The O magazine and Essence were about as dog-eared as they could get. People made appointments just to get in here and read them for free. I had been known to do it a time or two my own self, since there were specific articles I cared to check every month.
Aretha Franklin's diva voice was rippin' about R-E-S-P-EC-T from Bebe's station, the first one past the waiting area and appointment desk. Hah! I needed to play that tune for Trey.
Bebe Harrington was swingin' to the jam. She was full- figured and fifty. Not only didn't she appreciate the youthful singers of the day, but she didn't like their skinny bodies either. Said they needed more weight behind their vocal cords to get her attention. She applied a dollop of moisturizing cream to her client's head and worked a comb and flat iron, from the woman's scalp down the strand of hair. Bebe was the queen of intricately laced hairstyles of human hair lacquered stiff. She always sported her own creations, but all of hers were wigs that she could work on at home and take offand on at will.
The next station was quiet. Tiny Tina Trabocchi was home with her newborns. Poor girl hadn't been tiny in nine months, carrying those triplets. But her workstation proclaimed loud and clear, along with the posters of sculptured fingernail designs, that she loved her some Lady Gaga. But personally Gaga made me gag gag. Ugh!
I stared down the long black-and-white checkered floor trying to get a good look at the new guy, but the person sitting in the booth chair at the end had his back to me. Posters of a young Mick Jagger covered the area. I knew I had the right station.
"Hi, Sloane. Verlene dialed in a 9-1-1 on you. Said you needed emergency help." Ellie Pembrook, the receptionist and manicurist, giggled behind her fist and went back to buffing her client's nails. The client looked like she was one of the night owls getting repaired before she went home and slept for the rest of the day.
I could feel my face getting red. "Verlene's chronic like that." I whispered past the back of my hand. "Is this Gabi guy really good?"
"Gir-lll, he can micro-braid his butt off! His fingers are like greased lightning. Just ignore the strangeness." She raised her eyebrows a couple of times and flipped her thumb toward the back booth.
The scents of shampoo, straightening chemicals, and women's cologne grew stronger as I walked toward the last chair. Was I doing the right thing? After all, Verlene recommended him.
"Hey, Gabi, you're up!" Shari yelled down the row.
This young guy in skintight, black leather pants and a sparkly royal blue tank top hopped from the station chair and swiveled it around to me. "Welcome! I am going to make you fabulous today." He grinned broadly through full lips that actually did remind me of Mick Jagger.
I turned back to the front. What was I about to do? The ladies all raised thumbs up. Sigh. I sucked in my attitude and plopped into the seat. He spun me around in the chair to face the mirror. I grabbed onto the armrests. He was holding up a large tri-fold of head shots. "Which would you like, my love?" He flicked his head back, knocking his shoulder-length hair back from his face.
My love? This kid called me "my love." I'll reach . . . ohh, I liked the style on the right. Her extensions, much lighter in color than her own hair, created a neat patchwork, plaiting the two colors together. My defiance melted. I could imagine myself with that do. Like a lioness, I pointed. "That one please."
"Let's rock and roll." Since his booth was the last in the line, he bordered the shampoo stations. I didn't even need to get into another seat for the washing. He stepped on a pedal, lowered the back of the chair to a reclining position, and spun me around to the shampoo sink. I grabbed onto the armrests again. My stomach lurched as my eyes tried to catch up. He was going to have me barfing if he didn't take it easy.
"My new shampoo formula has an aromatherapy component. Enjoy!" Gabi jabbed the button on his CD player and made a wide air guitar move as strains of "Jumpin' Jack Flash" drowned out my sighs. It took all of fifteen minutes to wash and dry my hair and I must admit that the shampoo he used had a delicious fragrance of honeysuckle and mint that made my head tingle. By the time he started braiding I was thoroughly relaxed, but a familiar voice cut through the peaceful aura.
"Sloane, honey, I'm glad you got here."
