by Nova Nelson
By the time I was able to flag down Trinity again, I’d managed most of my guilt about what I’d done and was able to fake an apologetic but displeased grimace. “Sorry, there’s, um, hair in my food,” I said.
What I’d expected was the reaction I’d given patrons over my many years in the service industry when they complained about their meal: a sympathetic frown, eyebrows pinched together, a little gasp at the outrage of it all, and then an empty apology and an offer to “see what I could do.”
But what I received from Trinity was far worse.
“Oh my stars!” she said, cupping her hands over her mouth in horror and shaking her head slowly. Had I misspoken? Had I accidentally said, “Your grandmother has been mauled to death by a werewolf” instead of mentioning a few hairs in my lasagna? Judging by her reaction, it seemed likely.
Her wings stopped their rapid beating and she dropped out of the air, landing on her feet. I had to lean forward to see her over the tabletop.
“I have no idea how that happened!” she exclaimed. “The food is magically prepared especially to avoid contamination!”
Oops. Was hair in the food not a common thing here? I’d made an assumption, and now that I thought about it, if I had magic available to me, making sure no hair ever got in food would be toward the top of my list of things to use said magic to accomplish. Well done, Eastwind.
But that did leave me feeling especially guilty. My little trick might cause a total overhaul in their magical process, and all for nothing.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” I said, trying to comfort her. “How about you just go grab the manager and I’ll talk it over with her?” This, of course, had been my plan all along. Except without Trinity’s meltdown.
Horror washed over her face. “Are you going to tell on me? Please, please, miss, I’ll do anything. Just don’t tell Jane about this.” She hopped back up into the air to get on eye level with me and whispered, “I’ll do anything.” Whoa. I didn’t like the way she’d said “anything” like it was actually carte blanche. Poor girl. Good thing she’d said it to me and not some horny man who might take full advantage of the offer.
So I improvised a little. The plan had been to plant the hair then ask to speak with a manager, whereupon Jane would be called over and I could pry about Bruce without being obvious that it was what I was doing. I didn’t think it would help me get to the bottom of his murder if the prime suspect (only suspect at this point) knew what I was up to.
But my new approach would work just the same.
“I’m not going to tell Jane about this,” I said, shushing her as calmingly as I could. When I glanced up, the sexy bartender was glaring at me. I shrugged lightly, hoping he’d take that to mean I wasn’t responsible for the fact that the fairy was now … crying?
Oh, come on.
“Sh-sh-shh… Trinity, listen.” I’d managed my fair share of random server meltdowns, which was the situation in which I now found myself. Usually, I’d wait the thing out, provide enough sympathy for them to feel heard but not enough that it encouraged them to keep crying. Then I’d go kick out the customer who’d spurred the situation or fire the floor manager who’d created an environment that left servers so on edge.
Except I was the customer who’d made her cry. I hadn’t meant to, but my intentions counted for jack squat. After all, I hadn’t meant to crash my car into a tree, die, and end up in this town, trying to solve the murder of a werewolf.
Nope, couldn’t think about all that right now.
“Don’t worry, I won’t speak to Jane about the hair. Hey, I have an idea! Why don’t you bring her out here and I’ll let her know how wonderful of service I’ve received. I won’t mention anything about the hair. In fact,”—I pulled open the lasagna and pulled out three Grim hairs from it, wiping them on a napkin—“no one else needs to know.”
I was pretty sure I’d shoved four hairs in there, so I made a quick note to self to go back for the last one before devouring the meal later. (The smells had my appetite roaring like a … werelion? Did those exist?)
“You promise you won’t tell her about the hair?”
“Pinkie swear.”
She smiled and held out her pinkie, and I was immediately relieved that they had pinkie swearing here … though admittedly I was confused about how it, of all things, made it from my world to Eastwind. Cars? Nope. But pinkie swearing? That’s a big affirmative.
