Death of a Russian Doll Page 12

  Diana helped her with that, too. I’d remember to at least loosen the cap next time.

  “Thanks,” she said again, washing her pill down with a dainty sip. “The arthritis is getting worse, I think.”

  As Diana and I both helped put everything back into Glenda’s purse, I found a coupon with giant scissors and Marya’s name on it.

  “Did Marya cut your hair?” I asked Glenda.

  “Yes.” She looked forlornly at the coupon before crumpling it up with a sigh. “Hard to beat her prices. Or her work.”

  “She cut mine, too,” Diana said, pushing a lock behind her ear. “Can’t say I cared much for the woman, but her work was okay. She did perms and color, too. All the lowest prices around. Everybody went to her.”

  Lori sent her a bemused smile. “Not me. I go to Antoine’s.”

  “Can’t fault you for that. Antoine is dreamy,” Diana said. “And the way he massages your scalp?” She closed her eyes and swayed ever so slightly. “I suppose I could go back to Antoine.”

  “Is there another hair stylist who lost a lot of business to Marya?” I asked.

  “Are you thinking motive?” Cathy asked.

  Lori grimaced. “I’m sure Antoine felt the pinch the most. But you can’t possibly think he could kill someone.”

  “I couldn’t say,” I said. “I’ve never met him.”

  “Who does your hair?” Lori asked.

  And I stood there stupidly with my mouth open, then gave a slight shrug, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “My dad does,” I half-whispered.

  Glenda threw back her head and laughed so hard she nearly lost her dentures. “Hank McCall cuts your hair?”

  Lori gave me a full inspection, circling me once, then tugging on the back of my hair. “He actually does a nice job.”

  “It’s just that he’s always done it,” I said. “I suppose I ought to grow up and find someone.”

  “Sorry,” Glenda said, once she’d recovered. She took another sip of her water. “I shouldn’t laugh. Your hair always looks nice. Just the thought of Hank McCall … well, it’s not something you think the police chief does.”

  “Please don’t tell him I mentioned it,” I said.

  “If that’s the way you want it,” Glenda said. “But I was about to ask if you thought he might do mine.” She raised the water bottle in a toast, but Diana grabbed her arm in midair.

  “Never toast with water,” she said. “It’s bad luck.”

  “Sorry.” Glenda set the bottle down.

  A wide-eyed Diana stared at the bottle. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but toasting without drinking can mean seven years of bad sex.”

  Glenda chuckled. “Honey, at my age, I’ll take what I can get.”

  After a little more small talk, Cathy and I walked the ladies to the door. As they shuffled through the snow to their homes and cars, I gave Cathy a hug. “You did a great job. Despite the setback with losing Marya, this is still going to work. So proud of you.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “And let me know how it goes with Ian Browning.”

  “Will do.”

  And as I watched her head to her car, out of the corner of my eye I caught a glint of light through the shades at the PI office. When I turned in that direction, the light flicked off.

  What was Lionel Kelley up to now?

  Chapter 13

  Dad arrived home midway through the ten o’clock news. I was hearing him in stereo because they were playing a recorded interview with him at the same time. I deserted the 2-D version, still spouting off the prescribed lines about “not commenting on an ongoing investigation,” and found him poking through the fridge. He pulled out an apple.

  “I’d be happy to make you something. Pancakes?”

  “No, just hankering for something not deep-fried or slathered in sugar.” He carried the apple to his recliner and sank back and lifted his feet.

  “Home for the night, then?” I asked.

  He leaned his head back and sighed, and I grabbed a throw blanket and tossed it to him.

  “You are my favorite daughter.” As soon as he’d spread the blanket across his lap, Othello leaped up for a pet.

  Dad held out his hand for Othello to sniff. “I’m sure it smells like doughnuts and greasy burgers,” he told the cat. “And sorry, no kitty bags.”

  Othello seemed unconcerned with this as he melted into Dad’s gentle strokes. Soon I could hear his purr across the room.

  “How’s the investigation coming?” I asked.

