All Rise

by Rosemarie Aquilina

  I’d be okay never finding out, but I hopped out. “This is harassment.” I wobbled, and Hunter grabbed my arm to steady me, and we crossed the street. “Maybe they just need haircuts,” I said half-heartedly.

  “It’s a battle of misinformation, you know,” Hunter said. “On purpose.”

  I’d heard testimony like this in cases before me: Someone was purposefully misdirecting law enforcement. I knew enough to be a quasi-detective, conduct my own secret search, plot my own strategy to save my destiny, but the bad guys had an advantage. They knew no restraints. Without the lying and stealing and killing, I wondered how well I could penetrate their defenses.

  “Let’s walk slowly so we don’t look like we are trying to interfere or give them any reason to think I’m worried,” I said.

  Hunter stopped walking and turned toward me. “Toots, you’re not worried about them finding anything are you?”

  “Seriously? Whose side are you on? If I was worried, I would have stayed and watched instead of hiding out with you,” I said. “I know the turbo streak that runs inside these pastel detectives. They solve crimes first and look at evidence later. I can’t, I mean we can’t, do anything that might trigger them to dance down a wrong avenue.”

  “Okay, Toots. Baby steps.” He looped his arm through mine, and we strolled toward the salon.

  When we got inside, the place was in full gab-and-glam. Eight stylist chairs were working, and the waiting area was nearly full.

  Trisha handed me a mug of coffee. She had a line of paying and scheduled customers. Margo was refilling the coffee station. Hunter, one step behind me, placed his hand on my shoulder. And from a corner in the reception room, a pair of detectives surged toward us.

  I had a sudden urge to pee, but managed to turn off the neon OPEN sign. I wanted scheduled business to continue without the disruption of any more walk-ins while I dealt with the detectives. Before I could speak, the pastel-green-jacketed detective fluttered a paper in my face.

  “Search warrants.”

  “Maybe you should consider search warrants for the Courthouse and leave me the hell alone.” I thin-lipped the detectives.

  All I wanted was for them to disappear, and if that didn’t work, I wanted them to get done, get nothing, and get out.

  Deadish eyes fired back at me, and the detectives flashed badges—like I might have not recognized them from the hundreds of times I’d seen them in Court, and—oh yeah, they’d arrested me on Friday.

  “We’ve conducted numerous interviews. You are the common negative thread in the Judge Donnettelli scenario.” Detective Grayson’s voice was monotone. His face was expression-free. “Search applies to the whole building. Uniforms are searching the café, too. In your absence, we served your manager. We’ve just finished.” He chin-nodded at the reception desk.

  Poor Trisha.

  Hunter stepped forward and grabbed the ugly documents.

  The men jungle-glowered at each other, and Detective Grayson re-flashed his badge to his golfing buddy. “Official business.” In case Hunter had been napping half a minute ago.

  “Make a wrong turn on your way to Hollywood?” Hunter tossed the search warrant back at Grayson. “Your talent’s wasted here.”

  “Go re-roll your P.I. license in Silly Putty. If you interfere in this investigation that’s all it’s going to be good for.” Grayson returned his attention to me. “Maybe you want to tell your sentry here the felony penalties of obstructing. You used to be pretty good at that.”

  Hunter had it right. Hollywood was a good name for Detective Grayson, in his Miami Vice, Sonny Versace knock-off suit. Fredericks, in his black-leather vest getup, remained curiously silent. He was Tony Baretta minus Fred-the-Cockatoo. I needed to find a channel that played 70s and 80s detective shows. That and throwing buttered popcorn at the screen was on my secondary agenda for fun.

  “Do what you will, but don’t interfere with my customers, ever.” I emphasized the ‘ever.’ I felt taller. And in control. A little.

  But the detectives ignored me, poked about the salon, and eventually headed to the café. Grayson called back to Hunter, “We’re still on for the Traverse City Open, right?”

  Hunter nodded. The detectives disappeared into the café. Uniformed officers followed, and anticipating a mess, I wiggled a finger at Hunter—the traitor.

