Murder With All the Trimmings (34 page)

Kiva is a global organization that lets you sponsor little loans that make a big difference to people in developing nations. The amounts may seem small by our standards. Many are twenty-five to seventy-five dollars. Most loans are less than fifteen hundred dollars.

At the Kiva Web site, you can pick your beneficiary, lending one hundred dollars to help a man sell fish, or twenty-five dollars to a seamstress who wants to expand her business. You can also buy Kiva gift certificates, so your family can choose the person they want to help. For information, go to
www.kiva.org
.

Make sure you get the right kind of red for the holidays:
Red is a good Christmas color, unless it’s in your bank account. Here are three easy ways financial experts say you can avoid the wrong shade of holiday red:

Shop in your pajamas:
Shopping online is a good way to save gas and avoid the crowds. “E-tailers” must follow the same rules as retailers. Online companies must ship the item during the time they advertise on their Web site. If their site promises, “We’ll have it to you by December 24!” then they’d better do it.

If the company can’t deliver on time, it has to give the shopper notice, with the revised shipping date. If there’s no promise of a special shipping date, the company must ship the item within thirty days of receiving the order. Protect yourself by making a copy of your confirmation order.

If calling the company for help gets you nowhere, you can file a complaint with the Federal Trade Commission at
www.ftc.gov
. You can also protect yourself by checking the Web site with BBBOnLine,
www.bbbonline.orgbefore
you order.

One more tip: Some consumers prefer to use major credit cards for online purchases rather than store cards. The major credit cards are often more responsive to consumer needs.

Two- and four-legged bandits:
One year I sent gift baskets for the holidays. Two friends did not call or write that they’d received their gifts. It turned out one gift basket was delivered to the porch of a friend’s suburban home. He was at work, and returned to find that squirrels, raccoons, and other critters had gnawed through the box and eaten the fruit, cheese, smoked salmon, nuts, and cookies. All he had waiting for him was a jar of preserves and some apple cores.

Another friend lived in a large apartment complex with no doorman or security guard. A “good neighbor” signed for her gift basket and helped himself to the feast.

To its credit, the company re-sent the baskets at its expense.

Happy holidays.

Don’t miss the nationally bestselling books in Agatha and Anthony Award-winning author Elaine Viets’s Dead-End Job series:

And read on for a sneak peek of the eighth book in the series,
Killer Cuts
, on sale in May 2009.

Two tiny women in their sixties stood outside the door to Miguel Angel’s salon on Las Olas. They were both about five feet tall and wore pantsuits, one pink, the other blue. Their hair was short and gray. They looked like little round twins.

Helen Hawthorne towered over them as she opened the salon door. “May I help you?” she asked.

“Is this where Miguel Angel works?” Ms. Pink asked. She pronounced his name
Mig-well
and said “Angel” with a flat Midwestern accent.

“
The
Miguel Angel,” said Ms. Blue.

“Yes, he’s the owner,” Helen said.

“Wow, you’re tall,” Ms. Pink said, looking up at Helen.

“Six feet,” Helen said.

“Are you a model?” Ms. Blue asked.

“I’m only a gofer,” Helen said. “I go for drinks and magazines for the clients, fetch lunches and run errands for Miguel Angel. I’m too old to model.”

“You don’t look old,” said Ms. Pink. “Your dark hair is pretty.”

“Thanks,” Helen said. “Getting my hair done by Miguel Angel is the best perk of this job.”

“We saw the
People
magazine article about how he changed LaDonna and gave her a new look. It saved her acting career,” Ms. Pink said.

“From ‘street’ to ‘elite,’ ” Ms. Blue said. “We’d love to meet him. He’s a real artist.”

“He’s here,” Helen said. “Come on in.”

“Can we actually come inside?” Ms. Pink asked.

“Sure, why not?”

“Because we’re fat,” Ms. Blue said. She said the F word as if being slightly chubby were shameful.

“We like fat,” Helen said. She didn’t add that the salon really liked fat wallets.

