False Nails and Tall Tales (The Teasen and Pleasen Hair Salon Cozy Mystery Series Book 5)
Page 1
False Nails & Tall Tales
by
Constance Barker
Copyright 2017 Constance Barker
All rights reserved.
Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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CHAPTER ONE
"Your tire's going flat."
I turned my head to see if Danilo Ratkovich was laughing at me. He wasn't. He was watching me as I stood beside my car, staring at the tire, watching the air rush out of it. The sound of it going flat made a dispiriting hiss. ″think so?″
Obviously the sarcasm was lost on him. "Yep. Seems like you must've run over something. Big damn nail or something got it. Nailed it, you might say."
"I suppose I did Danilo," I said. "Not on purpose, though."
He smiled. "Prob'ly not, Miz Jeffries. That wouldn't be smart."
I started to say something smart all right, but I bit back my clever retort. Letting my frustration boil over into anger wouldn’t be helpful or even satisfying. Danilo Ratkovich wouldn’t get it. He was one of the dimmer bulbs in a family in which not even the smartest of them was in danger of being called a genius. And I knew they weren't mean. Danilo was simply trying to be helpful, or at least make conversation. I hit my release valve, letting it out in a long sigh that sounded oddly like a the dispiriting hiss of a tire leaking air.
"I was running late." I said it to explain. It wasn't that far from my house to Mrs. Lacey's school where I'd dropped off Sarah Jameson for her classes and in a little town like this you feel the need to explain anything out of the ordinary, like not walking a short distance. I felt defensive about driving it at all and, for some reason, embarrassed for running over a big damn nail in the process. I shrugged. "I have to get to the salon. I'll need to get ahold of Hugo and have him fix it for me."
"You can call him," Danilo said.
"I could. When I get to the salon, I will."
Danilo smiled. "I can call him for you," and he took out a cell phone.
"Those never work in Knockemstiff," I said. We'd never had decent cell phone service in this town.
"They do now. They finished up the new cell tower over by Delhi about two weeks ago and we've got great coverage now."
As he dialed Hugo, the garage owner, I shook my head. My hair salon, Teasen and Pleasen, was the gossip center for this town and I'd never even heard a rumble about a new cell tower. Not that it mattered, but I was curious if that was because no one in my circle cared that much about whether or not cell phones worked in town or if none of them knew about it. Either way, it felt weird to know that the youngest son of a family of moonshiners who lived in the swamp and almost never came to town knew about it before I did.
Although maybe that made sense. The moonshining community had its own alert system and new communications might be right up their alley. The fact that the Ratkovich's made a really fine, spiced single malt whiskey wasn't enough for the authorities to leave them alone, and they resented licensing and all other forms of government intrusion enough to prefer working from unknown locations in the swamp to applying for permits.
Actually, even if they had no reason to hide they probably would have preferred living and working in the swamp anyway. They always seemed ill at ease in the big city of Knockemstiff with its 850 souls, more or less.
"He's on his way," Danilo said, poking his phone in his pants pocket. "Said to leave the keys in it, Hugo did. He'll leave the car by your place when he gets it fixed."
"Great. And thank you." I always left my keys in the car anyway. Knockemstiff was that kind of town.
"No problem, Miz Jeffries. You should get yerself a cell phone. Never know when you'll have another emergency like this."
"I'll think about it." I liked that Danilo considered my flat tire an emergency. That was rural Louisiana for you—one of its lovely qualities.
And now we had cell service—that was something else to think about. Here it was the twenty-first century and twentieth-century technology was already coming to Knockemstiff. I could see that it was convenient. The question was if overall it would be good or bad. Small towns are fragile and don't adapt well to some changes. This could have unforeseen ramifications.
At least the issue of my flat tire was going to be dealt with, not that I really would have been in a bad way if it took a few days to get it fixed. It was safe enough sitting in front of the school and I had no plans to deviate from my normal paths and that meant the Marshé Grosri food mart and BaconUp or the Knockemback Tavern were the outer limit of my travels. As a result, my five-year-old car had the mileage of a one-year-old car. The occasional trip to Baton Rouge, or New Orleans was rare.
As I thought about it, the pace of my life was so slow that even running late, like I told Danilo I was doing, hardly had any consequences. If I was late opening up the salon, Nellie Phlint would be there, had a key, and had opened up many times before. She'd get things set up, start the coffee and open the register. Not much later Pete Dawson would come in, always right on time, to prepare for his first customers. He was meticulous. If my first customer arrived before I did, they'd drink the free coffee and talk about people or events around town, although, apparently, not the new cell tower and newly arrived coverage.
The life I'd set up was orderly, predictable, and secure. It was also, I was beginning to feel, missing something.
