I ran fingers through his hair and rested my shoulder against his. I liked sitting on the floor. “What do you think about leaving the ceiling open?”
“Makes it architecturally forward and classy.” Sebastian stood and walked around. “I can see some dark metallic paint on the walls—”
“Maybe on the ceiling with lighter shades going down to the floor.” I couldn’t keep from grinning. “And chandeliers will make exquisite reflections, maybe even rainbows.” I scribbled down a list. We were on a roll.
“Staff-meeting room?” Sebastian asked.
“Full kitchen and meeting room in the back, so staff can bond and take respite from ungrateful clients—every profession has those.” I laughed.
Sebastian laughed, too. “Hiding is mandatory at least once a week.”
“I’ll disappear into my office. And there’s plenty of space left for adding a permanent makeup room, tattooing and piercing, a private coloring room, and nail services.”
Near the center of the room, Sebastian rapped his knuckles against a wall. “Listen.”
“Hollow,” I said.
“Moveable wall,” he said. “Perfect secret passage for easy movement between the salon and café for you and the staff.” Sebastian grinned. “Or you and whoever you want to be secret with.” The clown waggled his eyebrows at me.
“You think you are soooo smart.” I returned the grin. Secret passageway was in my DNA.
Sebastian gently took my hands and helped me stand. “This is going to cost you a bundle. Can I help?”
“You’ve already helped immensely with the business. Now how about a little help for my pleasure.”
“Abso-bloody-lutely.”
I was a wild woman.
Chapter Nine
From winter into spring and on into summer, I finalized the design, chose furniture, equipment, cabinets, sinks, granite countertops, metallic paints from midnight blue to silver for the ceiling and walls, with special reminders to all workers to be extra careful to cover the spectacular sealed-glass floor—thousands of shards of stained glass suspended in, and coated by, polyurethane. It had depth and richness and color.
I tasted coffee from every espresso machine I could find and chose two for the café. I immersed myself in all things made to enhance and embody luxury service. I wanted Ratification Hair Salon, Spa & Café—a name that affirmed my new life—to be (as Sebastian had described) architecturally-forward, but I made certain it was also fashion-forward, classy, and comfortable.
Margo and I attended every available stylist-training class, including weekend training in Chicago, while Trisha managed the work crew. I just had to brush up on my skills. Margo was behind me fifteen-hundred stylist hours.
With all the work and training, my life blurred. Most importantly, with each passing day that flowed into weeks and months, my pain from the Courthouse dissipated. The more hairspray, peroxide, and lacquer I used, smelled, and purchased, the better I felt—except when I tried to work on protection for the mesothelioma victims. I complained and whined and name-called and begged. Everybody in the place was afraid of Donnettelli, and nobody wanted to poke the curmudgeon.
But I wasn’t going to give up. Those people deserved justice.
Friday, July 15th, the official birthday of Ratification Hair Salon, Spa & Café—a slice of upscale pampering in East Lansing—had to emerge with the perfection of an Emeril Lagasse Celebrity Restaurant opening.
I needed a test run. Who better than my best-judicial-pals, who would bring their honesty, critical eyes, and forthrightness?
On the 14th, after my final walkthrough, I brewed a pot of coffee, plated my best café pastries, and swung by the Courthouse to pick up Laurel and Palene.
Staff who knew me swiftly buzzed me through into the judicial corridors, I found Palene in Laurel’s office, and we hugged. I announced the surprise visit to my new digs, and we hiked down to my Elvis.
I parked in front of the building, so we could enter through the front double doors. My blood pressure in the gutter, my confidence on the ledge, I unlocked the front door. “Welcome to my new life,” I said.
We stepped in.
“Look at this place, glitzy but not overdone,” Laurel said. “I adore the eclectic chandelier collection. Don’t be surprised if one ends up missing.” She turned around like a child deciding on which candy to pick. “The chandelier crystals make the silver lines in the countertops dance.”
Palene turned toward the work area and investigated the space. “You were right not to hire a designer. I see your sense of style and class. It’s more than a space; it’s a feeling you’ve created, a place I’d enjoy spending time and money in.”
“So much fun,” Laurel said.
Palene walked the length of the reception area reading labels on the products for sale. She finally landed at the opposite end, where the pastries were laid out. “Just like you to have a hostess area stocked with coffee and glorious pastries.” She slipped one into her mouth and spoke as she chewed. “Is this just for us, or will you fortify your customers while you beautify them?”
I handed Palene an antique Aynsley fine bone-china cup and filled it with coffee. “It’ll be stocked every day. Stop in and partake anytime.”
Laurel grabbed a coffee cup and watched me fill it. “This is going to be my regular route to work.”
Palene grinned. “I’ll join you.” She chose a cherry tart. “We’ll have to work out on our way home.” She bit into the tart and groaned with satisfaction.
We went into the workroom.
“Love this,” Palene said. But she stopped short and snorted coffee, and Laurel and I almost bumped into her.
“What’s wrong?” I leaned around Palene to see what she was gawking at.
A man’s behind and two small feet stuck out from a bottom cupboard. “Not a worry here, missus Judge.”