The two women entered cautiously, as if they expected a supermodel with a flaming sword to banish them. They surveyed the sculpted black and chrome client chairs, the chic black dryers, the outrageous bouquets of flowers. Billie Holiday was crooning “Stormy Weather.”

The salon’s softly lit mirrors were designed to flatter. The floor sparkled as if sprinkled with diamond dust.

“Oh, my,” Ms. Pink said.

“It’s beautiful,” Ms. Blue said.

“Everyone here is beautiful,” Ms. Pink said.

Black-clad stylists were working on two models in the sculpted chairs. Paolo worked on the blonde. The woman’s head was crowned with tinfoil for highlights. Richard was adding extensions to the glossy hair of a brunette. You could have built condos on the models’ jutting cheekbones.

Ms. Blue ran her hands over the leather scrapbooks on the salon’s rosewood center table.

“Those are Miguel Angel’s credits,” Helen said.

Ms. Pink opened one book. “Look at that. Miguel Angel has been in
Vogue
,
W
,
Glamour
,
Vanity Fair
, and
People
. He did the MTV awards show. He’s worked with so many celebrities.”

“May we have his autograph to take back to Pittsburgh?” Ms. Pink asked. “Our friends won’t believe we actually had the nerve to walk in here.”

“Let me see if he’s busy,” Helen said. “Would you like some water or tea?”

“Oh, no, we can’t afford to stay,” Ms. Blue said. “We just wanted to say hello. Everyone talks about his work. He’s famous.”

“And handsome,” Ms. Pink said. “Even if he won’t be interested in us.”

They giggled. Helen wondered if they knew Miguel was gay, or if they were talking about their cute, frumpy figures.

“What would it cost us to get our hair done here?” Ms. Blue asked.

“Three hundred for a color and cut,” Helen said. The price tripped off her tongue as if everyone paid that much for hair care.

“Oh, dear,” Ms. Blue said. “I don’t think I can manage that. I’m still paying off my Saturn.”

“Besides, we don’t have much hair to work with,” Ms. Pink said.

“Never underestimate Miguel Angel,” Helen said. “Let me ask if he’s seeing visitors.”

Miguel Angel worked in his own alcove at the back of the salon. He was blow-drying the tawny-haired Kim Hammond, this season’s top model. Miguel looked dangerous in his trademark black leather pants and black shirt with the collar turned up.

He wore his two enormous blow-dryers in black leather holsters, like six-guns. Why not? The man produced killer hair.

“Two nice women from Pittsburgh want to meet you,” Helen said. “They admire your work. They want your autograph.”

“That’s sweet,” Miguel Angel said. He was an international celebrity stylist, in a class with Frédéric Fekkai and that hunky Brazilian Oribe. Cuban-born Miguel Angel specialized in making aging beauties look glamorous. Actresses swore his touch could revive their lagging careers, and flew into his Fort Lauderdale salon from around the country. Ordinary women paid big bucks for his remakes.

Miguel asked Kim, “Do you mind if the ladies come back to meet me?”

“Really, Miguel. Are you giving tours now?” the model said in a bored voice.

“It’s good for business,” Miguel Angel said.

“But Pittsburgh?” Kim said with a sneer.

“There’s money everywhere in America,” he said.

“Then bring them back,” Kim said. “Give the little people a thrill.”

What a snob, Helen thought. In a few years, she’ll be begging Miguel Angel for a new look.

Helen gave Ms. Pink and Ms. Blue the good news. “Is Angel his last name?” Ms. Pink asked.

“No, it’s part of his first name,” Helen said. “Cubans are partial to double names, especially the men. They prefer combos like Marco Antonio, Juan Carlos and Miguel Angel.”

“Sort of like my Southern cousins,” Ms. Blue said. “I have a Billy Bob and a Larry Joe.”

“Yes,” Helen said. “Let’s go back and meet him before his next appointment.”

Helen took off across the salon with her long, loping stride. The two women struggled to keep up. “Stop! I mean, slower, please,” Ms. Pink said. “Our legs aren’t as long as yours.”

Helen slowed. Ms. Pink and Ms. Blue stopped when they saw Miguel Angel brushing Kim’s long mane.