  But before we could go to the café, Trisha cackled loudly and pointed me to the opposite end of the reception area, near the end of the product shelves.

  I joined her and found Dinkie-Do had commandeered a table and turned the end of the room into a makeup counter. A camera and a small printer sat on the corner table ledge. And a large photo album lay open. I hadn’t had time to fill it with opening-day photos.

  I hugged Dinkie-Do. “Aside from pilfering from my office, how’d you do all of this so quickly?” I flipped through several pages in the album of before-and-after customers who’d scribbled-in reviews. Dinkie-Do and Margo planned to enter them in my new website. “You’re miraculous.”

  “It’s been a busy day, and this is just a little distraction from the Domineering Duo,” Dinkie-Do said.

  “Trisha and Margo helped.” Dinkie-Do shoulder bobbed. “Every waiting customer got a free makeover.” With a ta-da flair, he showed off his talent one woman at time.

  “Incredible.” Dinkie-Do was to makeup what Edward Scissorhands was to hair.

  “Honey, you’ll need to reorder items, but not too many. I’ve decided to develop my own makeup line, and you’ll want to stock it. I’ve been thinking on it for a while.”

  “Let me guess, shadows to match your blue hair streak?”

  He waved and swiveled his hips, and five ladies giggled. “Of course, and you’ll carry it here. And on the website.”

  Eventually I’d regain full control of my salon and my life, but it wouldn’t be now, and it wouldn’t be soon. Seeing every female in the salon jumping up to ensure her place in line, I realized just what a gem the idea was and wanted to recommend Dinkie-Do for a Mensa membership.

  “Trisha can schedule as many makeovers as you can fit in.” I wondered what a Dinkie-Do color pallet would look like. I envisioned The Tiller Girls, flamingoes, peacocks, and a sandstorm with a rainbow in the bluest sky. If anyone could sell it, Dinkie-Do could.

  My immediate secret need was hairspray, a pedicure, and a total-body massage while eating a barrel of chocolate-covered coffee beans frozen in coffee ice cream. I had to stop my inner screaming.

  Trisha nested a mug of coffee in my hand. “Dinkie-Do is his own fierce force.” She popped an earbud in one ear for music and a small blue earplug in the other ear. No wonder she could work in chaos without distraction.

  I distracted myself by chitchatting with customers before Detective Grayson swaggered back into the salon swinging a sealed evidence bag, and Hunter shadowed him. I felt like a client suffering serious perm burns.

  I fixated on the evidence bag.

  “Finished? Curfew comes quickly.” I purposefully had a deep sneer in my voice as a reminder of how inconvenienced I was. Even if Grayson didn’t get it, I felt better. And sometimes it was just about a girl feeling better.

  “Pocket calendars.” Grayson held up the bag.

  I waited for the brilliant explanation that was sure to follow.

  “Calendars from the banks—the hundred-thousand-dollar account—banks,” Hunter said.

  “Not mine,” I said.

  “They were under your magazines on your tables in your building,” Grayson said. “And we all know criminals like mementos. On your way out of the bank—easy to grab.”

  “We hardly ever strip-search patrons.” I set my mug down with a clunk and asked Trisha to lock up tonight because I had a thing for the afternoon. I ignored the Hollywood Twins and the mess they were making, then returned to my office, grabbed my bag, and exited stage left.
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  The near-sighted creeps would soon search my car, my home, damn even my underwear drawer. My immediate mission was clear: find out who planted the damn calendars.

  I needed a step-by-step plan. It was someone who knew me, could plant evidence, and was linked to Donnettelli. My first thought was Jurisa. She and Keldon had both been there, but surely Trisha would have watched them the whole time. I’d scour the appointment book to consider everyone who’d entered my salon.

  How the hell was I going to find who-dun-it?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When I returned to work the next day, my poor Ratification Hair Salon looked like the countless before-and-after search warrant photos I’d seen. I texted staff about restoring the salon to order and discovered they were already en route.

  Soon the place was salon professional enough to satisfy Vidal Sassoon.

