“I’m going to go back to the inn and make some phone calls. Maybe I can track down Zeke in Colorado,” Stiletto said, pulling up to the Main Mane. “What are you going to do?”
“Take a shower. I don’t care if someone’s watching me, planning an ambush. At least my corpse won’t smell like scrapple and B.O.”
“Until next time,” he said as we stood on the stoop of Roxanne’s, where I could hear the buzz of blow-dryers going full steam inside.
He bent down and, despite my sweat and grime, kissed me softly. I sensed a depth of concern I hadn’t felt before. Stiletto was really worried about me. And that made me worried about me. “Do me a favor and don’t go outside today, okay?” he said. “Not that I expect anything will happen.”
“Sure, Champ.” Although I was thinking, fat chance I’m staying in. I’m going to find Stinky at the Union Hall.
He kissed me again. “Champ. I like that.” And he was off, filled with more determination than I had ever seen in him before. Stiletto knew something I didn’t and whatever it was I didn’t know was something I knew I’d want to know.
You have to be a blonde to understand.
Chapter 20
I opened the door to find Roxanne catering to two clients at the same time. “Thank God you’re back,” she said, holding out a tray of bleach. “I took on a last-minute walk-in. Can you do Tammy?”
The bleach secure in my hands, Roxanne dashed to the rear of the salon to towel off a woman dripping in the sink. I turned to Tammy. Tammy’s hair was a dull, faded brown and badly in need of highlights that weren’t too garish. Only the most experienced stylist could freshen up hair like this.
“Thank God you’re back,” G said, entering from the living room and rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I want you to make me pancakes.”
“Can’t now,” I said, painting on a strip of bleach. “If I don’t finish this pronto, this woman’s gonna be two-toned.”
“I’ll tell Jane if you don’t,” he threatened. “I’ll tell her that she and I can’t go out anymore. That I don’t even like her.”
I combed out another section. “She back yet?”
“No. Her friend’s here, though.” He handed me a strip of foil as I moved on. “That looks cool. Can I do it?”
“It’s very technical, G. Too much bleach and she’ll end up looking ridiculous. Too little and this woman doesn’t get what she paid sixty-five bucks for. What friend?” Professor Tallow?
G thumbed over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving my hands for a minute. “Some girl. She’s in the kitchen crying with your mother and Genevieve. How do you know where to paint it?”
Roxanne escorted her wet-headed client over to the chair next to us. “Thanks, Bubbles. I guess I’ve been a little preoccupied these days, what with Stinky gone and all. I should never have taken on the walk-in.”
“There’s some friend of Jane’s in the kitchen, upset,” I said, pulling out another piece of foil. “I think she’s crying.”
“Go, go see her. That’s much more important.” Roxanne shushed me out. “I’ll handle the foil . . . somehow.”
I hesitated. “That’s too much work for you, Roxanne.”
“I can do it. I can do highlights,” G piped up. “C’mon. Pleeease.”
“Sure, why not? I’ll direct him,” Roxanne said, motioning for me to hand G the bleach. “You run along.”
“Thanks, Roxanne.” To G I flashed an I’ve-got-my-eye-on-you look. He turned his back to me and began painting away merrily.
In the kitchen Mama and Genevieve were clucking over a redeyed Sasha whose hair was as straight as I’d left it, sure proof that she hadn’t slept a wink. Genevieve held her hand and Mama slid a cup of tea toward the poor girl, who merely looked at it glumly.
“Thank God you’re back,” Mama said as I entered.
“I’ve never been so needed in my life. Everyone’s thanking God that I’m back.” I sat down opposite Sasha. She wouldn’t make eye contact with me. “What’s wrong?”
“Mom’s gone,” she blurted. “She didn’t come back to the hotel last night and I don’t know how to find her. You were the only person I could think of. I . . . want . . . my . . . mom.” A torrent of tears followed.
Mama handed her another Kleenex and I patted Sasha’s other hand. “Did you call the police?”
“I’m afraid to,” she said. “What if they arrest her?”
“Arrest her?” Genevieve said. “What in tarnation for?”
Sasha blew her nose and patted her eyes with the same tissue. Black mascara was smeared all over her face. “For shooting Mr. McMullen.”
