Marriage and Mayhem (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 7)

by Jeanne Glidewell

  As Yvonne tested the water with her hand, waiting for it to warm up sufficiently, I tried to engage her in friendly conversation. “I’ll bet you know a lot about almost every woman in town.”

  And slept with most of their significant others, as well, I could have added, had I not cared about how horrendous I’d look when I walked out the salon’s front door. On the other hand, considering how much Yvonne bragged about her sexual exploits, she might have considered the remark a compliment.

  Yvonne turned off the water, unable to make out what I was saying over the sound of it running. She rolled her eyes dramatically, sighed heavily, and asked, “What?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just talking to myself.”

  She looked at me as if she’d rather be washing the hair of a rabid coyote. “Well, stop it!”

  I nodded and closed my pie-hole tightly. Getting a list of highly respected and recommended local wedding planners out of her was going to be an even bigger challenge than I’d anticipated, if she consented to speak with me at all. She was usually much friendlier than this. I knew I’d probably have to see about getting a new stylist.

  I had debated searching the Internet for a wedding planner, but was hesitant to choose one based on nothing more than online reviews. You couldn’t always trust them, after all. Any given wedding planner could undoubtedly rely on their mother, aunts, sisters, and closest friends for five-star online reviews, regardless of their true and honest opinions. Surely a best friend would not post a review that read, “She planned my entire wedding for free because I was her maid-of-honor, so I really can’t complain about all the mistakes that popped up throughout the ceremony and the chaotic reception that followed.”

  Back at Yvonne’s station, I remained mum. I felt uncomfortable when she stared at me for several long seconds. Finally, she shrugged and asked, “Well, are you going to give me some kind of clue about what color you want?”

  “Oh, sorry. Just the usual, please.”

  “The usual? Seriously? I’ve done a hundred dye jobs since I gave you your last highlight. I forgot my own address when I was filling out forms at the dermatology office on Monday, so don’t expect me to remember what color you like your highlights to be.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Wow! Somebody needs a nap. Or perhaps a better prognosis on that unsightly mole on their neck, I wanted to say. But, of course, I didn’t. Instead, I apologized again. “I’m sorry. Why don’t you just surprise me? I just need something to cover up any gray strands that are starting to sneak into my natural brown hair, and I trust your judgment.”

  “Natural?” Yvonne laughed. “Okay, if you say so.”

  “I do say so.” I knew I sounded defiant, but so far I hadn’t found much reason to be congenial. I’d almost convinced myself not to utter another word. In fact, I was about to stand up and walk out of the salon, when Yvonne’s demeanor turned on a dime. I was caught off-guard when she said, “I’m so sorry. I’ve had a bad day, and shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

  Why? Did your next client’s boyfriend give you the clap? I was tempted to respond. But, once again, I resisted the impulse and apologized. “I’m sorry for―”

  “Nonsense.” Yvonne patted my shoulder and smiled at me with what passed for a sincere expression of remorse. “It’s I who needs to apologize for being such a grouch this morning. I’ve had a difficult couple of days. In fact, I had a terrible argument with my sister this morning, and I’m still smarting from some of the comments she made. Deb wasn’t happy about having to give me a lift to work, and as usual, I was the recipient of a long, drawn-out lecture. Deb thinks that because I’m her little sister, she has the right to tell me how to live my life.”

  “Oh.” I hoped Yvonne wasn’t expecting an elaborate response. I was sorry if her car was having mechanical issues and that her sister had—justifiably, no doubt—reprimanded her for her reckless lifestyle, but I didn’t think I should have to bear the brunt of her misfortune.

  When Yvonne realized I was not going to jump to her defense, she immediately changed the topic and adopted a new bubbly demeanor. “So, tell me, Lexie. How’s your day been so far? I have a highlight color that will be striking on you, one that will make this pixie cut even cuter. Have you got any plans for this evening? It’d be a shame not to take your lovely new ‘do’ out on the town tonight.”

  Suddenly, Miss Congeniality had morphed into Chatty Cathy. Her about-face had been sudden and unexpected, but I was delighted to see her become more amiable. I didn’t want to waste the opportunity, in case her good mood faded away as quickly as disappearing ink, so I plunged right in.

