“Because no seated Judge in recent years becomes rich on a Judge’s salary. But Donnettelli did.”
“He clung to people who had money.” Laurel added, “His buddy Judge Haddes has money. We all spent money on our kids, but Jurisa and her husband saved theirs.”
“He was a bottom-feeding sucker-fish,” I said.
Laurel chuckled. “Jurisa was his insipid algae.”
Dinkie-Do set the color down on the cart beside his station and organized foils.
Jurisa Haddes walked every lunch hour, heat, rain, or bad hair, and was married to a now-retired detective, thirty years her senior. She openly followed Donnettelli’s lead, no matter how revolting, and soaked up the attention of men like dermabrasion sucks up dead cells.
“Donnettelli had no real respect for her. Ever notice her lioness-in-heat moves? She is famous for touching every male around her and freezing out every female,” Laurel said. “And her lame excuses to rub against Donnettelli! Kept me looking for wear-spots on his clothing.”
I fake-frowned. “You’re horrible.” I was hoping for something, anything to latch onto.
Laurel sipped coffee.
“Our feud was so widespread,” I said, “attorneys didn’t even mention Donnettelli’s name to me.”
“They were afraid of him,” Laurel said. “If they didn’t laugh at Donnettelli’s jokes, he’d even take it out on their clients.”
“He threatened attorneys, too.” I said.
Laurel slapped her hands against her cheeks. “Judges, too.”
Now we were into it. “The bastard did something to you that you haven’t told me. Give.”
Laurel gripped her saucer with both hands. “Like he did to you in the elevator—Liar’s blackmail. He wanted something signed and said he’d let Michael know about—Donnettelli and me—as if.”
This was it. “What did he want you to sign?”
“I don’t remember. I sign so many things.” Laurel set the cup on the counter and turned away from me. “I know I’m going to love these colors.”
Had I been dismissed? Or had she really forgotten? Alrighty then. Maybe Laurel was hiding more than chronic klepto-shoe-mania.
I strode back to my station. “I’ll keep asking questions. Somebody’s going to replace me on that suspect short list.”
Within minutes, Trisha appeared with a box of pretty pink glass vials trimmed in silver and placed one strategically at each station. I didn’t recall such dainty packaging on any recently placed orders. “Did I order those?”
Trisha fingered the ribbon on one she’d placed next to her register. “Sample box. There’s a number to place an order.”
“Those are big sample bottles, and pretty.”
“Highly unusual name,” Trisha said. “New company: Gamba. Better whiff as good as it looks.”
“We’ll see Monday.” At the end of a full Saturday there were too many fumes to get a good scent. I had to keep all my senses on alert in every way. Two perfumes in one day, a definite Fashion Don’t, as dangerous as having two men in one day. It could wait.
Margo’s bedazzled nails sparkled as she rapidly tossed a pile of gum and Blow-pop wrappers into a garbage bag, tied it, pulled it from the bin, and released it with a thud.
Dinkie-Do cleaned his station and put his sample bottle next to a silver-toed pump. “Oh, you all, go on with yourselves. I’ll spritz it if it’s a sweeter, fruitier scent—”
A sour-lemon wince embodied Carlye’s whole person. “You had to go there. Can’t you just let things be—tap dance quietly?”
Dinkie-Do ignored her. Nose up, palms up, rotating hands up, he magician-swirled. “As I was saying, I do not like those ones with peppery, cotton candy, cinnamon notes. I cannot wear them, I cannot stand them, I cannot sell them.” Finger snap. Twirl.
“Look Sam-I-Am, finicky scissor-clipper, glitter shadow, primper-man, maybe you should come out with your own perfume line. I might even be your tester.” Carlye rocked her hips and planted herself between their workstations.
Dinkie-Do wiggled back and forth, snapped his fingers again and then aimed a sly half grin at Carlye. “I’d ask you in a scented note.”
“I can smell it already. Just find me a scent that doesn’t offend my Shazam.” Carlye positioned her backside to Dinkie-Do and exited for her weekend. Dinkie-Do was staying late to work on his product line.
