Read Killer Cuts: A Dead-End Job Mystery Online

Authors: Elaine Viets

Tags: #Cozy Mysteries

Killer Cuts: A Dead-End Job Mystery (18 page)

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“

M
iguel Angel, I want to look like Lindsay Lohan,” said the

woman sitting in his sculpted chair. She tossed her long

hair flirtatiously, an odd gesture for a sturdy brunette in her forties. She had pale, unlined skin and long fingers.

Helen guessed the woman was about six feet tall and weighed close to two hundred pounds. She seemed too smart to admire an airhead actress.

“Uh, how would you like to look like her?” Miguel Angel asked.

Helen had to force herself to keep from applauding his amazing tact.

“My bangs,” the woman said, and draped her dark locks across her right eye.

“I can cut you some bangs,” Miguel Angel said.”I can also add layers for volume.”

“Would you like some water?” Helen asked her.

“Tea would be better,” the future Lindsay look-alike said. “Hot tea, herbal, no sugar.”

“Coming up.” Helen headed toward the prep area to make tea. Miguel Angel joined her to mix the Lindsay look-alike’s color.

“I want to look like Paris Hilton,” Helen said.

“Shut up,” Miguel Angel said.”I can do it.”

He could, too. Like a wizard in a folktale, he could transform Helen into the sheep-faced heiress—without the money.

Helen said nothing more. She suspected Miguel Angel was reaching the end of his patience, and she didn’t want to push him further. His temper explosion over the TV news show was unlike him. He was no tyrant at the shop and rarely yelled at his staff.

Helen poured hot water into a cup, added a chamomile tea bag and slid three thin slices of lemon on a saucer.

Why did Miguel Angel become so angry? Who was in that video? Why did Miguel Angel insist on turning off the television? Was the story too painful? Was he afraid the police had found something damn ing? Worst of all, did he murder King?

Helen couldn’t ask him, and he wouldn’t tell her. The subject weighed on her mind all afternoon. She went through the motions, handing clients drinks, fetching magazines, dusting and sweeping up the eternal hair. She wished the day was over.

At two thirty, Ana Luisa reminded Miguel Angel that Sandra would be in at three. Miguel swore softly in Spanish.

“What’s wrong with Sandra?” Helen asked, as she dusted a nearby counter.

“Wait and see,”Ana Luisa whispered back.

Sandra was a flirtatious divorcée in her midforties who dressed like a teenager in tight white jeans and a belly-baring top. She carried a small, silly pink purse. Her breasts and hair were artful fakes, and she moved in a choking cloud of perfume.

“Miguel Angel, I have a new man. I need to look perfect tonight,” Sandra said.”Work your magic on me, so I can work my magic on him. He’s a rich one.”

Soon Sandra was wearing silver highlight foils that looked like a crown of leaves. Each hair section had been painstakingly painted by Miguel Angel.

After twenty minutes, he checked the color, then told Carlos to re move the foil and wash Sandra’s hair.Then she was back in Miguel An gel’s chair, draped in a styling cape. He dried her hair, pulling the frizzy curls into the straight, sophisticated style currently favored by network news anchors—and nearly impossible to attain in the Florida humidity.

“Nice,” Sandra said.

Ana Luisa presented her with a bill Helen thought could have been the down payment on a car, and Sandra paid it without blinking.Then she reached into the tiny pink purse and pulled out a wad of bills.

Miguel Angel reacted quickly.”Carlos!” he ordered his assistant.”Go clean up the prep room.”

Carlos hesitated.

“Now,” Miguel Angel commanded.

Carlos looked startled, but obediently walked toward the back room.

Sandra handed Helen a five-dollar bill, then took a fat roll of cash and shoved it in the change pocket of Miguel Angel’s jeans, running her hand suggestively along his crotch.The stylist flinched.

“And there’s more for little Carlos,” she said in a husky voice, stuffing more money in the other pocket and running her hand along Miguel Angel’s zipper.

Eeuww, Helen thought. A stripper tipper. She’d heard of these women. They tended to be over forty. Some were seventy or more. They copped a feel when they tipped the stylist, as if they were at a Chippendales show.

Sandra left the salon, swinging her jeans-clad rear end seductively.

“Yuck,” Helen said.”That was nasty. Is that why you sent Carlos to the back?”

“Yes,” Miguel Angel said.”He doesn’t need to be molested by that woman.”

“Does she know you’re … uh …” Helen stopped, unable to think of a tactful way to continue.

“She doesn’t care if I’m gay,” Miguel Angel finished.”Or she thinks her so-called beauty will overcome my nature. She acts like I’m some sort of pet and have no feelings. I hate being touched by people I don’t like. Hate it.”

Anger flashed in his eyes. “Let me give Carlos his money,” Miguel Angel said.”At least he didn’t have to go through that.”

Helen had no doubt that he disliked the humiliating way Sandra had pawed him in his own salon. And the murdered King did more than touch Miguel Angel—he’d threatened the stylist and his liveli hood. Did Miguel Angel kill the gossip columnist for that?

Half an hour later, a young model named Tara rushed in, out of breath. Yards of taffy-colored hair trailed behind her. A tiny scrap of fabric clung to her breasts. Her jeans were so tight, Helen wondered how she could walk.

“Help, Miguel Angel!”Tara cried.