That shut us up.
“Uh, we better let you handle this, Bubbles,” Mama said, getting up and nodding for Genevieve to join her. “I don’t want to get involved in no murder stuff.”
I waited until they left, closing the swinging door silently behind them. When they were gone, I asked Sasha how she’d gotten it into her head that her mother was a killer.
“I don’t know that for sure. It’s just that, well . . .” She twirled the tissue in her lap. “Mr. McMullen had been bugging us a lot. He used to phone Bud at home almost every night and after Bud died he started calling Mom.”
She leaned forward and stirred the spoon in the cup. “Mom told me never to talk to Mr. McMullen and to hang up if he called. He phoned all last night, right up until you came and then . . . then he was shot and Mom didn’t come back.”
Nothing like mother-daughter trust. “You’ll be relieved to know,” I said, “that McMullen wasn’t murdered. He committed suicide.”
“You mean it?”
“That’s what the cops say.”
“Oh.” Sasha nodded. “That is a relief.”
Not really, but why belabor a moral issue. “As for your mother not returning to the hotel . . . maybe she got stuck in traffic?” Hey, it was all I could think of on the spot. “Though you’d expect her to call if that had happened.”
“She called,” Sasha said matter-of-factly. “She called me last night and then this morning.”
“Your mom called?”
I was gonna strangle this kid. If this was some passive/aggressive attention-getting teenage girl maneuver, she was going right over my knee.
“Yeah. Mom said she was okay, but that she needed to take a break. She told me to stay at the hotel until Donatello picked me up on Sunday. Charge everything to room service and not to leave under any circumstances. She said that like fifty times. When I heard that Mr. McMullen was shot, I kind of freaked out, though.”
I had to admit, it was an odd “fact pattern,” as the cops term it. Then again, Sasha was only seventeen. Her stepfather had been murdered and her mother was off on a lark.
Sasha downed her tea. “Whew! I feel so much better. I guess I just needed to get that off my chest.” She opened her purse and pulled out a green Clinique compact and began rubbing at the mascara patches.
“Everything will be fine, I’m sure.” I took her cup to the sink.
“It just occurred to me. You don’t suppose my mom’s been kidnapped, do you?” Sasha asked, wide-eyed. “I saw a Law and Order show on that once. The woman was kept in a hole in the basement.”
I smiled to myself and turned on the water. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Then I wonder how come her Jag is still at the Le Circe Restaurant.”
I flipped off the water. “Her Jag is still at Le Circe?”
“Yeah. In Wilkes-Barre. There was a message on our home answering machine about it. The manager said it was going to be towed if Mom didn’t pick it up.”
What to do? What to do? “I think you better go back to the hotel, Sasha, in case your mother calls again. She might get worried if you’re not there.”
Kidnapped, I was thinking. Chrissy Price had been kidnapped. No. Couldn’t be. Why would she have called to say she was okay?
“But I took a taxi,” Sasha whined, “and I’m out of cash. There’s no way for me to get back to the hotel.”
> “I’ll get G to drive you. In the meantime, promise to call us as soon as you hear from her. If your mom doesn’t call by this evening, we might want to contact the police just to, uhm, cover all our bases.”
This did not go over well with Sasha, who promptly started crying again. I ran into the salon in search of G.
He was standing by the hairdryer studying his watch. Roxanne was barking instructions to him as she swept up from her last customer.
“Bubbles. This boy is a natural!” she exclaimed, leaning on her broom. “The way he applied that bleach, it was artistic. I was in awe. Such delicate handiwork. Such instinctive layering. He knows all the terms. Chunky. Buttery. He’s a genius.”
Just like G always claimed.
“Thirty more seconds should do it,” he announced.
Tammy flipped through the Family Circle, unaware that she was being handled by a junior Vidal Sassoon. I asked G if his car was back from the Texaco.
“Yeah. But it’s got a funny smell. I think they just Elmer-glued the airbags in.”
“Can you take Jane’s friend Sasha back to her hotel in Glen Ellen?”
He lifted up the dryer hood and unwrapped a foil for a peek. “Not bad, n’est-ce pas?” he asked, holding up a strand for Roxanne’s inspection.
