Killer Hair (7 page)

“Send me a press release, Polly. Gotta go.”

“It’s a great cause, Lacey. The proceeds go to . . . umm, something to do with kids, but it’s fantastic and totally politically correct, so you don’t have to worry about anything. I mean, there’s no fur in the show or child labor or sweatshops or anything like that. Nothing depressing. I don’t think. I’m pretty sure.”

“That’s so interesting, Polly.” Lacey was looking for an out. The hulking promo maven was crowding her against the wall.

“Lacey, I really want to know what you think of my hair. Should I cut it?” It would have been curious that Polly did not even allude to the deceased at the funeral reception, but Polly always managed to turn the conversation to her favorite subject: herself. She was busy flipping her locks hither and yon. She wore a long bob, a variation of the Washington Frosted Helmet Head, medium brown with silvery blond highlights. Lacey thought it was standard D.C. issue, although it looked thick and healthy.

“Do you think I should change it? Because I just don’t know. And you are such an expert! I never know what to do with it.” She asked Lacey the same thing every time she saw her. Thankfully, Stella arrived, carrying a refilled plate.

“It gives you so much grief, Polly, I think you should just shave your head,” Stella said. Polly opened her eyes all the way. “Yeah, bald as a billiard ball. I’d be happy to wield the razor. My treat.”

“Well, Stella, I guess you’d be the expert on bald heads, wouldn’t you?” They glared at each other, Polly towering over the petite but pugnacious Stella. Lacey interrupted them.

“Polly, did you know Angie Woods? What do you think happened that night?”

“Happened? To Angie?” Polly seemed stumped. “When?”

“The night she died.”

“Died? Oh, wow, I better talk to Boyd.” Polly promised to send Lacey information on the fashion show and stomped off in her enormous red patent leather high heels. Stella guided Lacey back to the table.

“That bitch. I swear I’ll deck her someday.”

“Don’t forget your slingshot, little David. Can we go now?” Lacey asked.

But they were joined by Jamie Towers, one of Stella’s coworkers at the Dupont Circle salon. Jamie was all bouncy curls and perky personality, which couldn’t be masked by too much black eyeliner and purple nails. She bubbled in spite of herself and seemed younger than her twenty-four years. It could have been the multicolored hair, light brown striped with shades of bright orange and clown red.

“Stella, you were so fabulous! It’s like you think someone killed Angie and she so didn’t do it to herself, but like the cops are too stupid to even notice, right? Wow!” She contemplated those thoughts while crunching a carrot. “That’s so brave.” Jamie stared at Lacey. “And you’re going to, like, do something about it, right? That is so tremendous.”

Lacey glared at Stella. “Actually, I’m not—”

A tall, slender man flung himself down in a chair next to Stella. “How much longer for this little drama, do you think?” Wire-framed glasses were perched on an aquiline nose. He pushed them up with his middle finger and gazed around the room. A dark auburn lock of hair drooped ever so piquantly over his forehead. Black slacks and a white linen poet’s shirt completed the tormented-artist look. He was, Lacey concluded, not one of the straight male hairstylists. “Piled it on a little thick, didn’t we, Stella?” he said. “You really think she was Little Miss I-Love-My-Hair-Too-Much-to-Die?”

“What do you think?” Stella said.

“I think the salon was closed for two whole days just to clean up the bloody mess she left. Simply destroyed my appointment book.”

“Don’t be a jerk. She didn’t kill herself, Leo.”

“Of course she did. Angela Woods was not important enough to murder.”

Stella’s eyes were daggers and her bloodred fingernails looked dangerous as she spread them on the table.

“Maybe not, Leo, but you are.” He merely snorted. “Leo, this is Lacey Smithsonian. You know, ‘Crimes of Fashion’ Lacey Smithsonian. Lacey, this is Leonardo,
the
Leonardo. He worked next to Angie. Sometimes he’s almost human.”

“Dear sweet Angie.
C’est la vie.
She was so young and naive. I shared what I could with her. My skills, my experience, my
je ne sais quoi.
My card.”

Lacey took his offered business card. “Why would Angie kill herself when she was a rising star? Isn’t that what she worked so hard for?”

“Because she couldn’t handle all the attention. Besides, Marcia Robinson should have been mine.”

Lacey had heard a lot about the temperamental Leonardo. No last name, just Leonardo. He had been the resident star stylist at Stylettos and “a royal pain in the butt,” to quote Stella. He often left other stylists in tears during a tirade. He refused to see clients if they had been “unfaithful.” He overbooked his schedule and made clients wait for hours, or he disappeared for days and made others cover for him.