I opened my eyes to Verlene waving at me from the front of the salon. Help me, saints! Talk about my being a captive audience.
"Hi, Verlene, what are you doing here?" If I'd known, I'd have picked another day.
"Well, honeybun, I had to see if you'd really come in. Besides I'm still telling my girls about my good fortune."
I tensed. She would not dare.
"Tell them, Sloane. I'm going to be rich. Tell them. Yes, sir, I done found the secret." She did an exaggerated neck roll with her head.
I bolted upright. "Yeeow!" Gabi's hands were still attached to my head. "Verlene! What did we discuss?"
I crooked my finger in a "come hither" movement. Verlene sauntered down the aisle looking like an old runway model. "Honey, these are my home girls. The secret is safe with them."
I glanced at each of the women in turn. The two magazine readers were furiously texting. Unfortunately, I knew I couldn't swing a cat in the room without hitting one of them who hadn't been involved with some form of larceny, even if it was only a five-finger discount. I didn't trust any of these early-morning beauty shop babes as far as I could throw them.
I snatched Verlene by her arm and pulled her down as I spoke through clenched teeth. "Stop talking about the book in front of these people, until we get it safely locked up."
I knew I should have taken the book with me. Why didn't I? Because I was too worried about her trying to poison me with food. Sheesh, Sloane, you're a grown woman. You don't have to open your mouth for food if you don't want to. It brought back the memory of Mom and the ole airplane-in-the-hangar spoon trick. I guess I was still a pushover.
But I really thought Verlene would have listened to me and kept it quiet. Now I didn't know how many people she had blindly trusted, or who these women would be telling about her good fortune as soon as her back was turned. I had to get that book into the store for safekeeping.
"I want you to go home, get that book, and bring it back to the store. Now!"
Verlene looked at her watch. "Honey babe, I've got a doctor's appointment in an hour. Then I have to be at a dress fitting. You know how seamstresses are if you cancel their appointments. It's not a pretty sight. But I'll be in as soon as I can get there." She started back forward.
I weighed how much I should argue with her in front of these women. The more important I made it sound, the more danger she might be in. I opted for praying as I felt my head tighten up from the braiding. Gabi pulled up on my forehead. A prickle ran up my nose, and I sneezed into the crook of my arm.
Gabi looked at me. "Are you getting sick?"
I shook my head. "Just sinuses."
Gabi swung me around to the other side and the CD player clicked to another track. "Under My Thumb" bounced from the speakers. Sheesh, if I could only keep Verlene sequestered under my thumb.
12
I OPENED THE FRONT DOOR TO THE BOOKSTORE. RHYTHMIC CALYPSO MUSIC slapped me right in my freshly braided head. Ugh! Enough with the music already. "Fifi , just give me a few hours to hear myself think." I marched to the stereo wall unit, dialed it to a soft jazz station, then on second thought turned it off. I just needed a break from the Rolling Stones ringing in my head. But it had been worth it. I loved my new stylin' do. Gabi was a genius . . . weird, but still a genius, and amazingly fast. He had braided my whole head in less than five hours.
Behind the counter, a dancing Fifi raised one hand, put the other one across her middle, and did a few steps of the cha-cha. "You weren't here, sugah. I thought I'd get my blood moving."
"Drink coffee, it's just as stimulating but much less noisy."
She raised an eyebrow at me. "Love the hairstyle."
"Thanks. It is kinda righteous, isn't it?" I felt on top of the world. The new do was about six inches longer than
my own shoulder-length hair and the micro braids flowed softly around my shoulders. They were a little tighter than I liked, so it felt like I had had a facelift. But what the hey. At thirty-five a little face-lift was a good thing.
I grabbed my mug and headed for the coffee bar. Fifi's steps tapped behind me. I didn't even have to look back to know what she was wearing: stretch Capris and spiked-high heels.
It tickled me that we were total fashion polar opposites.