“Oui, oui!” said Roxanne. “C’est magnifique.” Turning to me she said, “I’m sorry, Bubbles, he can’t go.”
“We’re in the moment,” he said, gently helping Tammy out of the chair.
“Is he ready?” Sasha stepped into the salon, her lips pouty enough to make Liz Hurley jealous.
G let go of Tammy and wolf whistled. “Sweeet.”
“This is Sasha,” I said. “She’s the one who needs a ride.”
“For that bodacious babe, I’d drive to Mars.” He wiped his hands and sauntered over to her. “Let me finish up with this client and then I’ll be at your service. Just as soon as I, uh, unplug my car.”
“A guy who does hair. Awesome,” Sasha said. “And you drive an electric car? Cool. It’s like so Ed Begley Junior.”
G, the hairdressing, battery-powered stud muffin. Would wonders never cease?
After a thorough, hot shower, I grabbed my favorite jeans and a bateau-neck, three-quarter sleeve top in purple spandex. Perfect for a day of kicking around town. I slipped into my high-heeled boots with the little zipper on the side and pulled my hair up into a ponytail. Plucked a few stray eyebrow hairs, applied a tasteful line of midnight blue liner, jet black mascara (triple coat, of course) with eyelash curler, Plum Passion shadow and I was done except for the lipstick.
I ran down the stairs and was turning into the salon when I bumped into Mama and Genevieve heading out the door, suitcases in hand. Genevieve was in the black-and-white striped dress that made her look like a referee. Mama was wearing faded dungarees, a black Harley shirt and a hairnet.
“Going back to Lehigh?” I asked, taking their suitcases from them.
“First, we’re off to make hoagies at St. Stanislaw’s Church,” Mama said. “They’re selling them at the Hoagie Ho tonight as a fund-raiser to buy new carpeting for the parish hall.”
Mama and community service? Not likely.
“Hold on, Rambette.” I plunked the suitcases down on the sidewalk. “Since when do you care about fund-raisers for a church parish hall?”
“Since Vilnia’s showing up. We’ve got to find out what she plans to do with the Nana diary,” Genevieve said, tossing the two suitcases with ease into the back of her Rambler. “I bet she photocopied it cover to cover.”
“And if she did,” Mama opened her jeans jacket and pulled out a wooden rolling pin. “We’re going to war.”
I gasped. “A rolling pin? You won’t go to war, you’ll go to jail. You’ll kill someone.”
“Nah. Women in these parts of PA got hard heads, say Genevieve?”
“Say.” Genevieve opened the driver’s side door and got in.
“No way.” I tried to grab the rolling pin from my mother’s shriveled and newly tattooed hands, but she was stronger. “You two old dames can’t waltz into town and pick a fight.”
“They started it,” Mama said, getting in and slamming the door. “Those Slagville Sirens stole the Nana diary and I can tell they’re cooking up something.”
“Literally,” Genevieve added, revving the engine. “Now listen up, Bubbles. If we don’t come back alive, don’t forget to demand Charlaine at Gupka’s Funeral Home. She’s the only one who knows how to do decent makeup at that place.” And off they went.
Ugh. I stamped my foot on the sidewalk in frustration. More trouble. Here I had one day left in Slagville to find Stinky and who set us up Wednesday night and I’m suddenly swamped with aggravation. I had to track down Jane in the woods and find out if Chrissy Price went on a bender or was kidnapped. Then there was this craziness with Zeke Allen and the pseudo Stiletto he was supposedly working for. Now my mother and her friend were starting a rumble with the ladies auxiliary.
“Bubbles?” Roxanne was at the door holding the portable. “It’s for you. That Mr. Salvo again.”
I ungraciously snapped the phone from her hands. “I know, I know. I’m on for Sunday.”
“You make those advance calls to the Catasauqua Republicans yet?” Mr. Salvo must have been calling from his home. The television was on in the background. Football.
“No,” I said, curtly, “I’ve been too busy breaking page-one stories.”
“Too bad I got such a short memory. I’ve promised Dix Notch you’ll do a bang-up job on both Sunday stories, by the way.”
