temptation in florence 05 - seaside in death (25 page)

Pamela's dark-rimmed eyes lit up. “Ah, I like that. A bit as if your hair is on fire.”

“Exactly.” Carlina's voice was faint.
I want to get out of here.
She gripped the armrests to keep herself seated.

“All right. Then let's get started.” Pamela pulled a black wash basin to Carlina's chair and opened the taps.

A black wash basin! It must have cost a bomb!
Carlina clenched her teeth and managed to lower herself deeper into the chair, her head tilted back. She'd never realized how vulnerable one was at the hairdresser, with the throat exposed and plenty of sharp scissors within reach. She shuddered.

“Is the water too cold?” Pamela asked.

“No, no, it's fine.” Carlina cleared her throat and closed her eyes. She tried to concentrate on her mission and not on her hair and the catastrophic results she expected. Hair on fire, indeed. Who wanted to look like that? She didn't even want to think about the twelve little spiders that were expertly shampooing her hair right now. At least the shampoo smelled nice, of apple blossoms or so.

“This is a nice store,” she lied with as much conviction as she could muster. “But I've never seen you before, though I come on vacation every year. Have you been here for long?”

“We've only opened a year ago,” Pamela said.

“Really? Where were you before?”

“Oh, I'm from the South.” It didn't sound as if she had anything to hide. Her voice was quite natural, and the massage didn't falter for one second.

“Oh, how nice.” Carlina wondered if the fake enthusiasm in her voice showed very much. “But what made you come North? Isn't it too cold in winter?”

“I return home in winter,” Pamela said. “Work my back off in the season, then close the shop and go home when it becomes too dreary here.”

“How nice. Like migratory birds. How about your husband? Does he go with you in winter?”

“Oh, no.” Pamela massaged Carlina's scalp with enthusiasm. “He stays here. He can't get away from his job.”

“How sad. Then you don't really see him that much, do you? If you work night and day in summer and go to the South in winter . . . it sounds like a hard life.”

Pamela cackled. “If you knew my husband, you wouldn't be sorry. I don't have to see him all the time to be happy. Quite the contrary, if you get my drift.”

“Then why don't you get a divorce?” The words were out before she could stop herself. “Gosh, I'm sorry. It's none of my business. Those words just slipped out. You needn't answer that.”

Pamela laughed again.

Now she reminded Carlina of a crocodile with a sore throat. She quickly closed her eyes. The massage wasn't bad if you kept your mind off the twelve little spiders and all the other scary things.

“Bit nosy, aren't you?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Never mind. I like people who speak their mind. I don't divorce him because he would get a whole lot of money, and I don't want that. So we live side by side and no-one's hurt. See?”

“Yes, I see.” Carlina felt chilled to the core. What a reason to stay married. “Then you don't see him for weeks on end?”

“Well, at the moment, he's at home with an illness that has its roots in his vivid imagination, so I see him a good bit, more's the pity. But before that, he hadn't crossed my way for weeks.”

So no alibi.
Carlina filed that information away.
Good.

Pamela took a black towel and dried Carlina's hair, then wrapped it around her head. Carlina came up from her reclining position and looked into the mirror. Due to the weak light, she could only make out a faint outline of herself with a black turban. Her face was pale and freckled.

“I'll just mix the colors. Here are a few magazines, if you're interested.” Pamela pointed at a pile of glossy magazines. Carlina grabbed the first without looking at the title and opened it at random. When Pamela came back with a plastic tray that smelled of ammonia, she had her next question ready. “So, how do you like living in Forte dei Marmi? Have you made friends already?”

Pamela shrugged. “It's quite conservative, and if it wasn't for the tourists, I would probably die from sheer boredom. I definitely prefer to live in a larger town.”

“Well, sometimes things happen here, too. Have you heard about the murder?”

“Of course I've heard about the murder!” Pamela pulled the towel from Carlina's head and started to apply the stinking concoction to the tips of her hair. “We've hardly talked about anything else these last days.” She lowered her voice. “And you know what? I was actually in the neighborhood when it happened.”

“No, really?” Carlina's heartbeat accelerated.

“Yes. Sometimes, after work, if I'm not too tired, I go for a walk by the sea. I like the summer night air.”