I locked up and called it day. I made a list of discussion points and was anxious to meet with my male trio. Dex was cooking, and I was hungry.
I entered my house to the sound of male banter, a set table complete with flowers and appetizers. The thought that I never had to leave my home with this kind of care crossed my mind, but it simultaneously occurred to me I’d be in another type of prison. I needed to stay in control.
That evening over dinner, we four shared new information and a horde of hypotheses. Hunter had followed Jurisa Haddes more hours than he’d cared to and now hypothesized she had a sister, and that sister had perished when—during a tornado in Kansas—a bungalow landed on her. I couldn’t argue. When the man’s right . . .
Sebastian was up to his sexy calves in profit-by-case-manipulation, and he was certain it was the reason Donnettelli had been killed. Dex—shy as ever about me and my career and how outspoken I was—thought Donnettelli had been killed just to get me to stop talking in general and about the Manville case, in specific.
But I had the real deal: Donnettelli owed Peter Dune poker money, and not only didn’t he intend to pay Peter, but humiliated him by forcing him to host the poker party—on an ongoing basis. Not many men endure someone’s sadistic degradation without contemplating payback.
Peter had been at the party, sure, but once Donnettelli phoned and made it known he was at the Courthouse, Peter could have easily slipped away. The man lived seven minutes from the Courthouse. He parked a rental car down the street from his, slipped out, killed Donnettelli, and the next morning, he messed with the card-swipe and camera software to make it useless in an investigation.
I asked Hunter to find proof that Peter had the skills to modify the recordings and to get a copy of the video of me in the hallway finger-shooting Donnettelli.
The men didn’t agree with me, but they had the decency to try to hide their patronizing attitudes. If I waited for them to bust a move, I’d be rooming with 2100 women, courtesy of the state of Michigan.
Chapter Forty-One
Monday morning, in an I’m-a-free-American mood, I clad myself in red Ariat Western boots, blue bootleg jeans, and red-and-white lace-cutout shirt. It was August 1st and about a month until my pretrial hearing. I awoke firmly committed to an added motto: “Every day is Independence Day.”
I entered the salon—ready to tackle the day. All I wanted was one quiet business day to review everyone who’d been in the salon, who’d had appointments, and who might have set me up. Were there any unique intersections between the Courthouse and the salon? Dinkie-Do followed me inside.
Carlye eyed Dinkie-Do. “Twenty minutes till we open. You sure is cutting it close.”
Dinkie-Do ignored Carlye.
“My first client is already waitin’ at the door,” she said.
Sure enough Donnettelli’s Court Reporter Noel Lemmon was hovering around the double doors. “He must be in a hurry. Carlye, go ahead and let him in, please.”
Dinkie-Do raised both hands in his half celebrating/half take-charge way. “I’ve got it.” He flipped on the OPEN sign, unlocked the double doors, and flung one open wide. “Welcome to the land of luxury. Miss Carlye awaits you.”
Noel smiled warmly at Dinkie-Do, who wiggled up to his station, pulled a few combs from the sterilizing solution, and lay them out on a towel.
Carlye met Noel, escorted him to her chair, and introduced Shazam, who was parked on his perch. “Ranger coming.” Squawk. “Pic-a-nic baskets. Hot
man.” Squawk.
“That’s a discerning bird.” Noel climbed into the stylist’s chair and let Carlye cape him.
“Hey, no on-duty vest, no pets,” I called out.
“That vest crushes Shazam’s stunning feathers,” Carlye said. “And this here beauty salon don’t want a bad rep for anyone having a bad hair day.”
Noel raised his hands. “No bad-hair day for me, please.” His voice was kind and accepting.
I sidestepped the hair-versus-feather issue. “And just what is the reason for your service-bird?”
“You ain’t allowed to ask that. And you’re stressing me out with the goings on around here.”
Great, something else to be blamed for.
“Bird feathers,” I said. “He wears the vest, or he flies home.” I folded my arms and stood in solid judicial stance.
Carlye harrumphed, grabbed Shazam, and slipped his vest on him.
“We’re having a no-catastrophe day here,” I said.
Noel laughed. And Shazam occupied himself quietly by picking at his vest. Finally, a good thing.