“Look at her hair,” Ms. Pink said in an awed voice. “It’s like a silk curtain.”

“You do such beautiful work,” Ms. Blue said, handing Miguel Angel an old-fashioned autograph book. “Would you sign this?”

“I’d be delighted.” When Helen had first started working at the shop last month, she’d expected Miguel Angel to sneer like Kim, but he was surprisingly kind.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you look like a young Elvis?” Ms. Pink said, handing him a sheet of hotel stationary.

“Thank you,” he said as he signed it.

Ana Luisa, the salon receptionist, came back. “Excuse me, Miguel Angel. Honey is here for her final appointment before the wedding.”

“We’d better leave,” Ms. Blue said.

“Thank you,” the two women chorused, then toddled toward the door, trailing girlish giggles.

“Be careful what you say around Honey,” Miguel Angel whispered to Helen.

“Why?” Helen asked.

“Because her fiancé is Kingman ‘King’ Oden. He writes the Stardust gossip blog and hosts the TV show
Stardust at Night.
”

“Yuck. He’s King Odious, right?” Helen asked.

“That’s his nickname, but we never use it in this salon.”

“But he is nasty,” she said. “The man makes fun of older celebrities who’ve put on weight and young ones who are too skinny. He enjoys revealing who is in rehab. Didn’t he out a couple of actresses as lesbians?”

“That’s him,” Miguel Angel said.“King is mean. Lots of people hate him. But even more read his blog and watch his show. Two weeks ago, someone gave King a photo of Bianca Phillips without her makeup, and he posted it on his blog. Poor Bianca looked about a hundred years old. She nearly lost a movie deal because of King.”

“Isn’t Bianca back in rehab?”

“
Shhh
. That’s supposed to be a secret,” Miguel Angel said.

“Did Honey take the Bianca photo here?”

“I don’t know,” Miguel Angel said. “But if there’s a rumor that King got that photo at my salon, it could ruin my business. Go help her.”

Helen approached Honey, then handed her Miguel Angel’s signature black silk robe embroidered with his name. Honey took the robe and a hanger into the changing room. She was a honey blonde, like her name, with a pale oval face and small, delicate features. The heels on her shoes were high and skinny, and her long legs were encased in designer denim.

Honey carried a large, flat white box. She presented it to Miguel Angel as if it held the crown jewels. “That’s my bridal veil. It’s silk illusion. That’s very soft tulle.”

Miguel had done enough weddings to recognize illusion of all types. He opened the box and gently lifted out the veil. “It’s long,” he said.

“It’s a ninety-inch circle veil with silk-edged stitching.” Honey handed him a smaller white box. “This is my tiara. It’s crystal stars, in King’s honor—for Stardust, you know. We’re also getting Swarovski crystal stars for the dinner guests’ place settings. We got a good deal on them—only seventy dollars a star.”

“How many guests?” Helen asked.

“Two hundred,” Honey said.

Helen did the math. Honey was spending fourteen thousand dollars on wedding favors alone. She’d already spent nearly every cent of her savings to be one of Miguel’s Angels. He’d transformed her from a practical nurse with thick-soled shoes into the spike-heeled consort of King Oden.

“We’d better get started,” Miguel said. “The wedding is Saturday, and we still haven’t decided on a hairstyle.”

“I’d like to try my hair up this time, in a French twist,” Honey said. “Sort of Grace Kellyish. King will like that. Very classy.”

“Phoebe, wash Honey’s hair,” Miguel Angel commanded his assistant.

“But I washed it this morning,” Honey said.

“It will look better after my treatment,” he said.

Many customers thought they’d save time or money by washing their own hair. But they usually didn’t get out all the soap, and their hair looked flat and lifeless when it was styled.

“I use something special that will brighten the color,” Miguel said. “You don’t need your roots done yet.”

Phoebe tucked a towel around Honey’s neckline and washed her hair. The two women chatted like old friends. Phoebe usually didn’t get along well with the women customers, but she knew how to flatter and flirt with the older men.