Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (32 page)

“Can I still come today? Or is it too late and do I need to reschedule? I don’t want to throw your whole schedule off.”

“It’s fine, Carol. Can you come right now? My next appointment just cancelled. And I know how important it is for you to keep to the color schedule we set up last month, so we can touch you up once more before Jenny and Mark’s wedding. I know you want to look your very best for that.”

“Deanna, thank you,” I said. “Lots of things have happened since I saw you last. I think some of your special brand of t.l.c. is just what I need right now. Put the coffee on. Or, better yet, chill some chardonnay. I’m on my way.”

I ran around the house like a crazy person for the next ten minutes looking for something clean, and unwrinkled, to wear to the hair salon. I may be in the midst of a crisis – or two – but I’m vain enough to try to look my best whenever I leave the house. After all, you never know who you might see, and I don’t want to scare anyone if I haven’t taken the time to put makeup on. I finally settled for a bright lime green Lilly Pulitzer track suit (I hate the word “sweat”) that I found in the far reaches of my closet, indicating it hadn’t had an outing for quite a while. A quick swipe of blush, mascara, lipstick – you get the picture – my hair flattened down under a baseball cap, a probably illegible note for Jim so he wouldn’t worry in case he got home before I did, and I was ready to go.

Almost.

Lucy gave me that reproachful look I know so well, indicating a desire for a quick romp around the yard for her and Ethel. (She is always the spokesperson.)

“Be quick,” I urged them, shooing them out the kitchen door and following right behind them to be sure they accomplished important things as soon as possible. No time for sniffing the grass today.

As I turned to head back toward the house, I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I glanced in the direction of Old Fairport Turnpike and saw Bert Johnson standing on the other side of my picket fence.

I froze, unsure of what to do. How in the world did he find out where I lived? Or was this just a weird coincidence? Then I remembered how I had tracked him down using the Internet, and had a little prickle of fear.

Lucy had no such misgivings. She bounded over to the gate to say hello to her new best friend.

“Nice to see you again, Lucy,” he said, letting her lick his hand. She was so excited to see Bert, I thought she’d wriggle out of her fur coat with joy. Swear to God.

“And who’s this?” Bert asked, indicating Ethel, bringing up the rear as usual.

“That’s Ethel, our other English cocker,” I said, finding my voice at last.

“Nice to meet you, Ethel,” Bert said, giving her his other hand to sniff.

Then, he addressed me. “It’s nice to see you again, too, Mrs. Andrews. Have a nice day.” And he resumed walking down Old Fairport Turnpike. Leaving me slightly shaken, with much to think about.

For instance, how did good old Bert know my last name was Andrews?

Chapter 39

Q: What’s the big difference between a therapist and a hairdresser? A: Hairdressers don’t take insurance.

“I’m so sorry I forgot my appointment, Deanna,” I said, dashing into Crimpers out of breath and prepared to do any groveling necessary to get back into Deanna’s good graces. One of a woman’s cardinal rules is never to offend – in any way – the person who styles your hair. The consequences can be disastrous.

“I knew something must be up with you, Carol,” Deanna said, whipping a black smock over me to protect my clothing and gesturing me to take a seat in her styling chair. “In all the years I’ve been doing your hair, you’ve never forgotten an appointment. Or been late for one, either. I was worried about you. So I took a chance and called you.”

“Thank goodness you did,” I said. “You won’t believe what’s been going on.”

Deanna stopped me. “Let me go mix up your color first. I’ll be right back, and then we can talk.”

Ok, so now you finally know one of my secrets. I do, indeed, color my hair. But only to recapture the natural blonde highlights I was born with, and which growing older cruelly denies me.

I’m betting that most of you don’t even remember what your natural color is. Or care.

“All set,” Deanna said, returning from the back of the salon carrying a container of noxious goo, foils, and a brush. Trust me, even though the process looks disgusting, it produces fantastic results.

“Talk,” she commanded as she divided my hair into sections and began the process.

So, I did. Fortunately, there wasn’t anyone else in the salon to overhear my babbling. And babble, I did. And cry. And then, when the tears subsided, I went back to babbling.

Deanna wisely let me go on without any interruption, and finally I ran out of steam. And tears. (I bet this is the same technique therapists use.)

Deanna ran out of foils for my hair at about the same time. She turned my chair around so we were face to face, set the timer for 30 minutes so I could “cook,” and handed me a tissue to dry my eyes.

“Do you want coffee?” she asked.

I declined. I knew I was jittery enough without any added caffeine. “So, what do you think?” I asked my hairdresser/therapist.

Deanna applied some mousse to her hands and ran them through her raven (today’s color) locks. “I think it’s a darn good thing that my three o’clock cancelled today,” she said, eyeing the clock. “We can talk privately for about twenty minutes, but then I have a new client coming in for a preliminary consultation.”

Deanna sat down opposite me and said, “It’s great to get off my feet for a while. This has been a heck of a day.”

“So, what do you think?” I asked her again. Deanna doesn’t usually jump in and offer her opinion right away. The exact opposite of me. (I thought I’d better say that myself, before any of you did.)

“What do I think?” Deanna asked me. “I think all of this is nuts,” she said. “Nancy’s husband just happens to be having his hot and heavy affair with Jenny’s wedding planner. The wedding planner dies on Nantucket under mysterious circumstances. Nancy’s husband is suspected of killing her. And who not only finds the wedding planner’s body, but also places Nancy’s husband at the scene of the crime? You! Of all people. This sounds like a bad reality TV show.”

