Death of a Russian Doll Read online

  “Just a cut today, please. A trim, really. Nothing too drastic.”

  “You don’t want something a little fresher? A little more chic, perhaps, maybe for the holidays? Some special event?”

  “Well, I do have a date tonight.” Famous last words.

  With that, Antoine was off and running. I’ll have to admit, Diana was right about the shampoo and deep conditioning. Many more of those and my life might lose its G-rating.

  I took my glasses off while he began cutting. Second mistake. I didn’t realize that he’d gone way past the trim I’d asked for until the razor came out for the back of my neck. By then it was too late, so I held my tongue while he pulled out the straightening iron and went to town.

  “Voila!” he said with a flourish, and I was finally able to put on my glasses and see what he’d done.

  My hair, I had to admit, perfectly framed my face, making me look like I’d dropped those twenty pounds I keep talking about. The style, a bit longer in the front and super short in the back, was probably inspired by some model or actress. I had to admit that the overall effect was pleasing enough, but the stranger in the mirror wasn’t quite me.

  Diana came up behind me and gaped at my hair in the mirror. “Ooh-la-la.”

  “C’est magnifique, eh?” Antoine said, pivoting the chair so I could see the rest of it, what there was of it.

  Antoine leaned in until I saw his face next to mine in the mirror. “Only for the date, we wear contacts, yes?” He pulled off my glasses. “And maybe we do the makeup, too. Fix the eyebrows a little?”

  This wasn’t really a question, and I squinted at his list of services to see how much the makeover would set me back financially as Antoine gathered his supplies.

  “You sure you have time?” I hedged.

  He pointed to the empty waiting room. “Slow afternoon. You caught me at a good time.”

  “I imagine things will pick up now,” I ventured. “Considering what happened.”

  “I usually get a run just before the holidays.”

  “I meant with Marya Young,” I said.

  Antoine waved off my comment as if Marya meant nothing to him. “Apples and oranges. Marya cut hair cheap. I can’t say I didn’t lose clients. But good riddance. The competition made me branch out to a full-service spa.”

  “But now perhaps a few of them will trickle back.”

  “And if they do, they pay a bit more, eh?” He froze. “Who cut your hair? Was that … sheepdog look … Marya’s work?”

  “Oh, no. My … relative cut it for me. Just does a little on the side.”

  He forced my head back to the mirror. “You want to look like a sheepdog, you go to a relative who cuts hair on the side. You want to look like a sleek, beautiful woman? You come to Antoine. N’est-ce pas?”

  I somehow croaked out an agreement but had to stop while he started working on my lips.

  “Pout,” he said, squeezing my cheeks so that my lips puckered. “And hold it there.” He leaned back. “Pouting suits you. You should do it more often.”

  “Not sure my father would agree,” I said. “Getting back to Marya …”

  He put his hands on his hips. “Must we go there?”

  “No,” I said but went there anyway. “I just wondered how she made a living charging so little.”

  “At first, I thought it was bait and switch. Give discounts to new clients and then once they’re there, charge them more. But the discounts just continued. She must have been making peanuts.”

  “Her husband seemed to think she had quite a bit of money coming in.”

  “That may be so,” Antoine said, smiling at his work in the mirror, just before whisking off the cloth that protected my clothing. “But she didn’t get it by cutting hair.”

  * * *

  I somehow made it through the rest of the afternoon without touching my face and hair. I avoided eating or drinking anything lest I mar my lipstick, although the high-grade stuff he used seemed like I might still be trying to scrub it off a week later. I did take a few selfies, just in case I wanted to replicate what he did later. I even did one pouting, just to see if it suited me.

  I waited by the back door for Ian to arrive. I already figured Cathy would be aghast if I wore my old coat, and I’d be freezing waiting outside in the short dress and heels. Especially now with the bare neck.

  I wasn’t sure what kind of car to expect. Ian Browning was loaded. Would he pick me up in a private limo? Or maybe a sleek sports car.