Once the pact was official, she flitted to the back, and I scooped a bite of the lasagna into my mouth, careful to avoid the section where the rogue hair might still be lodged.
Oh. My. God.
I took another bite.
Yep. Even after the second bite, I was sure this was the best lasagna I’d ever had. How did everything in Eastwind taste better than sex felt?
I paused in forking the third bite into my mouth when a beautiful woman with gorgeous cocoa skin glided out of the kitchen and toward my table.
Was this Jane Saxon? Bruce wasn’t too hard on the eyes, but Jane was in an entirely different league. She was fierce, and her power flowed off of her in shockwaves with every step she took. I understood why Trinity was wary of her.
Oh, and she was a werewolf and could probably tear anyone in this restaurant to shreds if she wanted. Let’s not forget that.
“Can I help you?” she asked. It sounded more like a challenge, as if the only obvious answer would be, “No, everything’s great. I need nothing from you.”
But I was here to solve her ex-husband’s murder so he would leave me alone.
And, I guess, because it was the right thing to do. Eh, whatever.
There was no doubt in my mind, looking at Jane standing only a few feet from me, that she had the strength to take a man out with a frying pan. But would she?
“I’m new to town,” I said, ignoring the slight arching of her eyebrow, “and a new friend recommended this place. I’ve spent my life working in restaurants, too, so I just wanted to let you know how incredible the food is.”
When her shoulders softened, I knew I was making progress, so I continued. “If this town is anything like every other town, you only ever hear about the food when there’s something wrong with it.”
Her tense demeanor cracked. Grinning, she said, “In that respect, yes, Eastwind is like every other town.”
Her smile was magic. I guess around here it could have literally been magic, but I mean it more in the figurative sense. Jane with a smile was way out of Bruce’s league. I wondered why they divorced. Asking right then, though, likely wouldn’t be the soft touch I needed to keep Jane open and friendly.
“My name’s Nora,” I said. “I, um, I don’t know many people in town. If you’re not too busy, would you want to have a seat?”
She looked around the empty restaurant and frowned. “I don’t know … we’re awfully swamped around here.” When her eyes returned to mine, we both chuckled and she sat.
Jane was incredibly likable once I got past the intimidation factor. Sure, she was the kind of woman whose bad side one should avoid getting on at all costs. But I’ve had people say that about me, before, so I didn’t hold much stock in it. Something about women with boundaries and no time for BS is a little bit terrifying to the world.
I hoped Jane wasn’t the murderer. My purpose of the visit suddenly changed from a neutral intelligence-gathering trip to an attempt to exonerate her from suspicion and cross her off the list of possible suspects.
And make her my friend.
Does that sound needy?
Then I guess I was needy. In my defense, if I was going to be stuck in Eastwind for the rest of my life, it made sense to find people I liked here. I couldn’t rely entirely on Tanner the gorgeous waiter, Ruby the strange old psychic, and Grim the clinically depressed hound to satisfy my basic social needs.
“So,” started Jane, “where did you come from?”
“Earth.”
Jane bit her lip, holding back smile mercifully. “Right. But like, where on ear
th?”
Oh. Shoot. “Texas. Are you familiar with my world?”
She nodded. “I may look like I’m in my twenties, but I’m no spring pup here. We don’t have people come in from your world often, but they come often enough, and when they do, guess where they go for a taste of home.”
I nodded. “Ah, that makes sense. Who doesn’t love Italian food?”
“Exactly. And our cuisine is second only to the home cooking over at—” When she cut herself off, my attention sharpened.
“Medium Rare?” I supplied.
She nodded. “Yes.” Her eyes narrowed at me. “You know already. About me and Bruce.”
“Rumors travel fast,” I said apologetically.
She nodded somberly and flattened out a wrinkle in the tablecloth. “True, true. I didn’t do it, you know.”
“Didn’t do what?”
“Mur— I would never hurt Bruce.”
“I heard you two argued quite a bit.”
Her shoulders tensed. “Have you ever argued with someone, Nora?”