I dead headed a purple mum by Roxanne’s door. “Both stories?”
“Guess you didn’t get the message. The Hellertown waste haulers are taking an early morning vote tomorrow on whether to strike. You should be there for that.”
“Define early morning.”
“Uhm. Five should do it. Tell you what. Since I’m such a nice editor, I’ll fill out the photo assignment slip for you.”
It was all I could do to keep myself from drop-kicking the phone into Roxanne’s flowers.
“Oh, Bubbles? One other thing.”
“Yes, Mr. Salvo?”
“You’re fired. Don’t forget that.”
How could I? I was working harder than ever.
Chapter 21
The old brick Union Hall was near the end of Shale Street, a quiet side road framed by trees and juniper bushes, and it was deserted when I arrived in my Camaro. I had expected that at least a few people would be inside setting up for the big Hoagie Ho tonight. Thankfully, I was wrong. The joint was empty.
Except for Stinky, I hoped.
I parked a few blocks away and strolled around the building. There were two main entrances, a rear door and a front door, both padlocked shut. There was also one storm door to a basement. I tried it and it was locked, too. Though not always. I guessed Stinky used it to slip in and out undetected when folks weren’t around.
I stood back and surveyed the setting. The Union Hall was one block east from the white and tidy St. Stanislaw’s Church, where Mama was making hoagies, and one block west from that grungy bar called the Hole. I zeroed in on the pay phone by its back door. So that’s where my fateful fax had been sent from. My would-be killer had stood on this very spot Wednesday night and dialed the Passion Peak. It sent a cold shiver down my arms.
I heard a car pull up and park on the other side of the hall. That was my cue. I had to get into the building and find Stinky now.
Access came in the form of a first-floor bathroom window that had been opened a crack for ventilation. It was wooden and had been painted so many times that it didn’t need a lock. I zipped open my cosmetics case and found an old waxy lip pencil. I rubbed it along the casing and with some pushing and shoving, moved the jamb about a foot. Enough for me to scramble inside.
I landed on the dirty tile floor with a crack. Dang. I unzipped my right boot and frowned. Broken heel. Well, what can you expect for $15.99? I put the boot bac
k on and click, clumped out of the bathroom into a long, dark hall.
“Hello?” I called, click, clumping toward the back. The wooden floorboards, dark with coal dust, dirt and wax, creaked as I made my way.
“Stinky? Are you here?”
I cupped my hands to my mouth. “Hey! Stinky! It’s me, Bubbles.”
Still nothing. Except for another creak that seemed to be coming from the main meeting room. I pressed my back against the wall and cautiously poked my head through the cased opening. Nada.
The dark green curtains that hung from the floor-to-ceiling windows were still drawn, but there was evidence that someone had been there earlier in the day. A wooden stage at the far end had been set up with chairs and music stands. A large white banner proclaimed the date and time of the Fifth Annual Hoagie Ho. The room smelled of spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke, spicy sausage and coffee.
I was about to leave when I noticed a series of intriguing black-and-white photos along the wall by the door. They were like ghosts peering out at me. Eyes bleached white by age and chemicals. Faces blackened by coal dust. Silent. Stunned. As though their souls had been lost and long forgotten.
Miners. Men mostly. But children, too. Haunting.
The first photo was of smudge-faced boys younger than G in caps and coats sitting hunched over bins sorting through coal to pick out the culm, or refuse, with their bare fingers while a stern man, a breaker boss, with a whipping stick stood nearby. The daily pay in the early 1900s, the caption below read, was seventy cents. One sweet-faced boy wore a wilted dandelion in his cap. He was dead by now.
The next photo was of the rickety breaker where coal used to be broken and sorted by the boys. Miners loaded the coal into a cable car that climbed to the top of the breaker. At the top of the breaker the car tipped and dumped the coal and slag into long chutes, breaking up the rocks in the process. The process also sent up clouds of deadly black dust that permeated everything, including lungs.
The three photos after that were of life inside the mines. Workers wearing nothing on their heads but wool caps, standing by buckling beams of timber that held up the shaft. Men and mules posing together in tunnels. A father and son, arms on each other’s shoulders, their faces unrecognizable in their black soot masks.
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