Well, put like that, I had to agree with her. It did sound nuts. Except for the fact that Tiffani was really dead. Etc. etc. etc.

“And as far as your daughter-in-law being the runaway bride that poor mother talked about on YouTube, maybe what you saw was a picture of Marlee’s double, not Marlee herself.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” I said, ignoring the fact that I’d come up with the exact same scenario myself before my overactive imagination kicked in.

“And your theory does, Carol?” Deanna countered. “Your theory makes less sense than mine. I’m betting I’m right on this one. And I read in
People
magazine that lots of the big stars in Hollywood use doubles today to throw off the paparazzi. We all have at least one identical double in this world, and I don’t mean someone who bears a slight resemblance to us. I mean an exact double.”

Deanna was pretty persuasive. The part about Hollywood stars using doubles made perfect sense.

“I’ll grant you that your theory is as good as mine,’ I said. “I did think of the same thing myself, when I first saw the video clip.”

The more I thought about it, the more I was sure Deanna was right. And I felt a tremendous sense of relief.

I felt so much better talking to Deanna. Not only is she a wiz with hair, but she’s pretty good in the advice department, too. And always manages to calm me down, which is not easy task.

Just ask my husband.

“I know someone who was cyberstalked,” Deanna continued. Somehow, I knew she would. She knows everything about practically everybody in Fairport.

“I don’t know her well,” Deanna said. “She only came to the salon a couple of times. And she told me about the stalking in confidence. I’m not sure I should say anything.”

I could feel my anxiety level ratchet up again.

“Deanna, if you know anything that could help, please tell me. When did it happen? And was she able to stop it?”

I know, too many questions. Another one of my faults.

“The client told me that the stalking started after she joined an online book club. She checked out the site before she joined, and it seemed legitimate. The idea was that all the members – she didn’t know how many there actually were – would read the same book for a month, then go online at the end of the month and discuss what they thought of it. Just like in-person book clubs do.”

I nodded. I’d heard book clubs were becoming increasingly popular, especially among women. It was a way to get together with others and share common interests, and perhaps learn something at the same time.

So far, I hadn’t found enough spare time to get involved in something like that myself. But it was on my to-think-about-doing-whenever list.

“So what happened?” I asked. “A book club sounds harmless.” “You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” Deanna said, leading me over to the sink so she could wash the goo out of my hair. For the next few minutes, I saw her lips moving but couldn’t make out what she was saying with the water pulsing on my head.

“You’re going to have to repeat that,” I said as I sat back in the chair. “I couldn’t hear a word.”

“Sorry,” Deanna said, wrapping a towel around my hair and squeezing the excess out. “What I said was, the whole cyberstalking thing began when my client objected to one of the books that was chosen for the group to read. I don’t remember the reason why she objected. But she doesn’t mince words, that’s for sure. Apparently, she offended someone in the club. And they started trading e-mails via the book club site. To hear my client tell the story, the e-mails from the other person escalated to such a point that my client believed she was being cyberstalked. Threats began to appear on my client’s Facebook page, too. And then she started getting threatening phone calls. It was really awful.

“My client said she was scared to death. She reported the stalking to the head of the book club, of course, took down her Facebook page and changed her e-mail information. She also reported the abuse to Facebook, the telephone company and the police.”

“So she knew the identity of her stalker?” I asked. “If I’m right about Jenny, and I pray I’m not, there’s no way we could figure out who the stalker is.”

Even though Bert Johnson paid an unexpected visit to me this morning.

“None of the members of the book club used real names, Carol. They all assumed the pen name of their favorite writer. So it was very difficult for the authorities to track down the stalker.

“And just when my client thought the stalking was over, she’d get another threatening message from another e-mail address. These cyberstalkers are clever. They change their addresses frequently so they can’t be traced. My client did figure out that her stalker had a pattern, though. He or she used book titles to stalk her. Under the guise of suggested books she should read. And as the stalking went on, the titles got more and more pornographic and violent.”

Deanna had progressed to the haircut part of my appointment, and I was trying hard to sit still while she worked. But it wasn’t easy.

“There sure are a lot of weird people in the world today,” I said, trying to process all I’d learned without scaring myself to death. “What happened with your client?” I asked, praying that there was a happy ending to this story.

“The book club dissolved,” Deanna said. “And once that happened, the stalking stopped.”

I pondered this information in silence while Deanna finished cutting my hair. I didn’t want to disturb her concentration.

“I’m the one who’s come up with the theory that Tiffani was mistaken for Jenny, and that’s why Tiffani died,” I confessed. “But Tiffani was being stalked at one time by a dissatisfied client, and it escalated into cyberstalking. I could be completely off base about this.” I admitted. “You know how I can get.”

“You’re a mother, Carol,” Deanna said. “It’s natural to worry about your kids. No matter how old they are.”

“Jenny’s worried about two elderly men in one of her classes,” I said as Deanna reached for her hair dryer and prepared to blast me with it. “She told me that every time she goes out to her car, one of them seems to be there. Watching her. She said it’s creepy. I told her to report it to campus security immediately. I hope she’s done that. She didn’t want to tell Mark, even though he’s a police detective, because she knew he’d get upset.