It was Jose on his knees, doing something inside a lower cabinet. He scooted back and stood and greeted us with a full-face grin. “My three favorite Judges!”
“I thought you were done cleaning, Jose.” I didn’t want to hear about a new problem at this late date.
“Si, missus Judge. My wife tells me to line the cupboards with paper to make it nice for your staff—and easier for us to clean. Thank you again for the extra work.”
“I’m delighted you were willing to take on the salon,” I said. “With the Courthouse and my home, is it too much for you?”
“Not a worry, missus Judge. Jose has much family.”
It was really good for me have Jose and his wife doing the major cleaning. I’d known them a long time, they were good and reliable, and I got to keep some of the friends I’d made at the Courthouse. While Jose finished up, I escorted Laurel and Palene through the rest of the place.
“This workroom is as much a gallery as it is a salon. Artwork in every possible nook,” Laurel said. “Reminds me of your chambers.” She stopped in front of a painting of a woman at her dressing table.
“How did you find all this?” Palene, in her true style, walked around, touching everything she could reach. I smiled but didn’t answer. It would take too long to tell the story behind finding each item. Someday, maybe.
Laurel stood and pointed at one of the doors that led to my back office and staff kitchen. “Is there a massage room? Maybe a his-and-hers—”
“Someday. You and that husband of yours. Is there anything you don’t share?” I giggled and showed them the secret passageway between the café and the salon. “Follow me.”
A minute later, we were standing in the center of the café.
“This is marvelous,” Laurel said. She sat on a couch, and then a chair, and noticed the microphone. “Live music?”
“Thinking about it.”
Palene ran her fingers around the glass food case. “The way my family eats, I’ll be by f
or a box of goodies every weekend.”
With her phone, Laurel snapped a few pictures. “I can’t wait to show these off.”
“I need you two here for the opening tomorrow. If everyone has your positive vibe, I won’t have to worry about earning enough to pay back the bank.”
I’d pulled the money from my retirement account, and a big payment was due in a few days. This had to work.
“You could always get into Donnettelli’s poker game. You’d clean up against those men and pay the building off.” Laurel chortled. Palene snorted again. But I shuddered. Damn, any mention of that oaf poisoned my soul.
“Just kidding. Anyway, I don’t think they allow women. They’d lose everything, including their undies, and that would be disastrous on so many levels.”
Damn, that was a disgusting picture. We giggled in a way that only good friends could.
Palene stepped into a lavatory to check out the facilities, and Laurel got suddenly serious. She whispered, “I’ve heard Donnettelli bad-mouthing you around—talking about you leaving in dismay.
“Dismay? Pfff.”
“Don’t ever fret about running in the red. If you ever need anything, I have enough pocket change to pay your bills and keep you afloat. I mean it, Nicoletta. I’m here for you.”
Laurel’s intensity and generosity took my breath away. I knew Laurel had money, and I knew it was well invested. The couple’s plan was luxury retirement, so they never dipped into their stash. Where would she get pocket change, as she called it? Surely not from her judicial salary. I bit my bottom lip.
Chapter Ten
Friday, July 15—opening day—had arrived. I stood with my new team in the lobby of my new salon. “Everyone, gather round. I predict we’re going to have an awesome opening day without a single catastrophe.”
“Getting this salon up and running has been a stormy ride, but because of you great people, I didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘dismay.’ I couldn’t have weathered the disasters without your help.” I gestured toward Trisha. “After the pipes burst, Trisha washed 172 towels.”
“Highly unusual.” Trisha high-pitch-cackled with her face so flushed red her scalp beamed right through her white hair.
“When the painters turned some walls hot-pink instead of midnight-madness-plum, Margo single-handedly repainted the room.”
“Would’ve been perfect for a brothel.” Margo bowed, and the group laughed.
“And Violet, I’m grateful that Sebastian let me steal you away for hours at a time. And, thank you also for working with him to put together all the paperwork.”
Violet curtseyed. “Sebastian, I mean Attorney Pearce, is wonderful. Thank you for recommending me. I love practicing law with him.”
“You earned and deserve that opportunity.” I patted her hands.
Trisha stepped in. “’Tis almost eight. Let’s do a countdown. The second the ribbon is cut, we’re in business.”
All I wanted was to get through our first day without catastrophe. My stomach did a flutter-flop, and I passed an imaginary baton to my ever-vigilant, other-mother and Irish confidant, Trisha.
“Before we cut that starter-ribbon, I need a serious minute with all of you.” I locked in a connective silent gaze with each face to ensure they understood how much they independently and collectively meant to me. “I need you to know that I appreciate you all so very much. I mean it.”
They surrounded me, hugged me, released me, and clapped. We counted. “Ten, nine, eight . . .”
“Stand back,” Margo announced. Her purple-sparkled nails flicked with each number. “. . . two, one. I’m unlocking the front door.”
In conga-line fashion, we formed a greeting line outside. Hands together, Trisha, Margo, and I cut the ribbon. Camera lights flashed. I made a small welcome speech, and Trisha went inside and flipped on the OPEN sign. She released a few helium balloons out the front door and welcomed onlookers.
