A Fashionable Murder (6 page)

Not that there was a lot of time to think about any of this. Betty was urging her out of her dressing cubicle before Josie had managed to figure out if it was possible to tie the robe about her in a manner that made her look a bit less like a chunky upright summer sausage. Betty, not surprisingly, looked elegant.

As did everyone else, she realized, looking around. Everyone else seemed to have freshly washed hair. Everyone else was wearing more makeup than Josie even owned. No one else looked like a meat by-product.

“. . . on the hanger . . . keep . . .”

“Excuse me?” Josie discovered the woman who had given her the robe standing by her side, one hand extended.

“She wants your hanger,” Betty explained, giving hers away. “Keep the coat check. And keep your purse,” she added as Josie started to drape the strap over the hanger.

“Oh . . .” Josie fumbled around until she had followed Betty’s directions, smiling awkwardly at the woman trying to help her.

“Have a nice time,” the coat check lady said with a big smile, grabbing the hanger when Josie had finally gotten everything in order.

“Yes, I’ll try.” Josie followed Betty out to the main area of the salon.

SIX

“AND WHAT ARE we going to do here?” Two elegantly shaped eyebrows disappeared beneath thick bangs. Ten polished fingertips lifted Josie’s mop of red hair off her neck and then allowed the tangled curls to flop back onto her shoulders. “Just a bit nineteen-eighties . . . perhaps you’re ready for a change? A more grown-up look?”

Josie frowned at the woman in the mirror. Now she knew why she was in the robe. Dressed in street clothes, she could have stood up and marched right out the door.

“We can, of course, just wash and trim. But you have such an abundance of hair; it’s a shame not to take advantage of it. Many of my clients would give almost anything for raw material like this.”

Well, that was better. “I think . . . ,” Josie began.

“Josie leads a very active life. She needs something easy to take care of.” Betty spoke up from the chair next to Josie’s.

“Well, we can do that, of course.” Josie’s hairdresser, who had introduced herself as Mia, bit her bottom lip and frowned. “I think something slightly shorter. And perhaps some highlights around the face. Of course, nothing that looks artificial. Just a few streaks as though the light is falling naturally from above.”

“I . . .”

Betty spoke up before Josie could protest. “Excellent. And maybe three or four inches off.”

“Three or four!”

“Why don’t I start with the highlights and we can figure this out as we go along?” Mia suggested, raising her seductively calm voice above Josie’s protests. “I do see a lot of split ends. Certainly you want those removed?”

“Excellent idea,” Betty agreed. “Now about those highlights: Do you think maybe more than one shade . . .”

Josie looked in the mirror from her friend to her newly acquired hairdresser; they were speaking a language she didn’t understand.

“Certainly, and we could add a glaze after the wash. It might tone down the color a bit as well as add some extra shine.”

“But that wears off in time. I think of Josie as . . .”

Josie relaxed, deciding there was no reason to think of herself—or for herself. She’d leave the decisions up to the pros. It was hair. Whatever was cut off would grow back. And there really wasn’t any way they could make the color more outrageous than her genes had previously determined. She sat back, watched the activity around her in the mirror-lined walls, and, surprisingly, began to relax. Pamela Peel was dead. There was nothing she could do about it. She would let the police worry about what had happened and take some time to enjoy herself, as Betty insisted.

She had never seen or heard so many handheld hair dryers in use simultaneously. Josie started to calculate the total wattage, but gave up when she realized the numbers were too large to manipulate without pencil and paper. Besides, if she were going to count wattage, she would have to add in all those curling irons and those odd halo lighting things standing above the heads of some clients. She gave up, smiling nervously at the woman sitting across the aisle from her. Her smile was not returned—or even noticed. The client and her hairdresser were engrossed in conversation.

“I told her it would never work. But did she listen to me? Of course not! I know he had an excellent career. I know he was respected all over the city. He’s good-looking . . . for a man his age; he’s fabulous looking, in fact. But he didn’t stick around, did he? And I told her that’s what was going to happen.”

Josie smiled for the first time since sitting down in the chair. In a spa, salon, beauty parlor—no matter what it was called or where it was located—the subject of men always came up.

