Killer Hair (6 page)

“Excuse me, but I have something to say about this whole damn sorry mess.” Stella took a deep breath, adjusted her black tam over her red crew cut, and flung a tail of the scarf over her right shoulder. “I was Angie’s manager at Stylettos Dupont Circle salon. I know we’re all feeling bad here because, well, Angie won’t be with us anymore. And nobody feels worse than I do. She was a great kid who had a bright future as a star hairstylist. We all read about her in the papers. With all the sleazy politics and college-educated morons in this town, she could have had a steady gig improving their sorry asses.” There were a few titters, but Stella soldiered on.

“But anyway, what happened to Angie should not have happened. Oh sure, the D.C. cops say it was suicide, and the coroner says it was suicide, and the newspapers say it was suicide. What do they know? Nothing!” The mike squealed again. The mourners had been drifting during the minister’s soothing remarks, but they were fully awake now. Stella grabbed the mike and stalked the room like a TV preacher.

“Suicide my ass! Pardon my French. Angie Woods did not kill herself, and everyone who knows her knows she couldn’t have done it. Now, I don’t know much, but I do know hair. Angie had some of the prettiest hair I have ever seen. Like angel’s hair. She was really proud of it too. She babied it, used the best conditioners, and never subjected it to harsh chemicals. She was good to her hair. You know what I’m saying?” One hundred and fifty stylists nodded in agreement and fought back tears.

“So the police tell me that last Saturday night she whacked off a good two feet of gorgeous hair, razored her scalp in patches, slapped some blue and orange and purple dye on her head, and then killed herself. Like hell she did! I’m the one who found her in the salon. Me, Stella Lake. It was not a pretty picture. It was pretty awful, the most awful thing I’ve ever seen. Honest to God, it was like Angie was almost scalped by some psycho barber before she died! I’m telling you, if I know one thing, I know this: This was not the work of a professional stylist.”

There were shocked gasps from the family in the front row, but Stella’s audience was rapt. “Well, I won’t go into that, because her mother and sisters are here and this is painful enough for them. All you stylists know what I’m talking about. But I promise you that somebody, a professional that I know, is going to get to the bottom of this. And she is here today.”

Stella paused and looked pointedly at Lacey, who froze like Bambi in a laser beam.
She didn’t say what I think she said.
Stella aimed a lightning-bolted nail toward her. Lacey slumped down in her seat. “An expert,” Stella emphasized. “Someone who knows crime and style and fashion clues. Someone who cares.”

You know, Lacey, nuns don’t need hairstylists,
she told herself.
There are some lovely convents in upstate New York.

“Somebody really smart, with really great investigative skills, is going to find out what really happened to Angela Woods so she can rest in peace and we can all sleep easier. She’ll get to the bottom of this. She’ll find the killer. I guarantee it. Okay, that’s all I got to say. So long Angie, honey.”

Stella wiped a tear from her cheek with one chewed fingernail and dropped the mike with a bone-rattling boom. Lacey noticed that Ratboy wiped his forehead and shifted in his seat. Josephine looked around the crowd, glaring. Son Beau had been stirred awake. His puzzled eyes followed Stella all the way back to her seat. Sherri Gold was twisting her fingers through her hair, a glazed look in her eyes.
No doubt taking the train to Manhattan in her mind. I’m joining her right now.

Spontaneous applause erupted for Stella’s proclamation. Angela’s sisters beamed with approval and hugged each other, and her weeping mother fell upon Stella with a grateful hug.

“You answered our prayers, Stella, darlin’. I just know my angel could not ever take her own life. And her hair. That hair was her treasure. I . . .” Fighting tears, she took a breath. “She believed life was sacred. Thank you for telling that to all these people. For telling the world.”

What a pair: the plump Southern matron and the crew-cut rebel. Now bosom buddies, Mrs. Woods hugged Stella like she had found the Holy Grail. Locked in an endless embrace, Stella signaled Lacey frantically for help, but Lacey just smiled and waved, already mentally speeding through the Midtown Tunnel.

Chapter 4

The Radfords hosted a small catered reception at the Stylettos headquarters after the funeral. It was across the Potomac in Arlington, Virginia, in a nondescript building on Wilson Boulevard. The reception was set up in the stylist training center, a large room complete with wall-to-wall mirrors and shampoo bowls tucked away in a side nook.