Half the Courthouse and their friends appeared: amid the reporters and my girlfriends and I think every Ingham County woman with hair, the Governor’s secretary, clerks and court reporters from all levels of courts stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a gaggle of lawyers, who swore they were ready for new styles from hair to heels.
“Judge Kikkra—” The Lansing State Journal reporter began.
I interrupted. It would take a while to train everyone. “Nicoletta, please.”
“Nicoletta, before we all move inside, can we get some pictures out front?” the reporter said. His cameraman stood by his side.
I smiled and made sure to stand in sight of the salon sign as bulbs flashed and film rolled.
“Judge Nicoletta, for months Judge Donnettelli has been saying that you left the Courthouse in a fog of dismay over your chaotic life—his words.” The reporter began. “Would you care to address that?”
“I don’t know the meaning of the word dismay.” I pointed at the Ratification Salon sign and then held up touchdown arms.
Everybody cheered and clapped.
WILX Radio held up a microphone and asked, “But what specifically prompted such a career change?”
“Timing.” I smiled. “I’ll continue to help people, just in a different way.”
“You’re wearing your signature jeans and designer cowboy boots. Can we count on that same fashion-forward decadence in your hairstyling?” a young female reporter asked.
I grinned. “We’ll be keeping it kicky, classy, and a little bit sassy.”
Chapter Eleven
An hour and many questions later, photos and interviews continued inside. Clients appeared. Appointment slots filled fast. Fog of dismay, indeed.
I headed through the long reception area, past the coffee station, and through the doorway into the spacious workroom. It had a dozen workstations, three on each wall—one double station and one single. Each had a large mirror, so clients could admire themselves.
Three new-hires were already busy styling hair. With them, plus myself and Margo, even though she was still new at styling, I’d filled fewer than half of the dozen stations, so I was still understaffed. After my Courthouse experience, I wanted to work with the right kind of people; I had to take my time hiring.
The salon was in full chatter. Curly hair, short hair, colored hair, highlighted hair, shaves, waxes—the phone rang non-stop all through the morning and into the afternoon. We relaxed into a regimen of driers, clippers, and giggles. By late afternoon, my stylists, even ever-energetic Margo, drooped a little, but they looked delighted with their opening-day’s work.
When the last freshly coiffed client finally left, Trisha flipped off the OPEN sign, and the whole team cheered for a terrific first day—sans catastrophe. We’d done it.
But before Trisha could lock the front door, a pair of serious-looking men and two uniformed police officers strode in.
I recognized the first two from the Courthouse: Detectives Grayson and Fredericks. Geez. Prickly bumps were suddenly joyriding down my spine.
“May I help you?” I showed them my teeth. A pretend smile was better than no smile.
Stony glares all around.
Or not. I swallowed, my nose flared, and I felt the elastic in my underwear unravel. Damn. Chief Judge Donnettelli must have sent them. “Let me guess: when my chambers were boxed up, a stapler was accidentally packed?”
“Nicoletta Kikkra?” Grayson asked.
The nut knew damn well who I was.
He maintained focus as if daring me to deny my own name.
Grayson (Pastel-blue sports coat over soft-blue cashmere) and his partner Detective Fredericks (white tee under a black suit. Vintage Chicago White Sox cap). Homicide. I’d heard the Miami Vice wannabes testify many times.
“Haircut, Detectives?” I held out my showroom hand.
Grayson stepped to my right, and Fredericks went left. Before I could say
claustrophobia, they’d each grabbed a forearm, wrenched my arms behind me, and slapped handcuffs onto my wrists. And one of them shoved an arrest warrant under my nose.
Grayson enunciated as if I were a less-than-bright toddler: “You are under arrest for the murder of Warren Donnettelli.”
“The bastard’s dead?” Every red blood cell in my body had been shocked prison-gray.
“Apparently,” Fredericks said, “the Chief Judge was shot between three and four this morning.”
“Look Mr. Baseball, there’s a whole field of players who wanted Donnettelli dead. You’ve got the wrong slugger.”
“Tell it to the Judge,” he said.
The two uniformed officers looked embarrassed for them.
“Even his Judge-friends don’t like him,” I said. “Try them.”
Fredericks snorted. “We checked everyone close to him.”
Grayson jumped in. “They all have alibis. They all knew you hated him. They all have been cleared.”
“You’ve done all that this early in the investigation?” I didn’t believe it.
“Judges, law clerks, a few legislators were playing poker in another neighborhood when you were murdering Judge Donnettelli,” Fredericks said. “Even his enemies can prove they were with their spouses. One was and is still in the Bahamas.”
I shook my head. Unbelievable.
Grayson plowed ahead. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”
Now I knew the meaning of dismay.
Chapter Twelve
Monday, July 18, at 7:00 in the morning, in the solitude of my salon office, I kicked off my boots. Since the last time I’d sat here, I’d been handcuffed, read my rights, slammed behind bars, arraigned, and finally released on bond Saturday afternoon.
Sebastian stayed with me all day Sunday and filled me in on everything he’d learned. He said the detectives had already viewed several key security videos and had search warrants for more. Some good citizen thought it necessary to deliver footage to the detectives’ squad room—and the gumps still didn’t smell a setup.
All Rise Page 4