I nodded.
“And did you then murder them?” she asked.
“Of course not,” I said, sitting up straight.
“Then you know one doesn’t necessarily lead to the other. Sure, Bruce and I argued. Sometimes we said horrible, unforgivable things to each other when our wolf-selves got the best of us. But sometimes that happens when people love each other. It’s messy.”
“But the arguing continued after you were divorced. Was it still out of love then?”
She swallowed hard and her bottom lip quivered. “For me it was.” I almost couldn’t hear her, she spoke so quietly, and my heart broke for her.
She still loved him. She probably loved him more than I’d ever loved a man, and they’d divorced, and now he was dead. All hope of reconciliation was gone.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Sniffing sharply, she pulled herself together in a hurry, and the momentary glimpse of utter devastation vanished. “I’d bet money that hussy he was with had something to do with his death. I don’t have anything against young, beautiful women, but”—she leaned forward conspiratorially—“you ever meet someone that’s just a little too pretty? Just a little too flawless?” She leaned back again. “Anyone who puts that much time into their appearance is hiding something dark, in my opinion.”
Half of me cringed at Jane’s typical woman-hating-prettier-woman behavior.
And the other half of me knew exactly what she was saying. And agreed wholeheartedly.
“He was dating someone?” I asked, feeling slightly annoyed at Bruce’s taciturn nature. If he wanted me to solve his murder, he should’ve been way more forthcoming with me instead of just pointing fingers at poor Jane.
Ah, right. This was exactly what Ruby was talking about. You couldn’t trust the victim to be unbiased.
“Yeah. Some blonde Bimbo,” said Jane. “I think her name is Fancy or… Tancy? Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “Tandy. That was it. She works over at Echo’s Salon. She’s some kind of … I don’t actually know what she is. Maybe a nymph? My friend Hyacinth works at Echo’s, too, and says she’s never met a worse person in her life. Of course, Tandy seems sweet, but we all know that the girls who never say mean things spend all their free time plotting mean things. Gotta blow off the steam somehow. Honesty is a virtue, after all. Holding it all in isn’t healthy. Blunt is best, in my opinion.”
“I can tell,” I said.
For a moment, Jane’s eyes widened and she looked upset, then the flash was gone, and she grinned mischievously. “Oh, I like you.” She wagged a finger at me. “Good luck with this town, though. It’s jam-packed full of people who are so desperate for everything to be perfect that they let things fester. I haven’t lived anywhere else, but I’ve traveled to connecting lands and I talk to a lot of people, so I feel pretty safe saying the murder rate is higher in Eastwind than just about anywhere else. Things can only bubble under the surface for so long before they boil over. And when you’re dealing with a whole mixing pot of creatures, things draw to a head sooner than later.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said.
“Ah, well, don’t worry too much about it,” she said. “I assume you’re a witch, right?”
“Apparently so.”
“People try not to mess with witches around here. They’ll bring the full weight of the Coven down on their head if they do. That’s not to say witches don’t end up dead now and again. But if you stay out of trouble, you’ll be fine.” Though she grinned comfortingly, I did not, in fact, feel comforted.
“Good to know. I guess.”
“Your food is getting cold,” she said, nodding down at my lasagna.
“Could I get a check and a to-go box?” I asked. “I just remembered that my dog is waiting outside.”
She stood from the table, looking at me sideways. “This one’s on me. And I thought witches were supposed to have cats.”
And I thought witches weren’t real, but things change. “I’ve always had a problem doing what everyone else does.”
Jane fetched (it that an offensive verb for a werewolf?) me a to-go box and bag, and asked me to come by anytime I liked for fifty percent off my meal since I was new … but mostly because she liked me. I wouldn’t say no to that.
But for now, I had to get a move on. I hadn’t been to a salon in, oh, seven years? I was way overdue for a visit.