  I stepped into the hallway and smelled familiar cologne.

  An Australian-flavored whisper came: “Doll, is it safe to join you, or are you still in clean-up mode?”

  Sebastian’s timing, like his looks, equaled perfection. Mine, disastrous. I grabbed his oversized manly hand and silently led him behind the door into the secret hallway between the café and the salon. I turned the lock and flicked on the lights.

  Sebastian faced me with a hair of space between us, an arm raised over my head, and his fingertips resting on the wall. “Miss me?” He grinned and bent his head toward me like a date that ends in breakfast.

  My mind was in sync with his; my body had been there for hours. But the lawyer-wants-to-stay-out-of-prison side had serious issues to resolve and control to regain. “Have you found any evidence to show detectives those bank accounts aren’t mine, and the bank calendars were planted?”

  “Negative.” He ran the tip of a finger over my bottom lip.

  I forced myself to concentrate on staying out of jail. “I mean did you point out the obvious, like the money had been wired, so I wouldn’t have stepped inside their damn banks? And if I were that stupid—which I’m not—why risk twelve banks? It’s over ten grand, so I might as well put it all in one account.”

  “Doll, to open the accounts you had to sign the signature cards and present your ID—in person.” His brows wrinkled up like waving flags, and he kissed me. “Somebody had to have an ID card with your name on it.”

  I came up for air with new hope. “Forged signatures. We’ll be able to see the culprit on the bank video they recover.”

  “I’ve requested the bank videos,” Sebastian said.

  “But this AOL email was used to open the accounts, so all the monthly bank statements are going to the perp. Can we put a stop to that?’

  “Right now,” he said, “we could discuss the consequences of taking responsibility for those email accounts—together in the shower.”

  I reached up, snatched his Dundee hat from his head and ran my fingers through thick waves of bleached-blond hair. “I’m ahead of you.”

  Sebastian grabbed my hand. “Doll, you know my motto—next time you dare to travel under the hat, there are other things that come off, as well.”

  “You know my motto—everything that stands up must be sprayed down.” I giggled. His Dior blended perfectly with my Lauren. “Care to check the appointment book with me in my office, call Hunter—?”

  “I can check things all by myself.” He ran his fingers over my tee shirt outlining my breasts.

  I tingled hot and cold, up and down, and he kissed the side of my neck.

  But then I remembered my priorities. I barely pushed him away and let my hands drop. “Imagine me and you when I’m tether-free,” I whispered in his ear. “Right now, you’re my lawyer.” I ran my nails up the back of his shirt and stepped toward my office. “And later tonight we’ll explore other roles.”

  “Cops are obligated to turn over every piece of evidence.” Strong arms pulled me back and held me. “Think like a lawyer, not a defendant.”

  I wanted to turn myself completely over to him, but if we missed a step, I could end up wearing an orange jumpsuit. There’d be plenty of playtime, I hoped.

  He finally filled me in on the guys’ plan to meet the witness the police had interviewed—the one who claimed to have heard the shot that killed Donnettelli. Sebastian answered a few minor questions on our way downtown.

  We met Hunter outside Troppo’s Restaurant—a great place to eat—and we sauntered casually down Michigan Avenue toward the front of a large well-kept brick building, where people assist the homeless and others who need help. The men had tossed their jackets and ties in the cars, and I was in jeans, tee shirt, and cowboy boots.

  It didn’t take long to find Stella—the witness in the police report who’d heard the early morning gun shot. Grayson had further described her for Hunter: just over four-feet tall, dressed all in white, including long sleeves in the July heat, long blonde hair, and she carried a gray and white puppy in an oversized shoulder bag. She spoke loudly to the pup. Yep, we weren’t going to miss her.

  Right away, she took an unexplained dislike to me and cussed me out in some language I couldn’t identify, so I stepped back. Diplomat Hunter—man of the people—strode in to try, but she accused him of letting his eyes wander. I nearly did a jig when it became clear she liked my Australian man. We were jointly relieved.

  She said that on the 15th, she’d heard a shot fired inside the Courthouse about four in the morning.

