by Tracy Weber
An approximately six-month-old calico kitten curled up underneath the shampoo bowl’s chair. Fluffy black ears matched its long black tail, which was tipped in white. An orange spot covered its right eye.
I crouched in a perfect rendition of Utkatasana (also known as a Full Squat) and held out my hand. “Hey there, kitty.” The kitten backed against the wall, flattened its ears, and hissed.
Crystal emerged from the side room, drying her hands on a towel. She looked attractive, though not classically beautiful, in the salon’s forgiving light. Her makeup was still overdone for my tastes, but the pink tones in her blonde hair glinted with sophistication, and every strand of the asymmetrical cut fell precisely in place.
Then again, what did I expect? She was a hairdresser, after all.
“You must be my nine o’clock.” She nodded toward the kitten, who was now growling and exposing her front claws. All fourteen of them. “Mouse is semi-feral, so you probably shouldn’t get too close to her. She might bite your finger off.”
“My gosh, her feet are huge!” I exclaimed.
“She’s a Hemingway cat.”
“A what?”
“A polydactyl. A cat with extra toes. Some people call them Hemingway cats. Most cats have eighteen toes—ten in the front and eight in the back. Mouse is an overachiever. She has twenty two. Seven on each front paw.”
She handed me a clipboard and pen, then pointed to the styling chair. “Have a seat and fill that out.” She kneeled in front of the shampoo bowl and made soft clucking noises. The kitten leaned forward and sniffed her fingertips.
I stared at the page labeled Client Intake Form. My first dilemma: make up information or write down the truth? I stalled for time by making light conversation.
“You named your cat Mouse?”
She pointed to a hole in the sheet rock. The shampoo bowl’s water line snaked through it. “When she gets scared, she crawls into the wall and disappears, like one of those cartoon mice. The name seemed appropriate.”
Meanwhile, back on the form, I wrote down my real name and cell phone number, but opted for Serenity Yoga’s address.
“She’s cute,” I said.
“Isn’t she? She’d been living off scraps in the courtyard for months. I finally trapped her a week ago. I’ve been trying to tame her, but it’s slow going.”
I stared at the form. Approximately when was your last haircut? The truth—a week ago—would never do. I screwed up my face and chewed on my lower lip.
Crystal looked at me oddly. “It’s not a test, you know.”
I smiled. “Sorry. I was trying to remember my phone number. I never call myself.” Eight weeks. Next question: What are your expectations for your appointment today? Expectations? I considered writing gather clues to track down a murderer but settled for trim ends instead. I finished the form by listing allergies (none), medications (none—my birth control pills were none of her business), and tools used on your hair on a regular basis (rubber bands and a comb).
I handed the form back to Crystal. “This is thorough.”
“I pride myself on taking great care of my clients. I can’t do that without information.”
Crystal scanned my answers, then cocked her head to the side as if first truly noticing me. “Hey, wait a minute. Don’t I know you?”
Crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap.
“I … I don’t think so.” I tried to distract her by changing the subject. “Does the CB in your business name stand for Cannon Beach?”
She frowned and replied absently, “Crystal Buchanan.” She tapped her index finger against her lips. “I never forget a face.” The finger kept tapping. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Pummeling my nervous system like a hyperactive woodpecker.
I made another attempt at diversion. “I’m pretty happy with the general shape of my cut, so—”
“Just a second. This is going to bug me until I figure it out.” She glanced down at the form, then back up at me again. “It says here you’re from Seattle …” She lowered her hand and snapped her fingers. “Seattle. That’s it! You’re that woman with the crazy German shepherd.”
I suddenly wished she’d start tapping again.
“You were with Michael Massey at the spaghetti dinner. Are you a friend of his?”
Gulp.
“Yes.” I didn’t volunteer that said friendship included benefits, such as cohabitation.
She leaned back and crossed her arms. “Friends, huh? And you two just happen to be visiting Cannon Beach at the same time?”
I winced. “Yep.”
That’s when we began the dance. The chicanery cha-cha. Two con artists, each conning the other. Each wondering who had the upper hand.
Crystal frowned slightly, then shrugged. “Fair enough. Friends it is. None of my business, anyway.” She pressed against the foot pedal and raised the chair several inches. “What would you like me to do with your hair today?”
“Just a light trim to take off the split ends.”
I was afraid to ask too many questions, so while Crystal examined my hair, I tried to glean information about her—and her supposed relationship with Gabriella—from the photos she had taped around the mirror. My favorite was a recent shot of Mouse curled into an orange-and-black ball, fast asleep amidst an avalanche of overturned shampoo bottles. Several photos were of people I didn’t recognize. The one top and center showed Gabriella and Crystal, arms wrapped around each other, smiling in front of Haystack Rock. Next to it was a shot of the group Shannon had called the Fearsome Foursome: Shannon, Michael, Von, and Crystal. Von stood at one end of the photo; Shannon, the other. Michael and Crystal smiled from the center. The two women both leaned toward Michael, who looked uncomfortable—almost trapped—between them.
“Your ends look pretty clean to me,” Crystal said. “Are you sure your last haircut was eight weeks ago?”