Stylettos’ inner sanctum doubled as a party room for company events, but it could be jarring to visitors. Lined up along a back counter were more than thirty disembodied wig heads with blond, brunette, black, and red wigs in varying textures, from straight to tightly curled. Under the circumstances, Lacey thought, the heads added a macabre touch and should have been removed. Like mute witnesses to unspeakable crimes, they all had bad haircuts. But they were invisible to the stylists.

This was the company mecca, where stylists learned about the latest hair products they were encouraged to push on customers, and all the up-to-the-minute styles. Up-to-the-minute in Washington, D.C., that is, which is not to be confused with up-to-the-minute anywhere else, particularly New York City, where a star stylist haircut, not including the train ride, might cost several hundred dollars.

For the reception, small café tables and chairs were set around the room. The tables were laid with black cloths and topped with white flower and candle centerpieces. Black crepe paper, somewhat out of place, but well meant, streamed down the mirrors, making it look more like Halloween than springtime in Washington.

A buffet and a bar were set up on a central platform in front of enormous black-and-white posters featuring haircuts and perms. Inside the door, a large photo of Angie was displayed next to a somber memorial wreath. Two chubby stylists were stationed there to make sure everyone signed the guest book. Stella and Lacey were seated at one of the tables, plates of hors d’oeuvres in front of them. Lacey eyed her plate without appetite.

“Stella, has anyone ever suggested that you might try a little subtlety? Just for shock value?”

“Oh sure, lots of times, but it doesn’t work for me. Ah, don’t be mad, Lacey, that sad-sack minister made it sound like she died of old age. I had to say something.”

“Thanks to your theatrics, now everyone thinks I’m some kind of fashion detective. I am not, Stella. I am a reporter. Do you hear me?”

Stella was showing off Lacey like a celebrity, self-importantly introducing her to everyone in sight. The stylists seemed thrilled to meet her. They all wanted to be mentioned in “Crimes of Fashion.” Not as one of the crimes, of course.

Okay, so maybe the least I can do is write a column about Angie. But that’s it, positively it.
If there were some mystery to Angie’s death, Lacey had no hope of actually solving it. Even so, she reasoned, it wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions.

However, forming an opinion of the dead woman was hopeless. In death, Angie had taken on saintlike qualities. Later, a clearer picture might emerge, when there was a little distance from her death. Lacey figured she’d get out as quickly and gracefully as possible and ask questions later.

Josephine Radford approached. “Stella, an interesting little stunt. What would we do without you for excitement?”

“I have no idea,” Stella said.

Josephine evaluated Lacey in a glance. “Ms. Smithsonian, the ‘Crimes of Fashion’ writer, of course. You must be so busy. So many crimes, so little time.” Her eyes traveled critically up and down Lacey’s outfit. She apparently was satisfied. “I’m so glad to meet you, even under such sad circumstances. Please don’t let Stella’s imagination lead you astray.”

“Is it just her imagination?” Lacey asked.

“But of course it is. Perhaps we could go to lunch someday, Lacey.” She pronounced it Lay-CEE. “I have lots of ideas for you.” Before Lacey could respond, Josephine was distracted. “Oh, there is Boyd, stupid man. I’d better see what he wants now. Probably to meet you. He’s dangerous. Don’t let him charm you.”

As if that were possible,
Lacey thought. Josephine exited in a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

“Listen, Stella, one plate of canapés and a glass of punch and I’m out of here,” Lacey said.

But Stella was paying no attention. The Stylettos heir apparent, Beau Radford, was working his way around the room. Stella leaned in close to Lacey.

“Did I warn you about Beau?”

“Now what?”

“He’s kind of a Ratboy-in-training,” Stella said.

“Meaning?”

“Just slap him if he hits on you. I’ll back you up.”

“But he’s just a kid.” Lacey looked at him. He was wearing a tight sports jacket that stretched over his thin shoulders, obviously left over from high school, a pair of baggy khaki pants, a blue work shirt, and a tie emblazoned with Bugs Bunny. A cowlick that would not be tamed stuck out at the back of his head.

“He doesn’t have any jobs to dangle as bait. But he’s persistent. Just smack him on the head and he’ll go away,” Stella said.

“Like father, like son?”

“Little rat like big rat.”

“Stella, did Boyd dangle a manager’s position for Angela?”

