Read Permed To Death [Bad Hair Day Mystery 1] Online
Authors: Nancy J. Cohen
Permed To Death [Bad Hair Day Mystery 1]
E-Reads
www.e-reads.com
Copyright ©1999 by Nancy J. Cohen
This book is dedicated to the members of my critique group: Cynthia Thomason, Charlene Newberg, Lisa Manuel, Ann Reynold, and Marilyn Jordan. Thank you, my talented fellow writers, for your suggestions, support, and encouragement. Not to mention the appetizing snacks! Our bimonthly meetings are the highlight of my week.
I'd like to express my thanks to:
Sharon Kozyra from Blondinas Hair Salon, for being so gracious in answering my many questions about her roles as salon owner and hairstylist.
Judy Carter and Janice Sklar, for their creative input as stylists.
Lieutenant Jeff Riffle, Plantation Police Department, for his review of police procedure.
Marla, if the coffee is ready, I'll have a cup while my perm processes, Mrs. Kravitz said, squinting as Marla squeezed the pungent solution onto her scalp. “Be careful! I feel it dripping down my neck."
"I'll be done in a minute.” Marla gritted her teeth as she bumped her hip against the shampoo sink. Already this promised to be an aggravating day. She'd had to come in early to accommodate Mrs. Kravitz, and the rest of her morning was fully booked. Not that Bertha Kravitz cared; she never considered anyone's needs except her own.
With an efficiency born of years of practice, she wrapped Mrs. Kravitz's rods in a plastic cap, then set the timer for twenty minutes. After washing her hands, she poured her client a cup of coffee and added a package of sugar.
"Don't forget my powdered creamer!” Mrs. Kravitz called.
"I've got it.” Marla mixed in two spoonfuls from a reserved jar, frowning when her spoon scraped bottom. Damn, she hadn't realized the supply had dwindled so low! Sparing a moment to rinse the container at a sink, she tossed it into the trash while making a mental note to buy more later.
"Here you go,” she said, handing Mrs. Kravitz the steaming mug.
"Marla, was that my jar you just discarded? I hope you have another one in stock because I'll want more coffee.” Taking a sip, the woman grimaced. “Ugh, this tastes like medicine! How long has it been standing?"
"I just brewed a fresh pot before you came."
"Give me another package of sugar.” While Marla complied, Mrs. Kravitz scanned the room like a vulture searching for prey. “Where's the bagels? I could use something to eat"
"I haven't had a chance to get them yet. Why don't you try to relax? You have less than fifteen minutes left on your timer. I'm going into the storeroom for some clean towels."
Scowling, Mrs. Kravitz took another sip of coffee.
Hoping to escape before the woman issued a new command, Marla rushed into the storage area. Her gaze scanned the shelves of chemicals, alighting on the neutralizer solution she'd selected earlier. She plucked it off its perch and was reaching for a pile of towels when a strangled sound struck her ears. A loud crash followed, like glass shattering.
Sprinting into the salon, Marla stared at Mrs. Kravitz, who slumped in the shampoo chair. Her bagged head lolled against the sink. The plastic cap wrapped around her rods had become dislodged, partially shading her face. Marla's gaze dropped to the floor where broken shards of the ceramic mug lay scattered amid a trail of dark liquid.
"Mrs. Kravitz?” she rasped, her heart thumping.
When there was no response, Marla stepped closer. She stared in disbelief as she got a better view.
Mrs. Kravitz's face was distorted into an ugly grimace. Wide-set eyes, pupils dilated, stared blankly at the ceiling. She didn't appear to be breathing, unless her respirations were too shallow to notice.
"Mrs. Kravitz?” Marla repeated, her voice hoarse. Maybe the old woman had fainted or been overwhelmed by fumes from the perm solution. Or she'd fallen asleep. But then her chest would be moving, wouldn't it? And her eyes wouldn't be wide-open like a—
Oh God
.
Bile rising in her throat, she prodded the woman's arm, then jumped back when Mrs. Kravitz's hand flopped over the side of the chair, dangling like a cold, dead fish. A surge of nausea seized her as images from the past clouded her mind.
You can't freeze up now, girl. Call for help
.
Rushing to the phone, she dialed 911.
"Police, fire, or medical?” replied the operator.
"Medical. I'm Marla Shore at the Cut ‘N Dye Beauty Salon. One of my clients has stopped breathing. I think she's dead!” Her voice cracking, she gave her address.
"I'm notifying the rescue unit. They'll be there soon."
Marla replaced the receiver in its cradle, her hand trembling as a sense of
deja vu
washed over her. Stiff with fear, she stood immobilized as memories from another time, another place haunted her thoughts. A child's limp form, cradled in her arms. Her screams, echoing through a summer afternoon. Accusations, harsh and unforgiving. She hadn't known what to do then. Maybe she could make a difference now.
She dashed over to check the body for a pulse, forcing herself to feel the clammy wrist. She felt nothing. A faint odor, vaguely familiar, assailed her nostrils. Briefly, she wondered about performing CPR, but logic told her it was too late. Sirens sounded outside, accompanied by the noise of screeching brakes. Any decision became unnecessary as a team of paramedics thundered in the front door. She stood aside while they performed their assessment.
A police officer arrived on the scene. After conferring with the medics, he asked Marla some preliminary questions. Numb with shock, she leaned against a counter while he notified his sergeant by cellular phone. She heard him mention something about a crime unit, so when several techs and a detective walked in, she wasn't surprised. Still, she wondered why they'd been called. Surely Mrs. Kravitz had a heart attack or a stroke.