“Maybe it was only six.” Days. “If I don’t need a cut, maybe you could just do a shampoo and style?”
“That hardly seems worth your money. This isn’t a good cut for you, anyway.” She stepped back and assessed me. “A short, layered look would bring out your eyes better. Are you up for something completely new and different?”
The answer was a firm, resounding no. Any style I wore had to be controllable by ponytail. “Maybe next time. Today, just take off a quarter-inch or so.” I smiled. “I’m not a great fan of change.”
She held several strands of my hair up to the light as I continued scanning the photos. The one bottom-center made my heart drop to my stomach.
Shannon, Michael, and Gabriella.
At Gabriella and Michael’s wedding.
I stared at my boyfriend and his bride, trying to imagine the day. Relaxed body language, bright smiles, joyful energy. Michael and Gabriella seemed happy. Heartbreakingly happy. If they were faking, they should have won Oscars. Shannon, on the other hand, looked tense. Her smile, forced. Kind of like mine at the moment.
I pointed at the photo with trembling fingers. “Who’s that woman with Michael?”
Crystal’s face remained carefully neutral, but I could have sworn she was suppressing a smirk. “That’s Michael’s sister, Shannon.”
A sane person would have given up then. I leaned forward and touched Gabriella’s image. “Not Shannon, this woman.”
“Michael’s wife, Gabriella. Or at least she was Michael’s wife. She was murdered two days ago.” The glint her eyes said, But you already knew that.
Yep. Dancing away. One, two, three, cha-cha. One, two, three, cha-cha.
Crystal dropped my hair and motioned to the shampoo bowl. “Have a seat over there.”
Mouse retreated into the hole behind it. I wished I could join her.
I sat.
Crystal draped a towel over my shoulders, ordered me to lean back, and lathered up my hair. I closed my
eyes, as much to avoid eye contact with Crystal as to keep out the soap. The sweet scents of pineapple, coconut, and hibiscus seemed incongruous with the sour energy between us.
“So you claim you’re a friend of Michael’s, but you didn’t know his wife?” Crystal turned off the water and firmly—a little too firmly—massaged my scalp.
“I’d never met her, at least not until the other night. I didn’t know he was married until last week.”
Crystal stopped scrubbing, turned on the water, and rinsed. Boiling liquid scalded my scalp.
“Ouch! That’s too hot!”
“Oh, sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. With a flick of her wrist, the steaming hot water turned freezing cold. I didn’t complain. Ice water might ease the pain of my third-degree burns.
She finished rinsing, wrapped the towel around my head, and pushed me to standing. When I sat back down at the haircutting station, Mouse peeked out from inside the base cabinet underneath the retail shelving unit.
“When did she get in there?” I asked.
Crystal shrugged. “She hangs out in that linen cabinet sometimes. Hopefully the health inspector won’t find cat hair on all of my towels.” She pulled a comb out of the blue solution and started yanking the tangles out of my hair. “I can’t believe Michael didn’t tell you he was married. How do you two know each other again?”
“We own businesses in the same building.” Which was true, if incomplete.
“You may not know this, but Gabby was my friend. Michael was too, for that matter, before he moved to Seattle. She and Michael were inseparable. Soul mates.” She yanked on a particularly large knot, jerking my head back.
“Ouch!” I yelled. “Did you use conditioner?”
Crystal looked at me drolly. “I must have forgotten.” She kept ripping the comb through my curls. “Anyway, that’s why I was so shocked when I heard that Michael had taken up with some slutty home wrecker. I don’t suppose you know anything about her?”
I unconsciously grasped the heart-shaped locket at my throat, as if holding it would make me less guilty. When I glanced in the mirror, my face was bright red. My shoulders, stiff as a statue. “I … uh … I …”
Crystal slammed the comb on top of the styling station’s cabinet. “All right, I’ve had enough of this nonsense. You’re her, aren’t you? You’re the slut who stole my friend’s husband.”
I remained uncharacteristically composed in spite of Crystal’s insult. I didn’t blame her for lashing out at me. If Sam cheated on Rene, I’d flatten his mistress’s nose. The question was, what should I say to her now? Gabriella obviously hadn’t told Crystal that she’d married Michael for a green card. I wasn’t about to volunteer that information either. As for the ruse about Rene and I being lovers? Well, that had just flown south for the winter.
In the end, I decided to tell the truth. Sort of.
“You’re right. Michael and I …” My hand unconsciously fingered the locket again. “We’re close.”
Crystal picked up the scissors and started cutting. Her tone was as sharp as her shears. “So you are his mistress.”
I cringed at the word. “Not mistress. More than that. Closer. And our relationship was never an extramarital affair. Michael and Gabriella were separated.”
Snip, snip, snip, snip. Wisps of hair falling to the floor. My hair.
“Separated?” she snapped. “Since when?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. “For always” would require an explanation I wasn’t willing to offer. I settled for a vague answer instead. “For a while. A long while. Since well before Michael and I got together. She didn’t tell you?”
Crystal palmed the scissors, for the first time looking unsure. “That’s why Michael moved to Seattle, isn’t it?”
I didn’t reply.