No wonder, after breathing in the chemicals all day long.
“Yes, I can understand that.”
Keep on talking, Pamela.

“I was on the sidewalk next to the garden of the
Albergo Giardino
when I heard some people shouting, and then, the shot.”

“People shouting? Women?”

“No. Men's voices.”

That's what Emma had said. “Did you recognize the shot for a shot or did you think it came from the fireworks?”

“I thought it was a very loud explosion from some fireworks or other, but my husband immediately said it was a gun.”

Carlina jerked.

“Oops. Sorry about that,” Pamela said. “I spilled a bit of the stuff, but don't worry. I'll wipe it away before it can have any effect.”

Carlina stared at her. She didn't care if she came out of here looking like a zebra. She had found an alibi for Pucci.
Damn.
That was not what she'd hoped to achieve. If only there was more light. If only she could better see Pamela's face. Hadn't she just said that she'd last seen her husband weeks ago before he became ill? “Thank God your husband was with you! That . . . that must have been reassuring.”

Pamela laughed. “You don't know my husband.”

“What did you do then?”

“We went home. My husband said that he would hear about it soon enough if it was of any importance. He's a policeman, you know. If it wasn't important, he said, then he would be damned if he'd wake up sleeping dogs. He wanted to have a calm holiday.”

What a great attitude.
Carlina felt faint, but she forced out a smile. “Well, no doubt he soon got involved.”

“Yes. He complained no end about it.”

Carlina had to ask it, even if it sounded odd. “But didn't you just say that you hadn't seen him in weeks?”

Pamela shrugged. “I meant in any sense that counts. Running into him for a short walk at night doesn't count, does it?”

In this case, it does.

“Anyway, and now he's become ill.” Pamela sighed. “I hope they'll soon clear up the murder. That'll help him to get better, so he'll be out of my hair.”

“Really? Why will it make him better?”

Pamela rolled her eyes. “You're a real innocent, aren't you? He always calls in ill if there's too much work. It's bad for his health.”

An hour later Carlina left the hair salon, studiously avoiding the mirrors. She'd find out soon enough what she looked like. No matter how she looked now, it had been worth it, even if she had mixed feelings about her success. She couldn't wait to tell Stefano the news, but when she pulled out her phone, she realized that the battery had died.

With a sigh, she returned to the hotel. The hot, dry air and bright sunshine felt good after the oppressive atmosphere at the salon. Carlina realized that it was lunch time already – the hair job really had taken ages. She was going for a swim later on, just as soon as she'd seen Stefano.

But the first person she met when she came into the lobby was Ernesto. He had Nora by the hand. Apparently, he wasn't letting her out of his sight again. Probably they were heading to the beach before eating. She gave them a smile and a wave, but when both stopped and stared at her, she froze. “Is everything all right?”

“Yup.” Ernesto grinned. “Cool look.”

Nora didn't say a word, but her large eyes got even larger as she contemplated Carlina's hair-do.

Carlina winced. She really had to find a mirror.

“We're going to the beach,” Ernesto said. “In case you need us. Is there any news?”

“Not really,” Carlina lied. She didn't have the heart to tell him that a very promising suspect had just gotten the perfect alibi. “Have you seen Stefano?”

Ernesto shook his head. “Nope. If I see him, I'll tell him you were looking for him.”

“Great. Thanks. I'll go up to our room for a moment.” Carlina turned to the staircase but was stopped by her mother and Aunt Violetta who came from the side wing.

“Carlina!” Fabbiola lifted both hands as if to ward off a blow and stared at her daughter. “What on earth have you done to your hair?”

Carlina braced herself. “It's the
dernier cri
in hair-dos.” She smiled and tried to get past them, but Aunt Violetta's wheelchair was in the way.

“It's no good talking French with me.” Aunt Violetta's voice boomed through the lobby, “but whatever it is you said, it must be something strange. Is that how the French do their hair now?”

“
Dernier cri
means it's the latest in fashion, Aunt Violetta.”

Aunt Violetta cocked her head to the side. “Doesn't look like fashion to me.”

Fabbiola put both hands on her chest and stared at her daughter without blinking. “Have you broken up with Stefano?”

Carlina wondered if she'd understood her correctly. “What? No. Of course not! Why on earth would you think so?”

“Because women often have a radical change in hair-dos if they go through big changes in their life.”