  “Slow,” he said. “Liz, by any chance have you seen that old boyfriend of yours?”

  “I wish you’d stop referring to him as my old boyfriend.”

  “Fair enough. But have you seen him?”

  I wagged my head. “I went over to his house to try and talk with him today, but he was gone. Even his sisters didn’t know where he went.”

  “Do you think they’re telling the truth?” he asked.

  I sat up a little straighter. I hadn’t considered that they might be hiding him. But as I mulled the question, I began a slow nod. “They seemed genuinely concerned for him. So much so, they even talked to me.”

  “Learn anything?”

  I shared with him all that I’d learned about Marya’s background.

  “Good job, kiddo,” he said, his face beaming with approval. “Keep this up, I might have to put you on the payroll.”

  “We already have a family business, remember.”

  “And I hope you believe me that this time, I’m anxious to get back to it. Parts of me ache that I didn’t know I had. As soon as this investigation is over, one way or another, I’m back being the congenial retiree you know and love.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  “Dad?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Have you given any consideration to the idea that one of Marya’s competitors might have been angry enough to kill her? She ran such steep discounts that she drove business away from other stylists.”

  He raised his eyelids, but only slightly. “You think one of the local stylists has turned into what, Jack the Clipper?”

  “I’m being serious. And don’t you dare tell me to mullet over.”

  “You’re such a tease.” He closed his eyes with a satisfied grin. “Are you speaking in general terms, or is there a specific stylist you think might have wanted to give Marya Young the permanent … die job?”

  “A couple of women mentioned someone named Antoine. I thought I might go check him out.”

  “And rob me of my favorite client?” he teased, then grew more serious. “Just don’t accuse him of anything or ask too many overtly obvious questions. But I doubt there’s anything there. Still, can you take someone with you, maybe?”

  I instantly thought of Diana Oliveri, who’d been considering going back. “I think I can manage that.”

  He didn’t reply. Moments later his breathing turned into a gentle snore.

  I kissed him on the forehead and tucked the blanket in around his shoulders.

  “I’ll take that as your parting comment,” I whispered.

  * * *

  The shop was hopping the following morning. I blamed a tour bus which dropped off its riders just a little too early for their lunch reservations, but without enough time to explore the huge five-and-dime. Our little shop swarmed with seniors.

  One snowy-haired gentleman leaned over the enclosed case that held our tin soldiers. He tapped the case above one particularly bright metallic soldier. “I had a whole set of these. I used to line them up on the floor in battles for hours with my friend Timmy. We thought we were something, waging campaigns, sending in the artillery. We could almost smell the cordite in the air. I wish I could buy a set for my grandson.”

  I winced. “You can still buy sets of toy soldiers, but if they’re for play I’d recommend recently manufactured ones. We only keep a few of these for collectors, and we suggest they be kept in
a glass or Lucite case.”

  “To protect them?”

  “In part. If they’re stored in moist environments, like basements, the finishes easily dull. But more for safety. Many antique soldiers contain large amounts of lead. It’s not too much of an issue for the collector who isn’t likely to gnaw on them, but if you handled these a lot as a kid, you might want to be tested.”

  “Wow.” And he backed away from the case as if the little men were about to jump out and wage an attack on him.

  As he went on browsing through the rest of the store with his hands tucked behind his back, I cashed out the last of our Hayley Mills paper dolls, sold a stuffed Natasha (of Bullwinkle fame) doll to a woman actually named Natasha, and dickered over a remote controlled—via cable—Robbie the Robot, but we couldn’t compromise on a fair price, so the bargain hunter left disappointed and Robbie remained on our shelves.

  The biggest sale of the morning was a set of figures labeled “The Swingers Music Set.” Despite the images on the front of the box bearing a significant resemblance to young versions of John, Paul, George, and Ringo, and the repeated phrase “Yeah, yeah, yeah” which was plastered all over the rest of it, no actual mention of “The Beatles” was found on this unlicensed item made in Hong Kong in the sixties. Wink, wink.