“It all makes sense now. I could never understand why Gabby didn’t go to Seattle with him. There’s no way I would have let that one get out of my sight.” She glanced toward the wedding picture. “The first time I heard that Gabby and Michael were having trouble was the other night at the community center. The night she was …” She looked away, but not before I glimpsed sorrow behind her crisp façade.
“The night Gabriella was murdered,” I finished. “I’m in a relationship with Michael now, but I swear I didn’t break up his marriage. I was as surprised to learn about Michael being married as you were to learn about me.”
Crystal’s eyes grew wet. “I don’t get it. I thought Gabby was my friend. I thought they were both my friends. Why didn’t she tell me?”
I didn’t know how to answer, so I theorized out loud. “You were Gabriella’s friend. As least as much as she had any.” I’d only seen a brief glimpse of the two women together, but according to Von, they had been inseparable since Michael left town. If they weren’t lovers—and unless Crystal was hiding something, they weren’t—they must have been close friends.
“Michael told me that Gabriella was a very private person.” I took a deep breath and continued. “That’s why I’m here. You knew Gabriella better than anyone, at least recently. I’m hoping you can help me figure out who killed her.”
“Isn’t that the police’s job?”
“Yes, normally, but they’ve been questioning Michael.”
Crystal lowered her hand. Her brow wrinkled. “They think Michael killed Gabby?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t reply.
“They’re wrong,” I added.
“Of course they’re wrong. Michael doesn’t have a violent bone in his body.”
I hazarded a glance in the mirror. So far, my hair was still attached to my scalp. That had to be a good sign, right?
I continued my newest subterfuge, which was an unholy combination of truth, inference, and lie. “Michael’s lawyer, Dale, is a friend of mine. I’ve helped him solve cases before.” That was the truth. “Dale thinks the police are building a solid case against Michael.” Inference. Why else would Dale have objected to my being involved? “I promised to help him interview witnesses.” And there was the lie.
“You’re a private investigator?”
I avoided answering. “Look, I don’t expect you to like me, but we’re on the same side. We both think Michael is innocent. Will you help me?”
Crystal hesitated, but when she answered, her voice was firm. “No.” I stood to object, but she pushed me back down. “I’m not finished. Do you want to look like you cut your own hair with toenail clippers?”
I sensed it was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t reply.
She continued. “As I was saying, I won’t help you. But I will help Michael. Michael’s a good guy.” Her cheeks warmed almost as pink as her hair. “I’ll answer your questions, but I’m not sure how much relevant information I’ll have. I’m beginning to wonder if I knew Gabby at all.”
She ran her fingers down the left and right sides of my hair, making sure they were even. “Like I said, I had no idea their relationship was in trouble until Michael came back into town. I mean sure, I thought it was odd that he moved to Seattle without taking Gabby, but she always claimed it was temporary. It was obvious after that debacle in front of C-BAC that something weird was going on, so I cornered Gabby in the car on the drive home. She said she’d recently learned that Michael was having an affair, and she was devastated. I told her to call him and work things out. Anyone with half a brain could see that he still loved her.”
I flinched.
“Sorry, that was probably insensitive, but it’s true. I hate to break it to you, but they would have gotten back together eventually.”
She opened a drawer and pulled out a blow dryer. I raised my voice to be heard over the racket. “Did she do it?”
“Do what?”
“Did Gabriella call Michael?”
“Not while I was with her, but I assumed she w
as going to.” Crystal closed her eyes and swallowed. “She probably got killed before she had the chance.”
Or she tried, but Michael didn’t have his cell phone. I didn’t share that thought with Crystal. Instead, I said, “The last time Michael saw Gabriella, he thought she seemed frightened. Was she concerned about anything that you know of ?”
“I already told you. She was upset that Michael was having an affair.”
“That’s not what I mean. Could she have been afraid of someone? Did you ever notice anyone suspicious hanging around her? Maybe someone who wore a baseball cap?”
“No. No one different than usual, anyway.”
“What you mean?”
“Gabby always had men sniffing around her.” Crystal shrugged. “I don’t remember anyone with a baseball cap, though.”
She turned off the blow dryer, wrapped the cord neatly around it, and laid it precisely in the middle of her workstation. “The only person who might have wanted to harm Gabby is Michael’s sister, Shannon.”
“Shannon?” She had to be kidding.
“Shannon comes off all sweet, but she’s a terror if you cross her. And she’s super protective of Michael. It’s kind of creepy. Does she have to call him ‘Baby Brother’ every other sentence?”
Now that she mentioned it, that affectation did seem a little odd.
“Shannon hated it when Michael and Gabby got serious. She pretended to support their marriage, but anyone with an IQ higher than a postage stamp could see through it. If Michael wanted out of the marriage and Shannon thought Gabby stood in his way, she wouldn’t have thought twice about clobbering her over the head.” Crystal grunted. “Though running her down with that new Mini Cooper might be more her style.”
“Gabriella was hit over the head?” I knew that already, of course. But how did Crystal?
Her lips tightened. “Yes, at least I assume so. Today’s Clatsop County Herald said that according to the police report, the cause of death was ‘severe head injuries.’”