The front door chimed, and Hunter and Sebastian sauntered in and huddled with Trisha for a minute to get the scoop on my mood. There was so much swagger as they crossed the workroom and camped at my station, I expected to hear a chorus of “Howdy, Miss Nicoletta.”
But before they could acknowledge me, through the not-so-secret passageway, Rosa came in, too. “The latest bank deposit.” She handed it to me. “I mean in your dream, you might want to scream, because that bird, ain’t no nerd.”
I blinked at the revenue column and held back a yahoo. Hearing between the lines, I figured she thought Shazam was bringing in customers. “Impressive. I’ll set aside a portion in a Health Department Defense Fund.” It wasn’t easy to remain stern when profit was grinning up at me. Rosa gave me an understanding smile and headed back to work.
I called after her. “Hey Rosa, grab a few of those pretty sample perfumes from Trisha. Today’s special. You and the café staff should try it out.”
She accepted a handful of bright pink bottles and headed for the café. Hunter and Sebastian settled in at my station, and I stepped over to Carlye’s to speak with Noel and sent her for a short break.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Noel.” I pocketed my fingers. “I know you worked for Judge Donnettelli for a long time.”
“The bastard had it coming,” Noel said easily, without any hint of malice. Like he was just acknowledging the inevitable.
“Any idea who shot him? I mean if we stipulate I didn’t do it.” That’s me—Subtle Nicoletta, they call me.
Noel clowned it a bit, stroked a pretend beard. “If—and it’s a huge if—we stipulate you didn’t shoot him, then I’d have to say it’s someone Donnettelli was too fucking stupid to listen to.”
Colorful. “And you deduce this from—”
“Why else would anyone take the trouble to shoot him in the ear? Come on. That had to be somebody sending a message. And think of the number of women roaming the town, freed from visiting his majesty’s chambers in the middle of the afternoon. Yikes!” He made an exaggerated scared face.
I laughed. “You’re assisting the visiting Judge now?
“Until the November election,” Noel said. “Then I’m going to take some vacation time—somewhere you don’t have to scrape ice off your car for thirty minutes before you can run to the market five minutes away.” He laughed.
“People like to make fun of Michigan weather.” Carlye was back. “But me and Shazam, we like the seasons, and we like snow, and we like—”
Trisha interrupted and handed Carlye one of the free samples, a pink perfume-spray bottle.
“Oh! I likes me some pretty perfume.” She spritzed herself, and Noel pulled the cape up over his face.
Hairdressers and female clients spritzed. I sprayed my forearm. I sprayed again. Rosa stopped and sprayed her neck just before she opened the door to the café. I breathed in a long whiff. Not much to it.
But Shazam cawed and cussed and demanded pic-a-nic baskets. With a long, loud screech, he flapped to the highest point in the salon and perched and draped his left wing over his face, but he kept screeching. It unnerved everybody. Had he become so bonded to Rosa that he demanded to join her back in the café?
Sebastian called, “Dogs’ balls.”
Margo snatched a bottle and spritzed me, and then Trisha. The room wobbled as if our feet were planted on trampoline tarp.
From high above the chandeliers, Shazam squawked, “Dogs’ balls.”
Everyone seemed momentarily stunned until bewilderment spread. The spritzing and sniffing and nasal assault morphed into cognition and congestion.
Faces contorted.
There was gagging, coughing, jumping up-and-downing and harmonized nose-holding.
Ugh. The perfume was a definite Fashion Don’t Ever.
Carlye cried loudest. She performed a kind of tribal-looking rain dance with eyes closed as tight as old raisins. “Ooowhey. I’m blind.” Her tone ran up and down the scale. “I’ve smelled that stench before—under my tires. That there bottle has a skunk inside.” She peered through one eye. “Dead molted skunk.” She swung around. “My baby! Where’s my baby?”
Squawk. “Dogs’ balls.”
Rosa returned holding the bottom of her blouse over her nose, and her eyes blinking faster than a high-speed chase.
Sebastian and Hunter burst into uproarious laughter.
“How’d you let this happen?” I headed toward the pair of guffawing goof-offs.