“Do you have an appointment?”Ana Luisa said, barring her way.

“This is an emergency,”Tara said.

“And what is this emergency?” Miguel Angel said, sounding amused. “Should I call an ambulance?”

“You can see my roots,” she wailed, pointing to her nearly perfect hair.

Only with a microscope, Helen thought.

“You have to save me,”Tara said, as if Miguel Angel was armed with six-guns instead of hair-dryers.”I have a shoot with
Gold Coast
maga zine tomorrow on South Beach.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do,” Miguel Angel said.”Sit down.”

Helen brought Tara bottled water and the latest issue of V
ogue
, then swept the floor one more time. Miguel Angel gave her a nod that she could go, and Helen left gratefully at five thirty.

She stepped out into the sweltering Florida sun. Even late in the day, the heat took her breath away. Sweat ran down her face, neck and back as she walked home toward the Coronado. Her blouse clung to her damp body.

Phil was waiting for her at the back gate.”Hurry,” he said, not even stopping to kiss her.

Margery called from her door,”Get in here quick, both of you.You don’t have time to canoodle.”

“Canoodle?” Helen said.

“Your boss is about to be featured in a special news report on the six o’clock news,” Margery said.”It doesn’t look good.”

Helen and Phil raced toward Margery’s apartment. Helen could hear a woman announcer saying “… an important clue in the murder of Kingman ‘King’ Oden. Channel Fifteen has obtained an exclusive video of a death threat to the late gossip king.We’ll have more for you after our commercial break.”

“Sit down,” Margery said.

“I don’t want to ruin your living room furniture,” Helen said.”I’m dripping sweat.”

Margery plunked a kitchen chair in front of the TV, then brought Helen a towel and a tall, cold glass of water.

“Is water okay?” she asked.”Or do you want something stronger?”

“Perfect,” Helen said. “I like being waited on. I’ve been fetching drinks and magazines at the salon all day.”

“You poor thing,” Margery said. Helen didn’t know if she was being sarcastic.

“Sh!” Phil said, perching on the arm of Margery’s purple recliner. “Here comes the story.”

A harried-looking woman reporter stood in front of King’s slightly smoked mansion. She was sweating, too.Yellow crime-scene tape fluttered in the hot breeze. One pink stucco wall was black ened by the fire, and Helen thought she heard a power saw in the background.

“Police say they have no leads in the murder of King Oden, who drowned in a swimming pool at his palatial Fort Lauderdale mansion on his wedding day,” the reporter said.”A fire started at the mansion as his guests fled the scene.

“There has been no progress in the murder investigation. Now Channel Fifteen has obtained a groundbreaking video. It shows King being threatened with death minutes before his murder.”

The reporter said the last three words with a dramatic flourish.

Helen felt her heart pound.This was it.The TV station was going to ruin Miguel Angel.The scene switched to a video from a camera so shaky, it was like looking in a fun house mirror.

Helen could see an enraged, bare-chested King screaming at Miguel Angel.”Listen, you Cuban b
leep,”
King said, as spit flew from his angry lips.”I’ve got friends in the city and state government. I can have that salon of yours closed down for so many violations, your dyed head will spin. Got it?”

He punched a sausagelike finger in Miguel Angel’s face.

Helen watched in horror as Miguel Angel shook off King’s hand, then pressed his long, sharp scissors so the points were stuck in King’s neck. “And I can kill you, you fat, lazy American,” Miguel Angel said. “No one will care.”

The video showed a shell-shocked Honey pushing her way be tween the furious men. “Stop!” she pleaded. “This is my wedding day. Behave. Both of you.”

There was a close-up on the drop of blood the scissors left on King’s neck, then the video faded to black.

The story was back to the reporter in front of King’s mansion.”The man in the black shirt has been identified as society hairstylist Miguel Angel”—she mispronounced it “Migwel Angel.” Even the pros couldn’t get his name right—”the person responsible for the career-saving makeover on superstar LaDonna. We talked with the police about this incriminating video.They are still refusing to arrest anyone.”

Detective Richard McNally was on camera now, looking older and heavier than he did in person.”We need evidence to make an arrest,” he said.”All we have here is a video showing two men arguing.We don’t know if the man in question acted on his threat.”

The story ended with a shot of the reporter standing on the side walk in front of Miguel Angel’s salon. Helen thought the woman could have used a good haircut.The reporter said,”Many famous names have passed through these doors for makeovers by Miguel Angel. No one doubts his talent. The only question is, Does Miguel Angel do killer hair?”

Helen groaned.”This is horrible,” she said.

“They were reaching for that pun,” Phil said.

“No, I mean what the reporter said about Miguel Angel. She practi cally called him a killer right in front of his salon.And he looked crazymad in that video.”

“Was it doctored?” Phil asked.

“No, I was there.That’s what happened. But it’s not fair to run it on TV. Miguel Angel has worked so hard.This story could ruin his salon.”

“How?” Phil said.”Who is going to care what’s on a nowhere local news show?”

“Everyone,” Margery said.”Helen is right. King’s gossip blog and TV show were national. The networks will pick this up so quick, Miguel Angel won’t know what hit him.Too bad. I kind of like Miguel Angel. He’s a hard worker. I hate to see him ruined by a lowlife like King Oden.”

“I think I’ll have that drink now,” Helen said.