  Before the rush, however, I’d managed to get a hold of Diana, then I’d called in two consecutive appointments for that afternoon at Antoine’s.

  I also texted Lionel Kelley seven times, asking him when I could pick up the promised tape. No response.

  Finally, he texted back: “With a client. Will have to postpone until tomorrow.”

  That got me thinking. How many clients could a one-man PI firm have at a time? Might he be with the client who hired him to do the surveillance?

  While I couldn’t stay glued to the door, I peeked out as often as business would allow, hoping to catch a glimpse of this mysterious client.

  During one of these checks, Cathy arrived with a squalling Drew in the baby carrier in one arm and a garment bag in the other. “Thanks,” she mumbled, as I pushed open to door for her and took the carrier.

  I wrestled Drew out of his snowsuit and tiny boots. “Going skiing, are we?” When I removed Drew’s little ski cap, his hair was matted down to his head with sweat.

  “Maybe I overcompensated,” Cathy said, “but that wind cuts right through a person.”

  Drew settled down quickly once all the extra layers were removed and soon was content in his swing. I told Cathy about my plans to visit Antoine.

  “That’s a wonderful idea. A new hairstyle will go great with what’s in here.” She hung the garment bag on the shelf behind the counter and unzipped it. The effect was like Dorothy opening the farmhouse door in the Wizard of Oz. Everything in the shop seemed like grainy sepia compared to the vivid technicolor that was the dress.

  I just stood there blinking at the silver-sequined cocktail dress that was reflecting all the light and colors in the shop.

  “Too much?” she finally said.

  My eyes took in the plunging neckline and the barely legal length. “Too much, and maybe too little, all at the same time. Cathy, where on earth would I wear that?” An apt question since you could probably see the glittery dress from space.

  “On your date with Ian Browning tonight,” she said. “Isn’t that why you’re getting a new ’do?”

  “To watch a bunch of little kids on stage in tutus?” I said. “I thought I’d go casual.”

  Cathy’s eyes widened. “Not on opening night, and not when you’re going with Ian Browning. This performance is more than a podunk dance recital—the troupe has national recognition, and several dancers from it have gone on to professional ballet, and even to Broadway. They have an alumnus in Hamilton! Besides, opening night is when all the bigwigs will be there, and you’re going to be seated next to the biggest wig of all.”

  I stopped to consider whether she was making a hair pun but decided she wasn’t. I took a closer look at the dress then squinted up at Cathy. “Are you sure I should get so … gussied up?” I asked, painfully remembering my parting shot to Ken’s sisters.

  “Have I let you down? And since when do you say ‘gussied up’?”

  “Apparently ever since I started chasing men.” I shook my head at the dress. “I hope he’s wearing sunglasses.”

  On my next peek out the window, a shadowy coated figure was just leaving the PI office. He—or she—remained on the threshold chatting with Kelley long enough for me to grab my coat and tell Cathy I needed to run out for a moment.

  He was a block ahead of me by the time I made it outside, and I had to walk at a pretty brisk pace to try to catch up.

  With all the winter outerwear, I couldn’t make a positive ID, but from the gait and height I was pretty sure I was following a man.

  I made a mental note. Dark pants. Checked coat. Blue ski cap. I’d narrowed the gap to half a block when he entered the pharmacy.

  Perfect. I’d be able to go in, maybe buy some aspirin or a candy bar—or better yet, wrapping paper—and get a chance to see him up close. I slowed my pace so I wasn’t huffing when I entered the drugstore.

  When I pulled open the door, the female clerk standing alone at the counter greeted me, barely audible over the upbeat holiday music. I waved back and then casually glanced down each aisle. The end caps were fully decked out for Christmas, and I passed by the replicas of the tree from A Charlie Brown Christmas and the “fragile” leg lamps from A Christmas Story. The next end cap featured personal grooming products scented like bacon. Bacon shampoo and body wash. They weren’t particularly Christmassy, but they might make a fun gag gift for Parker. There were, however, no customers in the aisle.