  “No, no plans. I’ve been busy planning my daughter’s wedding.”

  “Wendy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kerri put highlights in her hair last week. I used to do Wendy’s hair, but all of a sudden she got a burr up her―” Yvonne stopped mid-sentence, and began awkwardly combing through her drawer for a pair of scissors.

  “You were saying?” I asked. I knew Wendy had switched over to Kerri several months earlier, but never asked why. I did, however, think she should have found a new stylist at an entirely different salon so she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable every time she came in and sat at her new girl’s station while Yvonne worked just yards away. When Yvonne ignored my prompt to finish her comment, I asked, “A burr up her what?”

  “I was just saying that Wendy will look gorgeous on her big day. I don’t know if Kerri’s much to brag about in the sack, but she does give a very good dye job.”

  I found her suggestive turn of phrase distasteful but not surprising. Rather than respond to it, I changed the topic back to the wedding. “So, anyway, I’m helping Wendy plan the ceremony and it’s had me running around like a headless hen. That’s why I was talking to myself, you see, and appeared so scatterbrained about why I came in here today.”

  “Ah, yes. I can only imagine. Better you than me, is all I can say.” She laughed in an agreeable fashion, before asking, “When’s the wedding? I’m certain I asked Wendy, but I’ve forgotten.”

  Where’s a “save the date” magnet when you need one? I thought. I told Yvonne the date and explained how little we’d actually accomplished so far. The dress had been purchased and the invitations and guest book were ordered. That was pretty much the total number of tasks we’d been able to mark off our list, which left something in the neighborhood of six-hundred and twelve more decisions that’d have to be made in the next four weeks. “Oh, and of course the ‘save the date’ magnets were mailed out a couple of weeks ago. That was a new one on me, I have to say. I’m really not sure how we’ll be able to get everything done in time.”

  Yvonne had cocked an eyebrow when I indicated I was unfamiliar with the magnets that were intended to help guests remember the day of the wedding. I guess it wasn’t just the roots beginning to rear their ugly grey heads that showed my age. She said, “Hmm…maybe you should see about getting someone to help.”

  “Hey! That sounds like a great idea.” I acted like her suggestion of hiring someone to assist with the wedding planning had never even occurred to me.

  “I overheard Wendy speaking about her fiancé with Kerri. How do you feel about him?” Yvonne asked.

  “Andy’s wonderful. I couldn’t have picked a better husband for my daughter, or son-in-law for myself. He’s my husband’s nephew, as a matter of fact.”

  “Yes, she said as much. I’ve never met her fiancé, but I hope he’s nothing like a few of his friends.”

  “Yes, well, Andy’s a great guy.” In my future son-in-law’s defense, I felt compelled to add, “I don’t know many of his friends, but I do know the guys in his wedding party are wonderful. I’ve never met his best man, Bubba Slippknott, but I have met Gunnar Wilde, who’s dating Wendy’s best friend, Mattie Hill.”

  “Isn’t Gunnar that short dude who owns the Wilde Horse Ranch in Atchison?”

  “Yeah, that’s the fellow. His ranch is adjacent to Andy’s. Gunnar and An
dy both raise cattle, but Gunnar’s passion is the wild horses he’s adopted over the years out of Wyoming. Mattie told me he owned seventeen at last count, and two mares were due to produce foals at any time. Fascinating, huh?”

  I paused for a response from Yvonne, but she clearly didn’t share the wild-horse passion. So I continued with my story. “Gunnar’s not much taller than my five feet, three inches and Mattie’s barely five feet tall in heels, so they make a really cute couple. Andy’s other groomsman, Wyatt Johnston, is a detective. He’s a cherished friend of mine and one of the finest men you could ever meet.”

  Yvonne looked as if she’d just been told she was being fired for stealing a bobby pin from the salon. She scowled and said, “If you say so.”

  “Oh, do you know Wyatt?”

  “You could say that.” Yvonne’s response was ambiguous and hinted at a former relationship with the man. Naturally, I wanted to know all the juicy details of any past interaction she’d had with Wyatt. I waited for her to expound on her remark.

