Dirty Rotten Tendrils (18 page)

“Yep.”

“Is he in trouble?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Did he get my ring back?”

“Nope.”

“Marco, Rafe has to get it back before the dinner at Cinnamon’s parents’ house tonight!”

“That’s why he’s in trouble. He says Cinnamon took the day off work to have her hair and nails done. He won’t see her until dinner and claims he doesn’t know where her salon is.”

“She took the entire day off for hair and nails?”

“You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?”

“Rafe has her cell phone number. Why can’t he call her?”

“He says she turned off her phone.”

“Then what are we going to do?”

“I’m thinking of shipping him back to Ohio—tonight.”

In the background I heard Rafe say, “It’s your fault for sending me to Bindstrom’s in the first place.”

He had a point.

Apparently, Marco didn’t agree. The two argued for a few moments, and then Marco said to me, “I’ll pick you up at six thirty, okay?”

“Okay. But Marco—”

Too late. He’d hung up.

Now what was I supposed to do? Show up at Cinnamon’s parents’ house and bite my tongue as she flashed my ring around? Watch Francesca Salvare turn several shades of magenta when she figured out that Rafe couldn’t possibly have afforded it? Cringe as Francesca cast a wistful glance at my bare right hand?

I drummed my fingers on the counter, considering my options. Finally, I pulled out the Yellow Pages and searched for beauty salons.

As Grace liked to say, if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself.

I
t took me a mere six phone calls to learn that Cinnamon had booked herself an afternoon at the Olive Tree Beauty and Day Spa, three blocks west on Lincoln. So as soon as Lottie came back, I grabbed my coat and purse and headed out to lunch, or so they thought.

Across the street, a group of five teenage boys were performing a rap for the large crowd hanging around the courthouse, so instead of my usual shortcut across the lawn, I took Franklin to Lincoln, turned the corner, and headed west. On my way I passed Bindstrom’s, now sporting bright green awnings and a newly painted gold-leaf door—when had that happened?—and was reminded that I would have spared myself all this aggravation if I’d picked up the engagement ring myself.

At the end of the block, I crossed the street and saw Jingles cleaning the window of the corner drugstore. The old-fashioned store boasted establishment in 1954 and looked like it hadn’t been painted since. But now, in place of the faded and peeling lettering above the door that had said PHIL’S D UGS, it had a glossy black rectangular sign that said PHARMACOLOGIE in a shiny gold font that screamed “hip and modern.”

I paused to peer through the window and saw the familiar crowded aisles, and cracked black-and-white tile floor. The only thing new was a sign in the window advertising Cody Verse posters for ten dollars.

“How’s it going, Jingles?” I asked.

“Goin’ to the dogs, Miss Abby,” he said in his slow, deep voice, shaking his head. “Goin’ to the dogs.”

 

 

The Olive Tree was a recent addition to our downtown landscape, having opened less than a year ago in an old three-story cement-block building renovated to look like an ancient Grecian temple. Entering the main floor through a doorway flanked by stone columns, I was greeted by the sound of splashing water and warbling birds.

I glanced to my right and found the source—a floor-to-ceiling birdcage filled with tiny songbirds flitting about the branches of an artificial tree. Opposite the entrance was a small waterfall tucked into what appeared to be a grotto but was actually the reception counter.

Behind the counter was a young woman with long blond hair, wearing a white Grecian-style gown. She stood perfectly still, her elbows at her sides, her arms bent so her hands stuck straight out in front of her, palms upraised, fingers forming the letter O. Her eyelids were closed, so she was either meditating or sleeping on her feet. Behind her was a tall perch on which sat a white cockatoo, which began to squawk as I approached.

“Hush, Zeus.” The blonde raised her eyelids to half-mast and asked in a voice a little above a whisper, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I’m looking for a friend of mine. Her name is Cinnamon . . .”

I didn’t know her last name.

“Cinnamon is in the olive grove right now,” the receptionist said without missing a beat, “but we never interrupt clients when they’re in the grove unless it’s an emergency.”

“Do you actually have an olive grove in here?”

“The olive grove is what we call our massage salon.”

If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn the woman was sleep-talking. “So Cinnamon is having her massage right now?”

“That’s typically what happens in a massage salon.”

I was in a hurry. I didn’t need an attitude. “When can I talk to her?”

The woman’s eyelids fluttered upward to see the clock on the wall. “She booked for an hour massage, but that includes a matcha tea break. In about thirty minutes, she will be guided into the beauty salon to begin her facial, so let me see . . .”

“Can I talk to her before the facial?”

“Not unless it’s an emergency. Is it an emergency?”

I glanced at my watch. “Getting close.”

Apparently that didn’t cut it. “In one hour, she will begin her hair appointment. You may speak with her prior to that appointment.”

I hated to wait that long. I’d been gone long enough as it was. Still, did I have a choice?

Suddenly the cockatoo left its perch with a great flapping of wings and landed on my shoulder. I froze, fearing it was about to peck me.

“Zeus, off,” the young woman ordered, snapping her fingers. The bird lifted its wings and flew back to its perch, where it kept a beady eye on me.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“He was checking out your earrings.”

I fingered the tiny dangling crystals hanging from my earlobes. “Why?”

“He loves sparkly things. He’s been known to pluck earrings right off people’s ears.”

“Even pierced ears?”

She lifted her shoulder. “Zeus doesn’t care. You wouldn’t believe the stuff he’s hidden in the grotto. If you’d like to wait for Cinnamon, please have a seat in the garden.” She pointed to a stone bench in an area filled with potted silk flowers and more artificial trees, reached by a faux flag-stone path.