"Have you called your lawyer about that ex-husband lawsuit thing?" Fifi slid onto a stool at the coffee bar. She fingered the small banana comb holding back the long, tightly curled tendrils of hair. Her wrist full of bangles tinkled like broken glass as she raised then lowered her arm.
"What is it with you? No, I haven't had time to call the lawyer. I'll get to it. I don't feel like dealing with that problem right now."
"Well, sugah, you also had another visit from Coltrane Realty this morning."
She had to say that name. My face warmed. I grimaced, filled my mug, and added cream before I turned to her. "I told Rob Landry to get lost yesterday."
I glanced over her shoulder. Barbara sat on the far right of the store, hard at work on her laptop. A stately looking gentleman with a bowtie and wire-rimmed glasses sat at a table close by reading the store's acquisition brochure.
Fifi ignored my obvious irritation and fiddled with repositioning the comb on the other side of her head. The bangles slid in the other direction. "It wasn't Robby this time. I've never seen this guy before."
"Robby, is it? Does someone have an interest in the bloodsuckers who are trying to take mom's building?" I couldn't picture those two together. It was probably the age thing that tripped my trigger.
Fifi blushed. Her cheeks turned pink. "Robby isn't like that. It's only a job to him."
"Hmm, you seem to know a lot about Robby." I blew across the surface of the steaming coffee, venturing a few sips, as I watched the expression on Fifi's face with amusement. "Are we dating?"
The crimson in Fifi's face darkened to match her hair. "I don't know about you, but me and Robby are. It's only been a couple of dates, but he loves books as much as I do!"
"Isn't he kind of young for you?"
Fifi did a comical chicken neck movement with her head. "He's stirrin' ma' grits! Age is only a number, sugah." She winked. "It's not like I'm robbin' the cradle—he's thirty-five. And besides, he's trying to hook me up with a new apartment."
Great on the apartment! But yuck on him being my age. "Just tell him to stay away from me. I'll let him live to date you another day." I glanced around the store again. "Who's that professor-looking guy reading an acq brochure?"
"He's been waiting for you. One of those doctor guys who want to talk about your ma's prized acquisition." Fifi shook her head. "Y'know, Camille was right. I always thought she was nuts for going all the way to Europe last year to buy that book, but she swore one day it would be worth its weight in gold."
Fifi had worked with Mom from the very first day that Mom took over the store. The antiquarian cloak had passed to Mom when Grandpa decided to retire before he took offto travel the world.
"You know more about the book than I do. Why didn't you talk to him?"
Fifi flicked up her pinky finger, pretending to act haughty. "For one, I've taken an instant dislike to him and, second, because he wanted to speak to the 'owner of the establishment.' "
I smirked and held my hands up in surrender. "Okay, so your feelings are hurt because you and Mom are . . . were . . . the book people, and I'm supposed to be the computer person. Don't take it to heart."
"I still don't like him." Fifi screwed up her top lip in a fake snarl.
I strode offtoward the old man's table.
The gray-haired gentleman looked over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses as I approached. He rose, extending his hand. "Miss Beckham, I presume."
I extended my hand, smiling in amusement at his choice of vocabulary. "I'm Sloane Templeton. My ma was the Beckham. And you would be?"
"Dr. Carlton Mabry." He looked around the store. "You said 'was.' I don't understand. Where is Camille, er, uh . . . Mrs. Beckham?"
Something about his tone rang of familiarity with my ma. "Mom passed away a few months ago. Did you know her?"
His cheeks flushed as he groped for words. "Yes . . . I mean no . . . I knew her . . . because of her fine choices in books." He lowered his head. "I'm sorry for your loss."
I smiled softly. That wouldn't have been possible even a few short weeks ago, but now I was beginning the healing process. "I haven't lost her, Doctor. I know right where she is."
His chin pulled back and he glanced over his glasses. "How so?"
I raised my index finger.
"Yes, Cam—er, Mrs. Beckham was a good Christian woman."