  When Sebastian asked what she was doing outside before sunup, she said she lived on Kalamazoo near the Courthouse, and her puppy needed to relieve himself. In the early morning darkness she let him run around her yard, enclosed by chain-link fencing. While waiting for him to do his business the shot rang into the quiet of the night causing her to grab her puppy and lock herself inside her home. Sebastian certainly couldn’t argue with that. He thanked her for her candor, handed her a card attached to a wad of bills to buy puppy food, and left.

  Hunter had tried to suggest someone offered her money to tell that story, but that’s as far as he got before she thought he was calling her a hooker, and she tried to sic her puppy on him.

  We retreated to my office, and I asked Hunter to find out for me where Stella goes to eat, shop, or hang out. Meanwhile, Sebastian and I spent hours researching names from the appointment book, and he called Trisha in and out of my office to decipher her shorthand.

  When Trisha began to wring her hands, I asked her what was wrong and she said, “We’ve had a bubble of birds and blokes from the Courthouse make appointments like you wanted, but they’re not all polite.”

  “Who’s been rude to you? I can still give a good straighten-up talking to.”

  “That Noel, he’s a quick-talker. He acts like it’s my fault I can’t understand him because I’m too old. He’s the one who mumbles.”

  “Noel Lemmon?” I peered into the book. “Noel’s okay. He was Donnettelli’s Court Reporter. He just talks fast to hide his lisp.” I thought of my own disguise. “Trisha, think back, is it possible anyone from the Courthouse has been here in disguise?”

  “Judge, the people we see usually receive multiple services. Wouldn’t a disguise be discovered?”

  “Not if they just stepped in to check the place out.” The truth in Trisha’s question and the concern in her voice made me worry she was doubting my sanity. I made a mental note to visit anyone from the court system I could find in the appointment book.

  Sebastian and I used Facebook, Twitter, Foursquare, and Instagram to research salon clients with any connection to the Courthouse or Donnettelli. I hired InternetCheck, a search service that had access to otherwise inaccessible information. All roads may lead to Rome, but the evidence still led to me.

  Sebastian and I kept at it all day, and by nine-thirty I was exhausted and barely wiser and headed home—alone. One must have priorities.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

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nbsp; The day’s stress always melted away when I pulled into my driveway. My home. My space. My sanity-sanctuary.

  The house was a hundred-years old, historically intact, but I’d modified it to meet my needs. Where the horse barn had once been, now stood a big attached garage with ample loft storage. Some of the neighbors still maintained a horse or two for their grandkids, but I had neither the temperament, nor the desire. I did, however, love the attire, and my closet proved it.

  With the press of a button, the garage door lifted, and I searched the area. All clear. I pulled in for the night. I hoped to toss my boots and climb into bed before anything else went wrong. A refueling night’s sleep is what I needed. I’d mount my investigation tomorrow.

  Once inside, I could take the hallway to the kitchen and the back staircase to my bedroom, but I liked to walk through the house before I retreated to my private space. I pulled off my boots and my socks, wiggled my toes, and giggled at the furry tether that glinted back.

  Jimmy Jack purred and nuzzled the fluffy interloper. I dragged the cat on my ankle along the hallway into the kitchen, through the family room, around another shorter hallway that led to the foyer and headed for the front stairs that led to my retreat on the third floor.

  But the doorbell had the gall to chime, and of course my intrepid guard-cat immediately investigated.

  I so wanted to ignore the door. Nobody on this planet would have the nerve to drop in on me when I was this tired. But a second chime sounded, and my curiosity bested me. I grabbed my phone and went to the door. When I mustered the energy to peek through the door hole, an eyeball looked back at me. Only someone I knew would be goofy enough to do that. I looked through the side window at the familiar silhouette and opened the door.

  Dinkie-Do gave me the princess wave. “Honey, I am so glad to be here. I heard you have a lot of empty space, and I’m willing to grace a room or two with my presence.”

  There he stood in all his New York audacity. Colorful bags, swinging hips, expressive hands, and kind eyes.