significant.
“May I keep dais?” she asked Jan.
“Sure, although I don’t know what you hope to do with it.”
“First I’d like to ask Sampson what’s so important about the shipments and why he can’t get them wholesale in the States.”
Sampson puffed out his chest when she approached him with that question. “Boar bristles are almost identical to human hair,” he said, waving a comb in the air. ‘They come from the first cut of boars that are raised on farms. The animals are sheared like sheep. They are well cared for, and their bristles are harvested repeatedly.”
“No one breeds boars in the United States?”
“Not to my knowledge. The best come from China. I prefer a mahogany wooden oval brush with a pneumatic cushion. The bristles distribute your natural oils and gently massage the scalp. You should use one for your fine hair, Marla. For thick-hair types, I recommend brushes with suffer black boar bristl
es. They’ll manage the tangles better.”
“But why do you need so many that they have to be shipped in containers to the port?”
Overhearing their conversation, Ron sauntered over after checking his reflection in the mirror. “Luxor sells them,” he said. “Don’t you have any on your shelves? I would’ve thought Georgia added them to your inventory.” His gray eyes regarded her with an odd light. He must be wondering why she was making such a big deal out of Sampson’s pet project.
“Maybe she did. I’ll have to check. It just seems like such a large order coming from overseas. An expensive order.”
“An artist must have his brushes,” Sampson told her in a haughty tone.
Ron grasped her elbow and drew her aside. “Let it go. The maestro doesn’t like to be crossed. What’s a few hairbrushes compared to the talent he contributes to our company?”
“It’s a lot of money, that’s what. If Chris was looking to cut costs, she may have decided to eliminate this expense. Or at least to have the brushes shipped directly to company headquarters instead of going through a middleman.”
Ron grinned, but he looked menacing rather than friendly. “Come now, I’m sure you value your role on the team. This isn’t an issue that needs your attention. Leave it to the higher-ups, and focus on technique. Would you like me to shape your hair? It’s getting a bit long, and I can show you how texturizing shears will add dimension.”
“Perhaps some other time, thanks.” She did need a haircut, but she realized his offer was meant to distract her. Just wait until tomorrow, she thought She’d scheduled only one client for an early perm, and afterward it might be a perfect day to invite her guests along for a ride. They might even stop for lunch at the Clewiston Inn on their way to Belle Glade.
Marla kept up a running commentary while driving north on Route 27 the next morning. Georgia sat beside her in the passenger seat. Justine and Larry occupied the rear. She had already pointed out the grassy plains of the Everglades to their left, but now they were entering sugar country.
“This is where the big sugar corporations grow their crops. See those fields? That’s sugarcane.” She indicated the tall stalks that grew next to a fallow field. “There’s always talk about pollution runoff, but it seems to get buried.”
“Florida is so flat,” Justine remarked in a tone as flat as the landscape. She’d dressed in a white and emerald skirt ensemble more suitable for a tea party then their present outing. The large beads on her neck clicked with each movement.
“I love the sky,” Marla said. “We don’t have any haze like up North.” Nor could northeasterners enjoy the three-hundred-sixty-degree view of penetrating blue with fluffy white clouds like South Floridians. She enjoyed gazing at the vast expanse stretching as far as her eyes could see. Earthbound, they were walled in by sugarcane. Bordering the fields to the east was Lake Okeechobee, but she couldn’t see any water because of the surrounding grassy mound known as Herbert Hoover Dike.
“Is this the big city where we’re eating lunch?” Justine said, her pitch rising.
Clearly the approach into Clewiston understated its importance as the unofficial capital of the Florida sugar industry. Marla could understand why. While the town claimed the highest per capita income in the area, if you blinked, you’d pass right through it.
She turned into the drive for the hotel, an attractive colonial-style inn with a two-story white exterior. After letting her company off at the pillared portico entrance, she pulled into a parking space.
“The U.S. Sugar Corporation originally built the hotel for their visiting executives. The concrete walls are reinforced with steel rods to withstand hurricanes,” she informed to Georgia as they walked inside.
Her friend nodded at the comfortable wood furnishings. “It’s charming, Marla, but I’m eager to get on to the turf farm.” Georgia’s glance met hers frankly. ‘That’s where we’ll get answers about Heather’s death, and taking us to lunch here is merely a delaying tactic because you’re afraid of what we might find.”
“That’s not true. Justine and Larry could care less about sod growers. This is a part of Florida they’ve never seen.” She led them into the dining room for a leisurely southern lunch.
An hour and a half later, they resumed their course north. The trip into Belle Glade lacked any of the charm of Clewiston. Dominated by trailer parks and fishing camps, it reeked of rural backwater Florida. Marla found the road to the sod farm and drove down the pitted dirt lane, jostling her passengers.
“Well, I never,” Justine exclaimed. “Where on earth are you taking us? I thought we were going for a scenic drive, but this place is pretty decrepit.”