“Now, of course, there’s nothing I can do to help her.” The conversation ended as the last spritz of hair spray glued the last curl in place. The women hugged, pecked at each other’s cheeks, and parted. Josie was fairly sure she’d seen a folded-up bill pass between client and hairdresser, but couldn’t be absolutely sure. Tipping! She and Betty hadn’t discussed tipping! On the other hand, she might not like the way she looked. . . .

“Seems as though most everybody’s talking about the same thing today.” Josie’s hairdresser had disappeared with a comment about mixing something up, and the woman busily covering Betty’s gorgeous hair with beige sludge chatted as she worked.

“Really?”

Josie got the impression that Betty wasn’t terribly interested in talking. She was staring at her hair with a slight frown on her lips.

“Of course. How often is it that one of your clients is murdered?”

Betty chuckled. “Well, if you’re Josie . . .”

“Now that’s not really true. . . .” Josie’s hairdresser returned and interrupted her protest. “What is that for?”

Mia looked down at the tray she carried. Three little bowls containing three darker colors of sludge sat in the middle of it. “Just a little highlighting. If you’ve changed your mind, I can always . . .”

Betty spoke up. “She hasn’t changed her mind.”

“No, I haven’t,” Josie admitted. She hadn’t made it up either. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if she even had a mind. A few hours ago she had found a body. And here she was getting her hair done. Mia stood behind her, a gloppy paintbrush in one hand, a comb in the other; the smile on her face was beginning to look a bit forced. It was now or never. Josie took a deep breath. “Go ahead.”

It took less than half an hour to cover the crown of Josie’s head with small squares of foil. Conversation swirled around her. Husbands were discussed as well as lovers. Children at prestigious prep schools and colleges. Children who weren’t living up to parental expectations. Shopping. Trips to exotic—and warm—parts of the globe. Designer clothing. The stock market. Jobs. Parties. Weddings. The prices of apartments. Condo boards. Once in a while someone actually mentioned hair. But Josie strained her ears, hoping for more news about the woman who had been murdered.

When enough hair dryers had been stilled for her to make out more than a few words at a time, the name she did hear was even more familiar than Pamela Peel’s.

“What I want to know is what Sam could possibly have been thinking!”

Josie swung her seat around to see who had asked that question. Unfortunately, the small metal stand holding the various hair dyes, combs, and extra foil squares was in her way. As it crashed to the floor, hair dryers were switched off and people stopped what they had been doing and turned to stare. But it took just seconds for professionalism to reassert itself. Women who had been delivering coffee, tea, and tiny pastries to the customers dropped what they were doing, grabbed mops and brooms, and had the floor clean in minutes. The woman who had greeted Josie and Betty upon their arrival appeared on the scene to make sure no one had been hurt and ended up assuring Josie that there was no need to apologize. This type of thing, she claimed, happened all the time. Josie doubted it, but she appreciated the attempt to put her at ease. She was still apologizing profusely to everyone nearby when Mia, assuring her all was well, led her to the shampoo sinks on one side of the room.

Betty was already there, seated in a reclining chair, her long legs propped up on a wide comfy footstool, a smile on her face as her scalp was massaged. Josie moved beside her, managing to bump into her friend’s arm on her way to her seat. “Sorry.”

Betty opened one eye. “What happened? What was all that noise?”

“I knocked over the bowls of bleach—”

“Coloring. Not bleach,” Mia corrected. “We’re not using bleach on your hair.”

“Whatever it was, it all hit the floor, thanks to my clumsiness.”

“No, no! It was not your fault!” Mia protested. “This place is too full, too cramped. People are always knocking things over. Lean back.”

Josie did as she was told and felt warm water run over her hair as Mia pulled the foil squares out and dropped them into the sink.

“You’ll never guess what I heard!” Betty hissed above the sound of running water.

“You’ll never guess what I heard!” Josie hissed back. “Would you believe that someone was talking about someone named Sam?”

“Sam? There must be thousands of men named Sam in this city,” Betty reminded her. “I heard something about Pamela Peel. The woman getting her hair washed behind me—”

“Are you two speaking of Pamela?” An elegant silver-haired woman peered through gold-rimmed glasses at them.