  When the Toyota Prius pulled in behind the shop, I almost ignored it. Not until Ian climbed out of the driver’s seat did I push open the back door.

  “Your chariot awaits,” he said.

  “I didn’t know that was you,” I admitted.

  “This okay?” he said. “My father seems content to squander his money on one of those high-falluting gas guzzlers, but this one is my choice.”

  “No, it’s fine with …” I stopped when I realized I was getting a head-to-toe inspection. A blush would have been welcome, considering the chill in the air.

  “Did you do something different?” He gestured to his own head.

  “Tried a new hair stylist.”

  “I approve.” He pulled open the car door.

  The conversation on the way to the restaurant felt stilted. I noticed that he avoided the self-park and chose the valet service, tipping them well. He straightened his tie. “They have to eat, too.”

  While Cathy might have chosen a show-stopping dress, she hadn’t considered one aspect: how much it would ride up my legs when I sat down. At the restaurant, I could at least cover my lap with a napkin. Sitting front row in a theater full of children? I wished I’d brought a bigger purse.

  “So,” he said, after the waiter had taken our orders and menus. “This is the date that might not be a date, depending on whether or not we hit it off.”

  “I think that was the agreement.”

  “Then let’s not waste any time.” He leaned forward, resting his cheek against his palm. “Where have you been all my life? Right here, above the toyshop?”

  I wondered if his question was a veiled Sabrina reference, but I left it alone. Instead, I told him about growing up as the daughter of the town’s chief of police.

  At the next lull, I thought about hitting him up for grant money, but that felt rushed. “So what is it that you do exactly?” I asked. “I mean I know about the foundation. And I know you’re doing some work on Jack’s place.”

  “Jack Wallace is one of my oldest friends.”

  “Mine, too,” I said, leaving out the past romantic interest.

  Ian squinted. “He’s been hiding you from me, I think.” He laughed. “But basically, I work for my father. It seems he’s amassed a pretty penny and needed someone to manage it for him, eventually. So Mom and Dad spawned one heir, raised him with the best tutors and private schools, and sent him off to Harvard Business School. Am I boring you yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “So my job, at least right now, is to assume control of his various assets, drop by drop, to make sure I can ‘manage them appropriately.’ To my father’s way of thinking, that means doing everything exactly the way he would—and bringing even more filthy lucre into the family coffers, of course.”

  “But you run a charitable foundation,” I said. “That has to be costing you money.”

  He ran his finger along the blunt edge of his knife. “You call it charity. My father calls it a tax write-off. And he only put me in charge of that because he was tired of dealing with the begging.”

  “I see.”

  “By the look on your face, I don’t think you do,” he said. “I enjoy the foundation work. It makes some of the other pointless things I do more palatable. In fact, I’d like to do more of it.” He leaned in with his elbows against the table. “The conglomerate my father built is a bit stale. Stuck back in the last millennium. Doing what they’ve always done. Business today needs a different feel. Less impersonal. More socia
lly responsible. Millennials want companies to have hearts and faces and ideals.”

  “And you’d like to be the heart and face of the company?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Someone has to. It’ll all be mine someday, so why not?”

  “So the charitable foundation …”

  “Puts a more human face on the Browning name,” he said. “Look, like anyone in business, my father has made a few enemies. He’s beaten competitors out of contracts, had disputes with former employees. When you start giving back to the community in a meaningful way, focus shifts from that negative past to the positive things you’re doing now. And people get helped. It’s a win-win.”

  I nodded, unsure what to say. I suspected “meaningful ways” meant with lots of fanfare and cameras, and that just wasn’t how I was taught to help people.

  “My turn,” he said. “Is working with toys what you want to do the rest of your life?”