Marla explained the purpose of their excursion. “When I called Detective Masterson, he said that Bell Farms is owned by Sampson York’s family. He’d made a cursory visit but hadn’t found anything significant. I’m hoping we’ll have better luck.”
Georgia’s curls bounced when she looked at Marla. “Isn’t this the same address as the warehouse where Sampson’s hairbrushes get shipped?”
Marla gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Yep, and Chris wanted to cut out the middleman to save money, remember? If Sampson is running some kind of operation here, he’d want to stop her. Maybe that check I found was a bribe that she refused, so he had to kill her.”
Larry snorted in the rear. Unlike Justine, who had a look of displeasure on her face, he seemed amused by their discussion. “What operation? Shipments of hairbrushes?” he scoffed. “So the fancy boar-bristle thingies go directly to company headquarters instead. York would still get his custom-ordered supplies.”
“But he loses a lucrative contract if his family farm serves as the intermediate shipping warehouse,” Marla explained. “Where do the trucks off-load? I only see a greenhouse structure, and a brick building in the distance.”
Arriving at a parking lot, she squealed the brakes to a halt in a cloud of dust and switched off the ignition. A couple of other vehicles were present: a black car coated with grime and a pickup truck riddled with dents. A burly fellow in a plaid shirt and jeans sauntered from the greenhouse in their direction. Tattoos decorated his biceps, and he wore a baseball cap on backwards.
“Yo, lady, this place ain’t open to the public,” he called after her group emerged from the Camry.
“I know, but I need some information.” Vaguely aware of the others gathering beside her, she plowed on. “I work for Luxor, a hair-care company. We’ve reason to believe that our artistic director, Sampson York, is sending hairbrush shipments to this location for processing.”
“Are you crazy? We grow grass here. Look at those fields.”
“But the shipping manifest gave this address.”
His weathered face crinkled. “You must have your facts mixed up, lady. Sampson comes from a family of turf growers. See that house, yonder? It’s his old homestead.”
Georgia tapped Marla on the arm. “I thought Sampson said his dad was a dentist. His teeth are so perfect, he could be in a toothpaste commercial.”
“Maybe his teeth are as false as his awards,” Marla muttered, getting an inkling of what Chris may have had on Sampson. But how to prove it? “May we have a tour while we’re here?” she asked sweetly. ‘These are my, uh, cousins who are visiting from up North, and I wanted to show them our Florida agriculture.”
“Dalton likes plants,” Justine remarked, gesturing toward the greenhouse. “Too bad he had to work today, or he’d have been here. Maybe we can bring him a gift.” She shaded her face with her hand to regard her companions. “Well, are you coming?” Lifting her chin, she strode ahead without waiting for the others.
“Ma’am, you can’t go in there,” the man said.
“Perhaps we should see the manager,” Larry suggested, brushing past Marla as he hurried to keep pace with his wife.
“I am the manager. Parnell Gunther, that’s me. And I say this place is off-limits to visitors.”
“Just what is the purpose of the green
house on a sod farm?” Marla asked, tugging Georgia’s elbow on her way along the trail. A rich earthen scent entered her nostrils as the sun warmed her back. Grateful she’d worn slacks, she ducked inside the glass enclosure and immediately felt the humidity.
A thunderous scowl on his face, Gunther charged after them. “We experiment with different types of seeds—you know, for hybrids.”
“Really?” Marla scanned the flatbeds sprouting with thin green blades. “Wouldn’t that best be done at a horticultural station? I don’t see any laboratory equipment.”
“Unnecessary,” Gunther grunted. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Look, y’all, you gotta leave.”
“What’s growing in these pots?” Marla stroked a smooth ceramic planter. A spindly stalk rose from soil inside that crumbled in her fingers. “This is pretty dry.”
“Keep away from that pot. It’s a delicate seedling.”
Oh yeah? I’ve never seen grass that looked like aloe.
Marla yearned for a closer look. Georgia had meandered toward a draped table holding a coiled water hose patched with a piece of duct tape. Desperate to search the environs, she glanced at Justine. The older woman caught her gaze and gave her a half smile that nearly knocked Marla’s socks off.
“How many varieties of grass do you grow here?” Justine demanded of the manager, plopping her prim self in his direct path. She wore her most formidable expression, her lips pinched and her eyes narrowed. “Do you have samples you can show us?”
“If I tell you, will you go? I need to get back to work, lady.”
“Indeed.” Justine inclined her head in acknowledgment.
“Over here.” He gestured at a display of sod laid out on plastic sheeting. “This one is our most popular variety, called Floratam, but you may know it as St. Augustine grass. It’s a dense sod that spreads by sending out runners. As with all St. Augustines, it requires regular watering, so you’ll want to have a sprinkler system. Floratam also needs at least five hours of sunlight per day.”
“You don’t say,” Justine said in her best pedigreed voice. “What if I need to put sod in a shady spot?”
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