Aunt Violetta frowned. “Must be more than breaking up with Stefano, then. Looks more like suicide to me.”

“Aunt Violetta!” The outcry came from both Carlina and Fabbiola.

Aunt Violetta lifted her wrinkled hands. “Don't eat me. I was just trying to be a little funny.”

“Ha.” Carlina squeezed past the wheelchair. “Just wait until I try out a joke on you. We'll see who'll laugh then.”

“You'd better hurry up with your revenge, dear,” Aunt Violetta winked at her. “At ninety-nine, every day counts. You might not have much time left.”

“Oh, I'll have time enough,” Carlina called over her shoulder as she ran upstairs to the sanctuary of her room. “I doubt they're anxious to welcome you in heaven.”

“Now that was a mean parting shot.” Aunt Violetta's voice boomed up with an appreciative note.

Carlina ran to her room and banged the door shut behind her. Suicidal, indeed! She stalled by connecting her phone to the charger and moving some bits around the room, but finally, she clenched her hands and went to the bathroom with trembling knees.
I don't want to see this.
When she finally forced herself to look at the mirror, she gasped. The spider-lady had done a good job. The tips of her brown curls were bleached to such a startling shade of white that they almost glowed. Just one area, right in the middle of her forehead, was all white, way down to the roots. That's where the blob had spilled.

Carlina closed her eyes and took a calming breath. “It'll grow again.” She rooted through her stuff until she found the old straw hat she'd brought to protect her face from the sun while at the beach. To spruce it up, she decorated it with a jaunty little scarf in a nice leopard print, put on the largest sunglasses she had, and went out again. Maybe Stefano was at the police station.

He was indeed, and when she came into the dusty office which he shared with a tall man, his eyes widened. “Carlina. How did it go?”

“Pucci has an alibi.” Her voice was flat.

The tall man jumped up and pushed back his thick, white hair. “Oh, dear.” He came forward and shook her hand. “I'm Bernardo Lampone. You must be Caroline Ashley.”

“Yes, I am. Nice to meet you.” Carlina took off her sunglasses but kept on the hat. “I'm here to report what I learned at the hair salon.”

“Of course.” Lampone made a nervous move with his hand toward a recording device that was perched against a dusty cactus. “May we record this?”

“Certainly.”

Stefano moved a mountain of files away from a rickety chair and put it forward for Carlina. She gave him a small smile and sat down, then proceeded to tell every little detail of her conversation with Pamela.

When she was done, Garini turned to Lampone. “Does Pucci's behavior upon hearing the shot sound likely to you?”

Lampone sighed. “Way too likely. I know that in the South, he once helped a drunken man to get into his car, so he wouldn't have to retain him and do all the paperwork. That was one of the reasons they were so glad to get rid of him. I only learned about that a few weeks ago, though.” He seemed to recollect himself and stopped short. “I'm sorry,
Signorina
Ashley. I shouldn't have mentioned it before a member of the public, but this whole story just makes me so angry.” He jumped up and took a nervous turn around the desk. “Can you please keep this information to yourself?”

Carlina nodded. “Of course.” She shrugged. “Though to be honest,
Commissario
Pucci's attitude is not exactly a secret. One of the locals described him as a slacker.”

“Oh,
Madonna
.” Lampone sighed again. “What a reputation. It would have been such a clean case because I can very well imagine Rosari hearing about a dark secret in Pucci's past – there must be one – and bribing him. A shame, really.”

“Now we're back to square one,” Garini said. “And our most likely suspect is Rosari's wife.”

“Unless . . .” Lampone looked at Carlina. “You trust Pamela Pucci's words?”

Carlina shrugged. “Unless she knew who I was and it was all created for my ears only, then I'd say it was very convincing. There's not much love lost between them, and if she gives him an alibi, I'm inclined to believe it.”

Lampone's shoulders sagged. “I'll have to talk to Pucci again, but I already know what he'll say: 'I was afraid you would misinterpret my actions, so I kept quiet about the shot. It wouldn't have made any difference anyway.' I wonder if I can ask him to relocate.” He turned to the door and continued to talk under his breath. “Maybe somewhere close to Rome. They've got many policemen there, so it'll be easier to keep him in line. I'll have to check into it.” He opened the door. “Excuse me.”