Stella dropped her voice. “I don’t know. But he’s opening another Stylettos in Virginia Beach. I hear there’s a lot of interest.” Stella stopped talking and started munching carrot sticks as Beau sidled up.

The young Radford introduced himself and held Lacey’s hand a little too long. He wasn’t so bad when he smiled, Lacey realized. A good orthodontist had ensured that when he grinned Beau had the impish look of a mischievous boy, not a rat.

“Is Smithsonian your real name?” he asked.

“Yes. No relation to the museum.” Lacey noticed that Stella had grabbed her plate and headed back toward the buffet table, leaving her alone with this junior Lothario.
You’ll pay for this, Stella.

“I read your column,” Beau purred.

“I’ll bet you do.”
He lies like a rug.

“I’ll be reading it now, I promise.”

“Good. There’ll be a pop quiz.”

“By the way, you’ve got great hair, Lacey. Bedroom hair. All tousled like that.”

“Maybe I should comb it.” Lacey noticed that people in the hair business had no compunction whatever against commenting on your dark roots, split ends, bad cuts, perm damage or, apparently, bedroom hair. Turning the subject away from herself, Lacey asked about Angie.

“I knew she worked with Stella. I just got home on spring break.” Beau explained that he wasn’t going back to school, as he and the business school in Iowa had had a falling out.

“What did you do?”

“This and that. A little weed. You interested? I know a place.”

“No, thanks, really. I’m trying to quit.”
That was a joke, you little rat.

He drew up a chair next to Lacey. “It’s something the folks don’t know yet,” he confided to her. “So about what Stella said. Are you really going to look into Angie’s death? I thought the cops said it was suicide.”

Lacey shrugged and shook her head slightly. “Stella,” she said, implying that, of course, Stella was nuts.

“Stella,” he agreed. “Perhaps we could discuss Stella over dinner sometime.” He was pushy, she had to give him that. But she was ready with her automatic excuse.

“Sorry, I’m seeing someone.”
In my dreams, that is.
Beau excused himself and slunk off in search of the woman who would be his Mrs. Robinson.

Lacey picked up her untouched plate to find the trash, but as if on cue Boyd Radford popped over to flatter her and put in a bid for a few inches of newsprint about how great his salons were. He also told her she should write a profile about—who else?—Boyd Radford.

“We have a great story to tell, Lacey.”

She wondered what that could be.
Maybe, “Rich Weasel Gets in Your Hair—and Your Pants!”

“Call me. I’ll take you to lunch, “Boyd said. “We’ll talk about that article on me.”

Aren’t I the prom queen. Everyone wants to buy me lunch and dinner.
Boyd spent too much time pressing a business card into her hand and trying to stare into her eyes, turning on all that imagined charm. People who insisted they would make great copy really irritated Lacey.

“By the way, you’re not paying any attention to what Stella says about Angela Woods?”

“Stella’s my stylist. We share all kinds of secrets.” Lacey smiled.

“I didn’t know Stella had any secrets,” Boyd said.

“How well did you know Angie?”

“As well as any stylist who works for me.”

“Did you think she was depressed lately?”

“How would I know? It was tragic about the girl, but nothing more. Just a terrible personal tragedy. Remember that,” Radford said, turning away. Apparently he’d used up all his charm. And Lacey’s patience.

She marched decisively toward the door. Unfortunately, Polly Parsons, Stylettos’ promotion coordinator, blocked her way. Polly called Lacey at least once a week with some new promotional pitch and always spoke in a breathless rush. For example: “Have you heard? Short bobs with frosted highlights are in style! Isn’t that great?” Today she was blathering on about some fashion show. “Lacey, have you heard? Stylettos is doing the hair for the Sizzle in the City fashion show! Isn’t that great?”

Stella had reported that Polly was currently sleeping with Ratboy. Stella was also spreading the rumor that Polly was a charter member of the Condom of the Month Club. “They send a case of assorted rubbers in different sizes, shapes, and colors every month. I swear!”

Lacey edged around the towering woman: Six feet and thirty-one years of aggressively self-involved female. Polly had a great figure, but a weirdly androgynous face. She dressed in thigh-high skirts to keep attention focused on her legs. She was exquisitely lacquered, perfumed, and hair sprayed. However, in spite of all her efforts at exaggerated femininity, Polly managed to look like a man in drag.