Well, not something so much as someone. Small towns don't yield a lot of possibilities for romantic relationships, and I hadn't been in one since my divorce. I hadn't wanted one. I'd been a content single small businessperson. Then my life had been unexpectedly enriched when I acquired Sarah Jameson, a precocious and charming seven-year-old. Then circumstances introduced me to Investigator, never Inspector, James Woodley. We'd hit it off, and that started the process of juggling a long-distance relationship that was evolving. And it was that relationship, the juggling of it, and change in general that had these new thoughts and perspectives on my life swirling about.
I could enjoy spending time in New Orleans, where James was based, but I loved Knockemstiff, with all its quirks and quirky people. But I was fond of James Woodley. At times, more than fond, and his company was always a bright light. Getting involved with him complicated my life because for our relationship to move to another level would mean making choices. His job was entrenched in New Orleans and my life here. But here was changing. Knockemstiff was struggling to stay alive and needed things like cell phone service to do that. It needed things I'd come here to get away from.
And the choices weren't just about me either. They involved Sarah. I was her guardian and her friend. She would have a say in how things went and I had not a clue how she might feel about a change that expanded the family. I knew she liked James, but him visiting and coming over for Christmas dinner was a far cry from moving in with him.
I was a messy mass of questions without answers. That was largely my fault because I'd let things drift, just evolve without making any decisions at all.
Now I had a flat tire and the walk from Mrs. Lacey's school where I couldn't hide from them. Even the school was an issue. Next year Sarah would have to go to another school, and that would mean driving her to a nearby town
or letting her ride the bus, assuming the county budget didn't eliminate the bus service. So even not making a decision, as such, about James, I'd still have to confront inevitable change. I like to think of myself as flexible and smart, but here I was getting grumpy because of change.
I opened the back door of the car and let Finnegan, my inherited blue tick hound out, much to his obvious delight. "You get your way, boy," I told him. "We have to walk to work."
Dogs don't understand speech, except for commands. They are animals and incapable of grasping vocabulary, syntax, and logic. So Finn snorted and headed off for the salon, making sure that he checked the current smells of his favorite bushes and poles as we went.
Since my divorce, when I'd moved back to Knockemstiff from Baton Rouge, I seemed to have structured my life around stability. Not deliberately. I'd been looking for tranquility. But what I'd done is create a world where my day would go on fine even if I lagged behind. That was enough to tell me that it was stable, more stable than I'd ever wanted.
I often enjoy thinking about things while I walk a familiar route, and Knockemstiff offers me few unfamiliar ones if any, but these thoughts were unsettling. I didn't like the me I saw pictured, and I resented the choices I was going to have to make.
I was glad, relieved when the front door of Teasen and Pleasen came into view.
# # #
I walked into the welcoming comfort of my Salon where everything was already humming along smoothly. Finn ran straight to his bed, which sits under the counter, with only a minor detour to ensure that his water bowl was full and that there was no food on his plate before curling up for a long morning rest.
Pete and Nellie said good mornings as I went in the back to exchange my purse for my coffee mug. I took a deep breath, getting ready to start my day and headed for the coffee urn to fill it.
"When is Betina coming back, Savannah?"
The question startled me out of my reverie. Even rattled, I had to admit that it was a good one even though it was too early in my confused and chaotic morning to be addressing another serious question. But this one I couldn't stall—it was as important to this community as my own ruminations about my life and change were to me.
This one came from Sanders, aka The Bald Eagle. He was sitting in Nellie Phlint's chair getting his head washed when he asked that question and I could understand that being in her chair would get his mind thinking along those lines. He's been bald forever and ever since I opened the salon he's been coming in to get his head washed. Ever since she started as an apprentice, Betina had been the one to take care of him. Now that she wasn't here, now that her future with us was uncertain, the man wanted to know if he was going to adapt to a change. I had to respect that.
Still, he'd blurted the question out without preamble and it made the room suddenly get a little still, making me realize that we'd all been wondering that. It had been hanging over our heads, demanding an answer I didn't have. It had been hanging there ever since we came back from the trip to New Orleans. I'd taken the crew to a hair styling conference. It was for fun and to learn a few things. A modeling agency spotted Betina and offered her a chance to work with them. They were the top agency in Atlanta and there was nothing for us to do but encourage her to give it a try. So she'd left us to see if the opportunity was right for her. We were all anxious to find that out too. We all wanted her to succeed, but deep down I think everyone was afraid she'd be a star and we'd lose her permanently. Funny how a selfish interest like that makes a friend doing well so bittersweet.
In that way, it wasn't so different from me being attracted to James Woodley and that coming with a bunch of decisions I was having trouble making.
I took a deep breath. "I don’t really know. I think everyone here has been asking that question, Sanders. We are all thinking about her."
"And?"
"How can we know when she'll be back? I don't imagine she knows herself yet. It's been just a few weeks and she wanted to give it a fair try. I’d think she’ll have to take it a day at a time if she's going to see if she likes the life. You can't rush a decision like that."