  After an uncomfortable length of silence, I realized an explanation would never come. I cleared my throat. It was time to segue back to the reason I came to the salon in the first place. “So, anyway, let’s go back to your wonderful suggestion. You wouldn’t happen to know of a reputable wedding planner, would you?”

  Yvonne took a long time to mull over my question. It was as if she were giving considerable thought whether she should recommend someone to me or not. I began to think she wasn’t going to reply at all, when she finally said, “Well, I do know of one in the area you could probably get, even on such short notice. Lariat’s very efficient, if nothing else.”

  “If nothing else?” I didn’t like the sound of her last three words. “So, you say she’s efficient, but is she any good?”

  “Lariat’s a guy. His name is Lariat Jones, and he lives in Atchison.”

  “As do the future bride and groom, which would be convenient and a factor to consider. Do you think he’s someone I can trust to handle Wendy’s wedding and make it everything she wants it to be, even though we haven’t allowed him a lot of time to arrange things?”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course. Lariat knows his stuff, if you can keep him focused on the job at hand, anyway.” Suddenly, Yvonne looked lost in thought, as if her mind was a hundred miles away. When she noticed I was waiting on the edge of my rotating chair for her to continue, she said, “I’m certain your daughter, um―”

  “Wendy.” I filled the name in for Yvonne when she appeared to lose her train of thought.

  “I’m certain Wendy would be satisfied enough with him.”

  Oh, swell. I could hardly wait to tell Wendy I’d located a wedding planner I’d been assured would “satisfy her enough” if she could keep him focused on the job at hand. I nodded woodenly. Yvonne almost seemed to be trying to convince herself and not me of the wedding planner’s prowess. But I didn’t have any other wedding planner knocking on my door, begging to coordinate a rehearsal, rehearsal dinner, wedding ceremony and reception, all in a matter of a few weeks.

  I decided it wouldn’t hurt to check Lariat Jones out. If I wasn’t happy with what he had to offer, I wasn’t obligated to hire him. It’s not like I was apt to see Yvonne again, so I’d probably never have to explain why I pooh-poohed her suggestion if I didn’t think the wedding planner she suggested would work out. Unlike my daughter’s new stylist, mine would be employed at an entirely different location. Perhaps I’d try out the new hair salon on Maple Street. After musing about that for a few moments, I turned my attention back to Yvonne.

  “So, his name is Lariat, huh? Sounds really masculine. It’s the perfect name for a cowboy, for example. But maybe not so much for a wedding planner. Does Lariat, by chance, do any bull-riding when he’s not busy picking out the perfect flowers for a centerpiece?” I asked Yvonne in a joking manner.

  “He’s more of a hog-rider than a bull-rider.” I can’t describe the tone of Yvonne’s response. It was a mixture of humor, sarcasm, and bitterness. I badly wanted to ask her to elaborate on her response, but I didn’t want to seem like I was prying into her personal life. I swallowed my inquisitiveness and instead asked if she happened to have the man’s contact information.

  “Yeah, I have his number in my phone.”

  “Good,” I said. “It sounds like he might be ideal, Yvonne. Is Lariat a friend of yours?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  That’s what I’d hoped to hear. If she and Lariat Jones were friends, she might have mentioned his name out of loyalty. I’d feel more confident if they were simply acquaintances, and Yvonne’s suggestion was based solely on the man’s professional capabilities.

  “Lariat’s more of a recent regret of mine than he is a friend. I gave the man a ride and seriously wish I hadn’t.”

  “I see.” I didn’t “see” at all. I resisted the urge to meddle because I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear Yvonne explain what kind of ride she’d given the man. I wrote down Lariat Jones’ name and number, which Yvonne recited from the list of contacts in her cell phone. I then thanked her for working me into her busy schedule and recommending a wedding planner.

  After Yvonne finished highlighting and styling my hair, I took a deep breath and looked into the mirror. The color of Pepto Bismol reflected back at me, causing me to gasp out loud. I had to ask myself what I was thinking when I asked Yvonne to surprise me. I did say “surprise” and not “shock”, didn’t I? “Oh, my! It’s a little too pink, don’t you think?”