  The question took me a little by surprise. “I’m not sure,” I finally said. “Don’t get me wrong. I do like toys. But the thing that makes my job special is working with family. Toys were my dad’s hobby a long time before we opened the shop, and I like to see him when he’s working on them. He’s relaxed and carefree. Maybe a little bit boyish.” I thought of the times I’d spent working with Cathy and Miles, and even Amanda and Kohl. And the game nights when we shared our shop with the community. “Yes,” I said. “I think I do.”

  He took a sip of his water then stared at the glass. I doubted I gave him the answer he was looking for. Our food came, interrupting his reverie.

  After a few bites, I carefully blotted my lips. “Can I ask you about our project?”

  “No.”

  “No? I thought you said—”

  “I said you could pitch me your project if we didn’t hit it off. On the contrary, I’m enjoying getting to know you. And I never do business on a first date.”

  “Not even attend a charitable function?” I teased.

  “Okay, you got me. I’m a hypocrite. But only because I was in a rush to see you, and I had two tickets. Tell you what. You can pitch your project to me on our second date. Fair?”

  I agreed, and small talk ensued. And by “small talk,” I mean that Ian told me more about what he might accomplish when every Browning business was under his expert management, and I nodded politely.

  When we reached the theater, Ian pulled down the mirror and adjusted his hair and tie before getting out of the car. It didn’t take long to see why, as media cameras were soon focused on him. I tried to get out of the way, but he had a firm grip on my arm. So I flashed a smile, tried not to look too uncomfortable, and hoped that some kindly photo editor somewhere would crop me out entirely.

  The Nutcracker, on the other hand, proved delightful. Just as Cathy had predicted, the dancers in the performance were talented and well rehearsed. I was happy to note that the glossy printed program, which bore the Browning Foundation name in several prominent places, was large enough to set on my lap, so I didn’t end up indecently exposing the minors as I sat in the front row.

  When we parked in the alley next to the dumpster, Ian turned to me. “Invite me up for coffee?”

  I looked up at the upper floors and noted the light on. “I’d better not. Dad’s home, and he’s, well, armed.”

  “Armed?”

  I chuckled. “It’s funny now, but so tragic in high school. I’d come home from dates, and there he’d be, standing right in the window that looked out over our front porch.”

  “Lots of parents are like that.”

  “Cleaning their guns?”

  “No coffee then.” He climbed out of the car and opened my car door.

  When we stood by the back door he looked up, noted that there was no clear line of sight from upstairs, due to the awning and the growing icicles, then he pressed me up against the door and kissed me.

  Two thoughts struck me. One, he’d done this before, and often. And two, the metal door was cold.

  “I’ll text you.” He winked.

  “Goodnight, Ian.”

  Chapter 14

  When I woke up the next morning, I had no idea what time it was. Gray clouds hung low, giving the effect of perpetual twilight.

  The TV weatherperson droned on about lake-effect snow in the forecast, and Dad was still there when I stumbled out of my bed in my Wonder Woman pajamas and somehow made it to the kitchen.

  “Why, Miss Prince,” he teased. “Coffee?”

  I pulled out a chair at the table and buried my head in my hands. “Why am I so tired?”

  “I don’t know,” he said as he put a large mug in front of me. “Sleuthing by day, gallivanting with rich playboys by night. It’ll wear a person out.” He sat in the adjacent seat next to his open newspaper. “And don’t think me insensitive, but what in the blazes happened to your hair?”

  “Antoine,” I said. “Marya’s biggest competitor. Everybody said it looked amazing yesterday. I must have slept on it funny.”

  “At least,” Dad said.

  Finally my eyes focused on the numbers on the clock. Half past seven. “What are you still doing here?”

  “I’m leaving in a few minutes. No hurry this morning.”

  “That sounds ominous. Is the investigation slowing down?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Initial leads are drying up, one by one. We even looked into your new buddy, Antoine.”

  I shook a finger at my father. “Don’t make fun of me. He had motive.”