Chapter Seven
I didn’t expect to find Tandy at Echo’s Salon. After all, her boyfriend was murdered the day before. For someone like Jane, putting on a brave face and pushing forward seemed almost a compulsion, but from the little I knew of Tandy (or women like her), she didn’t seem cut from the same durable cloth.
Yet there she was.
I knew it was her the moment I laid eyes on her through the large salon window facing out onto a main road a few blocks away from the emporium. Echo’s Salon was nestled among shops for Eastwind’s wealthier inhabitants. On one side of the salon was a jeweler and on the other a clothing boutique shop with magicked mannequins in long, sleek robes switching from one posh pose to another in the storefront window.
I paused, peering into the salon. All the stylists were beautiful, but I could pick out which one was Tandy right away. She shined like a star among them. Her silver-blonde hair flowed down to her waist in robust waves, and her complexion was smooth and luminous. As for her body, it reminded me of a Barbie. Actually, she reminded me of a Barbie, one of the older ones from the Fifties with the squinty eyes.
I never liked Barbies. For one, they were always blonde, curvy, long-legged. My hair had been the same medium brown since the day I was born, straight on one side, not quite straight on the other. And no one would ever describe me as curvy. In fact, I nearly threw myself a party when I last went to buy a bra and found I was actually a B-cup rather than an A-cup. Barbies had never left me feeling good about myself growing up, and they’d made me feel even worse when I saw the way my childhood best friend Shonda’s face sagged every time there was no Barbie with the same cocoa skin she had. And the few times we’d spotted one in the toy store, she’d examined the Barbie’s long, slick hair, and then touched her own, which was coarse and roamed free in every direction.
Tandy was a Barbie incarnate, not only in looks but in the way she made me feel when I looked at her. I thought back to Jane, then to Shonda, both beautiful women who were made to feel bad by the mere existence of Barbies.
And then I felt guilty. I mean, seriously guilty. It wasn’t Tandy’s fault she looked that way. Sure, she must have spent a lot of time on her appearance, but that just went to show the pressure even beautiful women felt to be flawless and pleasant for men to gaze upon.
I needed to retract the claws and give Tandy a fair chance.
“Here,” I said to Grim as I opened the take-out bag and box and set it on the ground. “For your troubles.”
“You think I need your handouts? Please …” But not a second l
ater, he was snout-deep in lukewarm lasagna.
Every chair in the salon was occupied when I entered. The stylists and clients chattered passionately among each other.
I planted my feet in shock, once I saw the way things worked here. What kind of beings were these? Jane had mentioned something about nymphs, but I didn’t know much about those.
One stylist was in charge of the hair washing process for each client. He approached the chair where a slender, raven-haired woman waited, and then he waved an open palm around her head until water soaked the hair from root to tip. “There you go, love,” he said, before crossing the salon to another stylist who flagged him down.
Meanwhile, a short and plump woman, whose hair swirled around her like she was caught in the world’s gentlest tornado, approached the client nearest to me, whose stylist had just completed the last snip of her cut. The plump woman held a flat palm on each side of the client’s wet hair, and as she did so, her hair fell limp and the client’s began to whip around in a breeze until it was not only dry but styled in silky-smooth waves. As soon as the plump woman removed her hands, her own hair took to the breeze again.
“You must be new here,” said a voice from behind the reception desk. I turned to see a mousy young man leaning back in his chair and filing his nails. “We don’t get many new people, but the look is the same every time. Did you want to make an appointment?”
“Please. With Tandy.”
He nodded and leaned toward me, so I bent forward to meet him halfway. “Poor thing.” He spoke it like a whisper but with enough volume to be easily overheard by the clients closest to the desk. “Her boyfriend was just murdered. Yesterday.” He leaned back, eyes wide, nodding slowly.
“You don’t say.”
Jane wasn’t kidding about this place being a gossip hub. He’d offered up that bit without any prompting. Maybe it’d be easier than I’d hoped to mine some useful information about Bruce’s murder from Echo’s Salon.