Ignoring the technicians who scoured the salon, she focused on the steely-eyed detective approaching her. She could tell he was used to being in command just from the set of his wide shoulders, his determined stride, and the hawk like expression on his sharply angular face. Bushy eyebrows rose above a nose that might have been rearranged in his youth, indicating he wasn't averse to physical action when required. Faced with such a formidable symbol of authority, she quaked when he stopped in front of her.
Nervous, she began babbling. “I didn't realize she was ill. If I'd have known, I would have called for help sooner. It wasn't my fault."
He held up a hand. “I'm Detective Vail. Please tell me what happened from the start, Miss Shore.” When she'd finished, he studied his notes. “Let's see if I've got this straight. You wrapped her hair, gave her a cup of coffee, then went into the back room. Hearing a noise, you returned to find the deceased slumped in her chair."
Marla nodded. “That's right.” Her knees weakening, she sank onto a seat at the closest hair station. A quick glance in the mirror shocked her. Her short, glossy brown hair curled inward at chin length, wispy bangs feathering a forehead creased with worry lines. A stranger's fearful eyes, dark as toffee, stared back at her. Surely, that ghastly complexion couldn't be hers. She looked ill, which was certainly how she felt, but this wasn't as horrible as that day when—
"You made a fresh pot of coffee just before Mrs. Kravitz came in?” Detective Vail asked, ripping her away from painful memories.
She nodded, glad for the distraction. “I poured some coffee into her mug, then added a package of sugar and two spoonfuls of powdered creamer. My other customers prefer Half & Half, but Bertha insisted on using the dry variety. I kept a jar just for her."
A gleam entered his gray eyes. “Where is it?"
"I'm afraid I threw it out. I'd used up the last spoonfuls. She said the coffee tasted bitter,” Marla recalled. “I didn't think much of it because she complained about everything."
"Did you notice the color of the creamer?"
"Not really."
"Any unusual odors?"
"No ... yes. I did smell something after Mrs. Kravitz ... when I went to feel her pulse. It reminded me of"—she wrinkled her nose—"marzipan. Yes, that's it"
His eyes narrowed. “You mean almonds?"
"I believe so."
He scanned the tabletop holding the coffeemaker and related supplies. “Where do you normally keep the foodstuffs?"
"In a rear storeroom."
"Who's allowed back there?"
"Everyone. Even our clients go into the storeroom sometimes. Our regulars are pretty familiar with the place."
"You said die creamer jar was nearly empty. Did you recall using most of it the last time the deceased was here?"
"Not really.” An idea dawned on her. “Surely you don't think it was something in her drink?” she said, horrified.
"We're just collecting evidence, ma'am. The medical examiner will determine cause of death. Is there anything else you can think of that might be relevant?"
She frowned. “The back door was open when I arrived this morning. I meant to speak to the cleaning crew about it later."
"I see. Please excuse me.” He held a hushed conference with two techs, one of whom veered off to examine the trash and another who headed for the rear entrance. They'd already scooped up the dribbled remains of coffee on the floor, collected pieces of the broken mug, and dusted everything for fingerprints. The medical examiner had taken charge of the corpse. Finished with his initial assessment, he'd called the body-removal service.
Please get here soon
, Marla drought, looking everywhere but at the dead woman. To distract herself, she calculated the cost of a new shampoo chair.
Vail returned to resume his interview. “Tell me, how would you describe your relationship with Bertha Kravitz?"
She compressed her lips. “She was a regular client"
"When did she start coming here to get her hair done?"
"Ever since I opened the shop, eight years ago."
"Did you know her before that time?"
Marla hesitated a fraction too long. “Sure,” she said, careful to keep her tone casual. “I'd met her at local charity events."
"Excuse me,” said a young officer, approaching them. “There's a couple of women up front who say they're stylists."
Getting Vail's nod of approval, Marla slipped off her chair and hurried to the door. Her face lit up when she spied two familiar faces among the crowd gathering outside. “Lucille! Thank God you're here. And Nicole, I'm so glad to see you! Officer, please let them in,” she begged the burly policeman standing guard.
"I'm sorry, miss, no one is allowed inside."
"That's okay, Officer,” called Detective Vail. “You can let them inside but keep them near the door."
Marla hugged Nicole when the slim dark-skinned woman entered. Nicole had always been her staunch supporter, and she needed her strength now. She wasn't disappointed. Nicole embraced her, as though sensing her need for comfort.
"What's going on?” Lucille snapped. For a woman in her fifties, she presented herself in an attractive manner. Her light application of makeup was just the right tint to complement her colored reddish gold hair.
Quickly, Marla filled her colleagues in on what had happened. Her voice shook with emotion, and Nicole laid a comforting hand on her arm. The tall woman looked sleek and elegant in an ivory pantsuit, her thick raven hair tied in a low ponytail.
"Are you okay?” Nicole asked, her initial shocked expression changing to concern.
Marla drew in a shaky breath. “I've been better."
"This wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known the old lady would become ill."
"I should have been more attentive.” Her voice faded, and she remembered that other time a life had depended upon her. She'd failed miserably then and hadn't improved this time.
"Marla.” Nicole's sharp tone brought her back to the present. “Don't think about what happened before. That's irrelevant to this situation."