“Well, yes, we were,” Betty admitted. “You see, my friend here—”

“Oh, you are friends of dear Pamela.”

“Not really. We are . . .” Josie paused, trying to describe their relationship with the dead woman. “She decorated a friend of mine’s apartment . . .”

“You are clients of Pamela. Well, so many people are, aren’t they?”

“That’s what we’ve heard,” Betty replied. “How do you know her?”

“I’m her aunt. Well, her unofficial, unrelated aunt. We’ve been friends forever and she’s always introduced me as her aunt.”

“Have you heard about . . . from Pamela recently?” Josie asked, as her head was released from the basin, her hair wrapped in a thick towel, and she was allowed to sit up.

“No, dear Pamela is sometimes just a bit naughty. She doesn’t spend enough time with her family, I’m afraid. She’s horribly, horribly busy, of course. What with her work and her social commitments. You can read all about it in this week’s
New York
magazine, you know.”

Josie glanced over at Betty. It was obvious that this woman had no idea her beloved niece was dead. “Well, we really didn’t know her,” Betty said hastily.

“Perhaps you will have that opportunity in the future. Do you attend Junior League events? Or perhaps you’re involved in the Lighthouse for the Blind annual benefit sale?”

“No. You see, I have a new baby,” Betty added.

“And your nanny takes weekends off. How unfortunate. These young women have no idea what hard work is. When I was a child, my nanny was never ever allowed to interfere in the life of the family. When my parents wanted to go out, they went, always knowing that there was a reliable person at home to take care of my sister and me.”

“As you say, things aren’t exactly like that these days,” Betty agreed.

Josie wondered if this woman had been raised on a different planet or perhaps in a different—and wealthier—solar system. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to have someone else raising his or her children,” she said, remembering Tyler’s infancy. She had been forced to leave him to go to work during the day, but she had never had the luxury—or the desire—to leave him to socialize in the evenings.

“And not everyone wants someone else to raise their children,” Betty added flatly.

“No? Well, you young mothers always seem to feel you know what’s best. Time for my manicure.” Pamela Peel’s unofficial aunt, apparently deciding further conversation would be a complete waste of time, turned and walked away, waving ten perfectly oval and polished nails in their direction.

“She needs a manicure?” Josie asked no one in particular.

“She gets a manicure every week, whether she needs it or not,” Mia answered. “She’s one of our regulars.” She picked up a pair of scissors and began to snip at Josie’s damp hair.

“Do you have many people like that?” Betty asked.

Josie, noting that Betty was losing her hair a fraction of an inch at a time while Mia was lopping off her own curls in half-foot-long sweeps, didn’t pay much attention to the answer.

“Oh, yes. Of course, Pamela Peel used to come here, but she followed her hairdresser.”

“Pamela Peel? The decorator?” Josie asked to make sure they were talking about the same person.

“Yes.”

“What do you mean, she followed her hairdresser?” was Josie’s second question.

“The person who did her hair left for greener pastures and Ms. Peel followed close behind,” Mia explained. “It happens all the time.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing now,” Betty’s hairdresser said, standing back to admire her own work.

“Why?” Josie asked.

“Maybe a bit more off on the left side” was Betty’s contribution to their conversation.

“There’s a rumor going around that she’s dead,” Mia said quietly.

“Murdered,” Betty’s hairdresser added.

“We heard that too.” Betty spoke up when Josie didn’t respond.

Josie, realizing Pamela Peel’s body had been discovered less than twenty blocks away, was amazed that the news had traveled so quickly. “How did you hear about it?” she asked, hoping Mia wouldn’t be surprised by the question.

Apparently not. “Everyone was talking about it when I first arrived this morning. I don’t know exactly who heard about it first. I suppose it was on the radio or something. She is pretty famous. At least in this part of New York.”

“And when I was getting some coffee earlier I overheard someone saying that her boyfriend was going to be arrested for her murder. . . .”

“Her boyfriend?” Betty asked, sitting up straighter in her chair.