I felt a lump in my throat working its way up and wanted to change the subject before I acted sappy. "Dr. Mabry, I see you are looking over our acquisitions brochure." I knew which book but I didn't want to seem overeager. "Are you still interested in the book we discussed yesterday?"
Mabry motioned me closer. He smelled like pepperment and a distinctive cherry-blend tobacco that reminded me of being eight years old and playing with Grandpa's pipe stand.
I seated myself across the table from him but did not lean in to mimic his manner. Something told me he was not the grandfatherly type, and I should beware. Recently I had started paying attention to those leadings.
"I need to purchase this book." He pointed a strong, straight finger at the line in the brochure that read Christian, P. Histoire de la Magie (Paris, 1876).
I leaned back in the chair. "You are not the only one this week inquiring about that book." My curiosity level ratcheted up a notch. Bizarre book choice. Two strange characters.
The doctor's facial muscles contracted into a scowl. His sunny grandpa disposition morphed into that of menacing man. "Are you saying that you no longer have this book?"
I tried to lean further back but the chair remained rigid. "That's not what I'm saying at all. The sudden activity with that particular volume has piqued my interest. Naturally it will affect the asking price of the book."
Mabry ignored my statement but appeared flustered. "Who is asking about the book?" He waved a hand absently. "Never mind . . . I know who it is. He is not going to beat me to this treasure—"
"Whoa! Treasure? What treasure?" Now I sat forward. This would definitely be the makings for an immediate discussion with Fifi.
"I have said too much already." Mabry tossed the brochure onto the table. "How did he find you so quickly? There must be a leak in my office."
What office? Where did this man come from? I needed answers to make an intelligent decision. "With this much interest, I think I should announce a public auction—"
"No!" Mabry jumped from the seat. "Do not do that. Your life would literally be in danger if it were widely known that you have physical possession of the book."
I faced him head-on. The last thing I was going to stand for was a little old man trying to intimidate me. "Excuse me. Are you threatening me?"
"No, no, not me." Mabry raised his hands in mock surrender. "There was an Egyptology consortium in Amsterdam last week. The director of Giza Saqqara of the Egyptian Antiquities Organization almost came to blows with an American scholar group over their assertions that the Sphinx wasn't built by Egyptians but by an advanced civilization several thousand years before the Egyptians."
My eyes rolled. A casual grin worked its way across my face. "My ma told us that one day men would be fighting over this book." I chuckled and shook my head. "I must confess, we didn't believe her."
"This is no laughing matter." Mabry tapped the table. "These men will kill over this book."
I bristled. "But why? They can go online to Google Books and read the stupid thing."
"That only lets you read twenty percent of it, and they use low-resolution scanning."
"So you have already tried."
He frowned. "Yes, this is one of only a few surviving copies of a special edition of the original manuscript. It has subtle nuances that cannot be picked up with that inferior scan quality."
I started thinking treasure hunt. "Like what?"
Mabry set his jaw and swallowed hard enough to make his bow tie bounce with the movement of his Adam's apple.
I folded my arms and stared with no emotion. Possession of the book is nine-tenths of the law. If he didn't want to cooperate, there would be others who would.
He huffed, and leaned forward over the table. "This was an edition commissioned by an elite and secret organization. It is said that there are invisible writings on the pages."
I burst out laughing. "No way! This sounds like a science fiction movie."
Mabry maintained his composure, his steel blue eyes drilling into my head. He leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. "The book holds the secret for opening the Sphinx to untold wealth and unimaginable power."
I fought to control myself. Laughing in the man's face would definitely appear rude. But talk about both oars out of the water. "All that in a book? Why has no one figured it out in all these years?"
"There was a cipher key discovered in an Egyptian dig last year that will unlock part of the coding in the book."
"Part?"
"Yes. Even as we speak there are teams racing to the area where the other cipher is said to be located."
I squinted at him. This had to be one of those hidden camera punk jobs. "So am I to assume that the other person interested in this book is also racing for this other cipher?"
Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012) Page 8