His shoulders quaking, Hunter showed me palms up. “We use this scent to hunt. Like Carlye said—skunk. It’s bottled for hunters to hide human scent.”
“Holy shit—Gross.” Profaner words escaped me along with clean air. “Hard to take an adversary seriously when he has to resort to kindergarten stunts. What’s next? Fart cushions on the chairs?”
Hunter fashioned his hands into some kind of long gun and pointed it into the air.
Noel was laughing so hard, his chair shook. “I guess this cut is on the house.” He pulled off his cape and laughed all the way out the door.
“Your fancy perfume won’t hurt you.” Sebastian laughed out loud. “Some dunny rat replaced the perfume with skunk juice.” His face was actually wet.
“Didn’t hurt me.” But someone was making it clear he could get at me if wanted to. If Peter Dune had taken revenge on Donnettelli, would he take to harassing me? “Calm down, everyone. It’s just a manufacturing mix up.” I made it up as fast as I released words.
“Perfume got mixed up with animal-hunter’s camouflage. Trisha’s writing coupons for free services. Go home; we’re closing for the morning.” I motioned Trisha to attend to the front. She was vibrating her head and muttering highly unusual. “Did anyone in the café—other than you—get sprayed?”
Rosa shook her head no. I was happy to avoid hearing rap—maybe some good came of this mix up.
Careful to avoid contact with my total stinkiness, Hunter leaned and spoke into my ear just as I was rationalizing this would quickly pass. “Toots, there’s one other thing.”
Yeah, he needed a hit-slap after I showered. “I’m listening.” I clamped a towel over my nose.
“The scent tends to get much worse as it ages and is exposed to the elements.”
Ugh. Great. Before removing the towel from my face, I inhaled a deep breath, and clapped my hands until the room was quiet. “Everyone please exit. We need to clean up before the Health Department gets wind of this. Okay, poor choice of words.” I returned the towel to my nose and breathed. Hunter was right; the stench was already more robust. I couldn’t imagine it getting much worse.
Shazam eventually calmed, but he clung to Carlye like an additional appendage, and she blamed Sebastian for teaching him a new bad word.
Flinging the phony perfume bottle into a trash bin, Rosa turned down the hallway toward the back exit. Trisha grabbed a stack of towels and passed them out until everyone had one.
Two of the three other clients left peacefully with their coupons. But the third demanded cash for time and ruined clothes. Trisha folded a one-hundred-dollar bill in half and tucked coupons inside the fold, handed it to her, escorted her out, and locked the door behind her. Pulling the shades, Trisha chortled highly unusual.
I could live without ever hearing those words again.
I had a strong impulse to spray Hunter and Sebastian so they could join in the fun, but I didn’t—only because I’d lose precious time. I’d have to find another way to skunk them, so they could share nature with us.
Just as I thought my deep-woods day had ended, there came knocking on the front window, Trisha unlocked the door, and bells jingled.
“Guess I picked the wrong day to run away from my docket,” Palene said. She removed the knotted scarf from her neck and held it to her nose with one hand, the other held a rolled magazine. “Business reorganization?” She laughed and her short chestnut-brown bob seemed to laugh with her.
“Fumigation day, girlfriend.” I held my nose and promised to hug Palene another day. She slipped the magazine to me. I unrolled the latest Cosmopolitan magazine.
“Shayla said you’d be interested in this,” Palene said. She rolled her chocolate-brown eyes sharply toward the magazine and up to me.
I felt something bulky in the magazine and tightened my grip on it. Must be the Probate-estate verification. Friends and hairspray, equally reliable.
“Are you here to fill out an application? Heard you want a job as our masseuse.” I loved to tease her.
Both hands covering her face, Palene cleared her throat and stepped back to the front door. “First find a giant air freshener.” From a pocket, she pulled a red envelope and handed it to me. “As I was getting out of my car, a little girl handed me this and asked me to give it to you.”
Pressure like thick fluid drained rapidly from temples into my gut. “Thanks.” I couldn’t pull off a smile, so I palmed her a stack of gift certificates, showed her out, and locked the door again.
All Rise Page 17