  “I think it’s perfect and makes you look young and hip. You’ll look like the bride’s sister, rather than her mother. In fact, you’ll probably be the prettiest woman at the wedding.” Then, as an apparent afterthought, she added, “Other than the bride, of course.”

  I was too shocked to speak. I had to wonder again what caused Wendy to switch hair stylists. Were the passionate pink highlights in my hair the result of a disagreement Yvonne had had with my daughter? Or, more likely, were they the result of my self-declared friendship with Wyatt Johnston? Yvonne had clearly taken offense when I said Wyatt was one of the finest men I’d ever met. Can I trust her recommendation for a wedding planner? I had to wonder.

  That was just one of the questions whirring through my mind as Yvonne removed the gown from around my neck. Without another word, I nodded and walked toward the front counter to fork over hard-earned money for the coloring catastrophe of my new “do”. I didn’t want to “do”. I wanted to “undo” and vowed to wash out the color when I arrived home, even if I had to wash it twenty-seven times before supper. All I can say is that, despite Yvonne’s reputation of being highly provocative and shamelessly promiscuous, she most certainly did not “give a good dye job”.

  I could imagine Yvonne speed-dialing Kerri the moment I left the salon, expressing her amusement about how I now looked even more comical than I had on Monday.

  As I waited at the beauty salon counter to pay, Yvonne summoned her next client to her station. A frumpy, bottom-heavy woman shoved a crochet hook and a ball of yarn into her over-sized handbag. She wore a shawl draped around her neck identical to the one my grandmother used to wear, even though the day was hot and steamy. Before she stood up, the woman extracted a crumpled, and clearly already used, tissue from her pocket and blew her nose loudly several times. It sounded like a gaggle of geese had invaded the building. Honk, honk, honk.

  I hated to admit it, but assuming there was any truth to Yvonne’s remark about sleeping with her next customer’s boyfriend, I could almost give the man a pass for choosing to spend the evening with Yvonne instead.

  I paid the tab, including a ridiculously exorbitant tip for Yvonne, and exited the salon. I couldn’t decide whether to rush home and wash my hair however many times it took to “unpink” it, or drive to the “Think Pink” shop in St. Joseph that catered to breast cancer patients and look for an attractive wig to wear to Wendy’s wedding. Instead of doing either, I decided to indulge in two or three cups of espresso and embr
ace the caffeine high.

  I headed for the coffee shop three doors down, ignoring the compulsion to glance at my reflection in the store windows I passed. When I reached Java Joe’s, I couldn’t help but see my reflection in the front door. My hair looked so horrendous, I decided against a caffeine fix. I turned around and sprinted for my car. I couldn’t risk running into someone I knew in the coffee shop. I prayed the entire way home that no one would be at the inn when I arrived.

  When I entered the huge mansion through a door leading into the kitchen, I came face-to-face with inn guest, Ginny Clevenger. She swallowed hard before saying, “Oh, how nice. You’ve had your hair colored.”

  “It looks absurd, doesn’t it?” I asked.

  “No, well, er, maybe just, um, perhaps a bit.” Mrs. Clevenger stumbled over her words, clearly too kind a lady to be up-front with me. She hesitated a second. “However, if you’re unhappy with it, I might be able to help. I spent most of my working life as a hair stylist, and happen to have just the stuff I’d need to strip that pink out of your hair.”

  “Oh, thank God. And you, too, of course.” The relief in my voice was evident. I wasn’t in the mood to be teased about my hair, even if it was all in good fun. “Do you happen to know if Stone’s home?”

  Ginny read my expression perfectly. “He’s not. In fact, Stone asked me to tell you he was going to the ranch to help his nephew unload a new tractor. Or something like that.”

  “Oh, good.” I let out a sigh of relief.

  Ginny smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll have your hair back to normal in a jiff, and Stone will be none the wiser. In fact, he might actually love your new look when I’m finished with you. By taking off a few of these tufts of hair on your temples that seem to have a mind of their own, I think we can make this a very attractive style. Would that be okay with you?”