Not knowing what else to do, I followed the path to the bench and sat down beside a woman reading a magazine, who shifted uncomfortably, glanced at me, then grumbled, “With what they charge here, you’d think they could pad these benches.”

I waited a while, then checked my watch. Tempus was really fugiting now. Maybe I could book the bed next to Cinnamon’s and talk to her while we were getting massages.

I walked up to the grotto again and looked at the menu of services posted on the faux stone wall. I saw the price of a full-body massage, and blanched. Yowzers. That stone bench should have been padded in spun gold. How could Cinnamon afford a whole day here? On a waitress’s salary? Were tips that good?

The young woman had gone back to her nap, so I cleared my throat and waited for her to open her eyes. “Do you have any appointments open right now for a—” I located something more in my price range. “Neck and shoulder massage?”

She ran her finger down a column in the appointment book, as though searching for a spot to squeeze me in. By the looks of all that white space, I didn’t think there would be a problem.

“I can schedule that. Your name?”

“Abby.”

“Credit or debit, Abby?”

I had to pay up front? I dug through my purse, pulled my debit card out of my wallet and handed it to her. She ran it through, handed it back, then hit a small gong on the counter. A moment later another young woman clad in the same style of gown, her feet bare, came up front, checked the appointment book, then smiled at me.

“Hello, Abby,” she said in a whispery voice, making me wonder if voice quality was one of the job requirements. “My name is Natalia and I’ll be your masseuse.” She led me up the hallway behind the grotto. “I see this is your first time here. I hope you’ll be pleased with our services.” She parted a curtain of leafy silk vines. “Here we are. The olive grove.”

At that moment, Zeus soared over our heads, through the vines and straight into the massage salon, where he landed on a branch of one of the artificial olive trees and proceeded to watch me.

“Zeus, you bad boy,” Natalia said. “You know you’re not supposed to be back here.”

Holding my hands over my earlobes and keeping an eye on the bird, I followed Natalia across a spacious, carpeted, softly lit, cafeteria-sized room filled with the scent of lavender and the soothing sound of tinkling wind chimes. It seemed the perfect setting for a relaxing conversation between customers—until I saw the gauzy curtains that formed walls around each table, and then I came to a stop. That wouldn’t do at all. Walls, even of the gauzy variety, weren’t conducive to a conversation.

“Is something wrong?” Natalia asked.

Just about everything. “I—thought I dropped an ear-ring.”

We padded on. Scanning the row of curtained rooms ahead, I saw only one pair of bare feet and guessed that was Cinnamon’s masseuse. We were headed toward the area beside it.

Natalia pulled aside the curtain and let me enter. “You’ll need to remove your shoes, and all clothing and jewelry from the waist up.” She pointed to a twig hook on the back wall. “You may hang your clothes there and leave your jewelry on the tray on the side table. Cover it with that silk square, in case Zeus gets in again. Your hair wrap is on the bed.”

She walked to the head of the massage table. “After you’ve undressed, lie on the bed on your stomach with your face in this opening and cover yourself with the sheet. When you’re ready, hit the gong on the side table.” With that she slipped out, drew the curtain, and said, “Zeus, come!”

Her command was followed by the beating of wings and rustling of the leafy vine curtain.

I stood for a moment considering what to do. Barging into the next bed area wouldn’t work. I’d either have to call it quits now and ask for a refund or hope for an opportunity to catch Cinnamon alone later. Hmm. Maybe her tea break. I’d have to send my masseuse on an errand.

Next door, I could hear Cinnamon murmuring, “Oh, that’s good. You’re right on that big knot. Carrying all those heavy trays isn’t easy on my neck. Oh, yeah. Keep doing that.”

Hmm. I had a few knots to work out, too. Maybe having a neck massage would help me figure out a better plan.

I covered my hair with the white terry wrap, placed my earrings in the Oriental-style black tray to the left of my bed, and put the red silk square on top. I was about to take off my sweater when it dawned on me that Cinnamon would have been instructed to remove her jewelry, too, and with a full-body massage, I assumed that applied to her rings as well.

Meaning that my diamond engagement ring was probably, at that very moment, sitting in a tray about eight feet away.

I bent down to peer under the curtain. The cubicle on the other side of Cinnamon’s appeared to be empty. Maybe I could sneak into it and take a quick peek at my ring through the curtain on the other side.

At that moment Cinnamon murmured something, to which her masseuse said, “Mineral water? No problem. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t move.”

Crouching, I watched bare feet disappear across the carpet and heard the flutter of the vines as the masseuse left the olive grove. With wind chimes tinkling soothingly, I slipped out of my cubicle, tiptoed past Cinnamon’s, and stepped quietly into the next one. Standing at the head of the empty massage table, I eased the curtain between the areas back half an inch and peered through.

Cinnamon lay facedown on the table, covered by a sheet. In a tray on the side table right next to the curtain where I stood was a thick silver rope chain, a pair of silver chandelier earrings—and my engagement ring, fully exposed! The red silk square lay folded beside the tray. Obviously, she hadn’t been warned about the white-winged raptor.

Even in the dim light, my ring was just as beautiful as I remembered it. Seeing it a mere twelve inches away, I knew I had to touch it, maybe even try it on for size, and make sure she hadn’t scratched it.

I stretched my arm around the curtain and let my fingertips trace the warm gold circle. From the corner of my eye I saw a large white blur and glanced up to see Zeus perched on the curtain rod above, staring hard at my ring. The bird had managed to slip back into the grove.

I shielded my ring and glared up at him.
No, you don’t, you thief. You’re not making off with my diamond.

At that moment, Cinnamon shifted on the bed and murmured to herself, “How freakin’ long does it take to bring a freakin’ glass of water?”