  And the next? Empty.

  I casually scanned every aisle without seeing another person.

  It wasn’t until I arrived at the pharmacy at the back of the store that I noticed the checked coat hanging on a hook near where the pharmacist was filling a prescription.

  The pharmacist, a man maybe in his fifties with a generous moustache, glanced up. I wasn’t sure I’d seen him before. “Can I help you?”

  “No,” I said. “I just needed …” I turned around and grabbed the first item next to my hand, which upon closer inspection turned out to be wart remover. I guess it could have been worse. “Thanks anyway,” I said, making a mental note of the name plate displayed on the glass of the counter: “Charles Barr, pharmacist.”

  I paid for my wrapping paper and wart cream at the front counter then added a peanut butter Lindt truffle to my purchase.

  “Okay, Mr. Charles Barr,” I said to myself on the walk back. “Why did you hire a PI, and what was so interesting to you at the barber shop?”

  * * *

  I waited in my Civic in front of Antoine’s until Diana Oliveri pulled in behind me.

  I’d almost lost my nerve as I scanned the extensive list of services placarded on the front of the building. Apparently Antoine did more than cut hair. He operated a full-service spa and offered mysterious, exotic treatments such as an Indian head massage, Famape, a Vichy shower massage, and threading. Some of his offerings sounded intimidating and others downright scary. I’d have to be careful what I agreed to.

  “Remind me to check my birth certificate when I get home,” I said to Diana when she joined me on the sidewalk. “Just to make sure I’m really a girl.”

  “Don’t worry,” Diana said. “There’s a card explaining everything inside, and it’s okay to just get a shampoo and cut. It’s all I usually do.”

  Antoine, it turned out, was a fairly slight man, maybe five seven, and straight as a board. He wore tight-fitting black pants and a short-sleeved black shirt that revealed extensive tattoos snaking up both arms. A black leather holster around his waist held his haircutting tools. He spoke without a hint of an accent, but threw out phrases in French, like mon ami and bon vivant and ça va at random intervals, which I suspected was more branding than heritage.

  T
hen again, the only French I knew was bon appétit and deja vu. Oh, and allons-y, but I learned that last one watching Doctor Who.

  “Come in,” he said. “I have to apologize. My receptionist is … out getting lunch. Who’s first?”

  I pushed—I mean allowed—Diana to go first.

  While he clucked and cooed and pampered her, and gave her that shampoo she’d been drooling over, I wandered his shop.

  The front was dedicated to product displays and empty waiting chairs, which might soon fill up again now that his main competition was dead. Considering the cost of the storefront, plus all the fancy equipment and doodads used to accomplish whatever medieval torture went on here, he must have been hurt financially by Marya’s undercutting prices.

  And despite his claim that the receptionist “stepped out for lunch,” there were no personal items at the front desk. A Styrofoam cup didn’t have a hint of lipstick on it, and I couldn’t imagine a receptionist at an upscale salon went without. The phone was set on the left side of the desk, and when I glanced at Antoine as he began working on Diana’s hair, he was holding his scissors in his left hand.

  My guess was that he’d had to let his receptionist go months ago. Along with his cleaning service. The haircutting area was freshly swept. That, he’d have to do quite often. But debris lined the walls in the waiting area, and cobwebs wove in among the chair legs. And running a finger along the tops of the pricy products all lined up on the racks left traces of dust on my fingertips.

  Antoine was clearly hurting.

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he said when he called me back. “Or is it madame?”

  Okay, I knew that, too. “The first one.”

  Diana grabbed my arm and held me back while Antoine cleaned his station. “Don’t risk it,” she whispered. “In the old country we used to say if a broom touches your feet, no man will come to sweep you off your feet.”

  I somehow doubted too many of my problems with the opposite sex were broom-related, but I humored her and waited.

  Once he finished sweeping, Antoine gestured toward his chair, and I climbed in.

  “And what can we do for you today?” While he said this he gave my hair a thorough inspection.