  Dad took a sip of his coffee. “You know what else he has? A clear alibi. He was out at some special Reiki certification class. Multiple people can verify it.” He folded up his paper and creased it with his thumb. “What I really need to do is talk with Ken Young.”

  “He still missing?” I asked.

  “Last night his sisters came in to fill out a missing persons report. As if we weren’t already looking for him.”

  “Do you think something could have happened to him?”

  Dad cocked his head. “You mean like whoever killed Marya came back for him, too?”

  The thought tied knots in my stomach.

  Dad scrubbed his face with his hands. “I’ll make sure we consider that angle. At least it will appease his staunch supporters in the department, especially if I end up having to put out a BOLO. It gives us a new question, though. Who might want both of them dead?”

  “Ken’s not dead,” I said.

  Dad nodded, but his face wasn’t all that convincing.

  * * *

  Dad was right about my hair looking awful, and traces of that lipstick were stuck in the cracks of my lips, giving the appearance of pink scales. I’m surprised he didn’t run away when he saw me.

  A shower did little to improve things. I spent the whole time worrying about Ken. “Please don’t be dead,” I said a couple of times to my shampoo and conditioner bottles.

  And when I finally blow-dried my hair, I’d made a new discovery. Straight and styled by a professional, the short cut might have made me look like a “sleek, beautiful woman,” as Antoine put it. But styled by me? It all curled up, making me resemble a poodle. I’d gone from ooh la la to oy vey. Was it truly a step up from a sheepdog?

  Cathy’s eyes popped when I got down to the shop. “Tell me you didn’t go out like that.”

  “Looked fine yesterday. At the stroke of midnight, apparently I turned into a pumpkin.” I pulled out my phone and showed her the selfie.

  She looked at the picture, then at me, then at the phone again, then at me. “You want me to try to fix it?”

  I swallowed hard. “It’s just going to have to grow out. My hair does what it wants, and I’ve made peace with that.”

  Cathy continued to stare at my phone. “Great picture, though. If you ever join an online dating site, use this one.”

  “Wouldn’t that be bait and switch?”

  Cathy shook her head. “It’s still you.”

  While she held my phone, it buzzed with an incoming
text. I’d had one from Ian already, telling me he enjoyed our date last evening and inviting me to dinner later in the week at the nearby country club. This one came from Lionel Kelley.

  “Lionel’s finally going to let me look at that video,” I said. “Can you spare me?”

  “No problem,” Cathy said. “Amanda’s coming in later, so we should have everything covered.” She rolled a shoulder. “But about the doll.”

  “Still up to her old tricks?”

  Cathy nodded. “I wondered if you’d mind if I took her to see Althena.”

  “Your psychic friend?”

  “I know you’re a skeptic, but what if Marya’s still around and trying to send us a message through the doll?”

  “So you’re suggesting it’s not the doll, but rather the spirit of my ex-boyfriend’s wife, and you thought I might find that comforting?”

  “Forget I mentioned it,” she said. “But do you mind if I take the doll?”

  “I’d be happy to see it leave the building. And if Althena should take an interest in it, feel free to leave it with her. Now I have to scoot.”

  I’d made it halfway to the door when she called after me. “Maybe you should consider a hat?”

  I took her advice on the hat and added a scarf to prevent frostbite on the back of my neck.

  Lionel Kelley was waiting for me. He pushed open the door to his office and welcomed me in as if he hadn’t been ducking me for the last few days.

  “So you have the tape?” I asked.

  “About that,” he said.

  “Come on, Lionel. We had an agreement.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Before you finish, I should remind you that I review on Yelp.”

  He closed his eyes then stood up a little straighter. “Liz, my first duty is to my client, and he’s agreed to allow you to watch the video.”

  I reached out my hand.

  “But he asked that it not leave the premises.”

  He gestured to two chairs sitting in front of a television screen.

  “I have to watch it here?” I reluctantly pulled off my hat and headed to the chair. I was surprised when Kelley joined me. “You’re watching, too?”