"We don't even know if she will come back," Nellie said. "The agency was pretty enthusiastic about her potential. And this is her first time living in a big city. We all know she is outgoing and has felt a little constrained in Knockemstiff. It could turn out that she loves modeling; even if she doesn’t like the work, she could love being in Atlanta and decide to stay there. There are lots of salons there and the pay would be better."
Every word Nellie said was true. Hearing her say it out loud stung a bit, even though Nellie hadn't meant it that way. My dear friend can be blunt and sometimes doesn't realize other people would rather not confront things as head on as she does.
"Has she said anything at all?" Sanders was sounding slightly worried. We all knew the old man had a grand relationship with Betina and he obviously missed her.
Pete cleared his throat. I looked over at him and nodded. "Pete is the one who would know. He talks to her often. Do you mind telling us what you know about how she's doing, Pete?"
He was washing the hair of a wraith-like woman named Trinity—a fragile, almost porcelain girl. She’d lived in town since she was little. I didn't know her well. I didn't think anyone did. A few times a year she came in to have her hair done, always wanting a long shampoo and head massage before getting it trimmed in a rather square cut that didn't flatter her much at all.
She didn’t ever talk much, especially about herself, but she had mentioned once that she worked online. I had no idea what she did, or even much more about her than that she lived alone. The only times I ever saw her outside of the salon were when I ran into her at the store, collecting things with a nervousness that made it seem like if you spoke to her, she'd drop her things and run away. A fawn, that’s what she reminded me of.
I looked over at her. Sitting with the chair tilted back, her eyes closed and Pete's hands working their magic on her head, she came the closest to relaxed that I'd ever seen her.
Now Pete let out a breath. He sort of volunteered to update us, but I knew that he wanted to be careful what he said about Betina. He didn’t want us to read too much into anything he said. But I was as eager to hear an update as Sanders. Everyone was. Ever since we came back from taking part in the hair styling convention in The Big Easy, we’d had her decision hanging over us. She’d been Pete’s model for his prize winning hair style and the owner of a modeling agency had seen her and offered her a chance at the big time.
No one wanted her to leave, but knowing her dreams, we’d all encouraged her to give it a try. And now we waited to learn how it worked out.
"I know she loves the people at the agency," Pete said. "She says they've been great to her. They put her up in a nice place with another girl and they've been giving them classes in the things they need to know about the business. She's done a couple of test shoots to find different looks that suit her. They are creating a portfolio for her and she said she'll post the photos for us when it's done. No matter how it turns out she wants us to see her all looking fancy."
"Pete Dawson, that girl is on a bad path," Dolores Pettigrew said, shaking her head.
"What?" I said, turning to stare. Dolores was sipping coffee and reading a magazine while she waited for me to do her hair. "I always thought that girl was a lost cause anyway, the way she went on about men all the time. I knew she'd never amount to anything and now this. Living in the wicked city and flouting her looks for money."
"She’s modeling," Pete said.
"Just wait till her good looks fade and she has nothing to fall back on."
"She's trying to do something that a lot of people would love to be able to try," Pete said, glaring a little at Dolores. "She is trying to see if it will work for her."
"So she's having fun?" Nellie asked. The subtle change of subject was smooth.
"I think she's overwhelmed by it all," Pete said. "She thinks she might like it, but it's kind of inten
se and crazy. She also said that it seems weird to spend so much time getting all dressed up and made up when there are no guys in sight but photographers."
"Now that's our Betina," Sanders laughed. "And it's hard to imagine them teaching her anything about looking prettier."
Nellie poked Sanders. "You have a crush on the girl, Sanders, always have."
"And I've never pretended otherwise," he said. "If I'd met her while my wife was still alive that might've been another story. It might’ve been smart to pretend a bit, in that case."
I chuckled. Sanders did love to hear about Betina's love life, which was extensive and normally the major topic of conversation at the salon on Monday mornings. She’d regale everyone with the inadequacies or wonders of whoever she was dating—she didn't mind sharing in the least. With Sanders, she had something of a best friend relationship. Setting aside the considerable age difference, Sanders being in his seventies and Betina in her twenties, the two had little in common. Betina liked cities and parties and Sanders was into skydiving and adventure sports. For a man of his age his energy and enthusiasm were astounding—admirable even.
And the two were fast friends.
I looked over at Dolores who was trying to pretend that she wasn't a little upset at Pete's reprimand. She caught my look and used it, turning the conversation on a new course. "I saw the strangest thing this morning. I was going down to the Paramabet's store and as I passed the Marshé Grosri food mart I saw two men hauling cases of Karo Syrup out to a truck."
"Out, not in, like a delivery?" I asked.
"Out," she said. "Loading it into a pickup."
"Karo?" Pete asked. "That sweet syrup that you put on waffles?"
"The very same," Dolores said. "They must've had four cases of the dark syrup and more of the light in the back of Joe's pickup."
"One bottle should last anyone without a giant sweet tooth a lifetime," Pete said.