Leonardo straightened up and gave his full attention to Lacey. “So you’re the little style sniper at
The Eye
. I can’t believe we haven’t met before. But of course, Stella has told me all about you. We just adore your column. You know, you have great hair. You’re wasted on Stella.”

Leo grabbed a handful of Lacey’s hair and ran his fingers through it, pulling gently and letting it fall into place. “Nice texture, good weight. Do make an appointment with me, doll, next time Stella’s out of town. Don’t tell Stella.” He winked at Stella and squeezed Lacey’s hand.

“You wouldn’t like her, Leo,” Stella snarled. “She’s one of ‘those.’ ”

“You mean she insists on having it
her
way? Naughty, naughty. You have to remember who the expert is, Lacey.”

Yes. Me. It’s my hair. I’m the expert.
“Sorry, Leonardo,” Lacey said. “Stella’s my stylist. I’m afraid to ditch her.”

He sighed. “Come in anyway, we’ll talk about ‘Crimes.’ You know it’s a crime what women in this town do to their hair. Can you believe they still want their hair frosted? Oh my God. With all the edgy alternatives available? It’s ridiculous. Does it make you want to gag or what? You take a twenty-five-year-old woman and give her a frosted Helmet Head, what do you get? A woman who looks forty-five. Of course, D.C. is full of the prematurely matronly and geezerly. Forget the spandex, and bring on the sweatpants, honey.” Leo’s private mission was to break the hammerlock of the frosted Helmet Head look that was so popular in Washington.

“Tell me, Leo, did you know Angie very well?”

“Are you going to quote me?” Leonardo thought for a moment, weighing each word, calculating its effect. “We were close, so close. It’s hard to talk about.” He paused and didn’t seem at all embarrassed by his previous comments.

Josephine swooped by and placed her hand on Leonardo’s shoulder. “Come,
cherí.
I need you.” Leonardo dragged himself away from the table, tossing “It’s so tragic,” over his shoulder. Lacey watched Josephine latch on to him and lead him away.

“Thick as thieves, those two,” Stella said.

“What did he mean when he said Marcia should have been his?” Lacey asked.

“Marcia actually had an appointment with Leonardo the first time she came in,” Jamie explained. “But he was sick with Virginia Beach fever.” Jamie rolled her eyes. “He’s the one who called in sick, but he wouldn’t even speak to Angie after she gave Marcia that great makeover and got her picture in all the papers. He is so not funny.”

“Whatever,” Stella said. “Marcia’s lawyer and her mother, who is a close friend of Josephine Radford’s, told Miss Robinson not to show her face to the cameras until she tamed that mop and lost a few pounds. Josephine wanted her star Leo to take care of her. As a special favor. No one thought it would be a big deal, so he played hooky. Anyway, with Leo out I gave Marcia to Angie. The rest is in the newspapers. Leonardo never forgave Angie for getting a break.”

Jamie nodded her agreement. “Or for being more talented than him. I thought it was totally cool that Angie was recognized for what she did, because all the big celebrity stylists are men.” She made a face. “You ever notice that? That is so . . . you know?” The younger stylist leaned forward. “So, are you going to write something about the funeral, Lacey?”

“Of course she’s going to write something,” Stella said. “She just has to think about it first.” Stella tapped her manicured fingers on the table. “So what do you think, Lacey?”

“I think it’s time for me to go.” Lacey picked up her purse and stood up. Jamie took a roll and tore it into little pieces.

“You know, it’s kind of funny, but Angie’s death was just like that game we play, Stella. You know the one,” Jamie whispered. “Salon of Death.”

Stella sighed. “No, it’s not.”

“Excuse me?” Lacey perked up. “Salon of Death?”

“Yeah, it is, kind of. Of course we don’t play Salon of Suicide. Just murder.”

Lacey perched on the edge of the table and took a petit four off Stella’s plate. “Tell me about the game, Jamie.”

Stella jumped in. “It has nothing to do with anything.”

“I want to hear it, especially if it has nothing to do with anything,” Lacey insisted.

Stella shrugged. “If you think the wig heads are creepy, you’ll love this.”

Jamie picked up all the bread pieces and balled them together in her fist, then rolled the ball around in her fingers. “Sometimes it gets really boring, right? So one day we just sort of started talking and everything, about how easy it would be to kill someone in the salon. There’s lots of ways. Mostly we talked about how—actually it’s Ratboy we kill. Once in a while Josephine, or a real irritating client like Sherri Gold. But anyway, Salon of Death is our imaginary board game, like Clue. Clue has these cute little plastic murder weapons? In Salon of Death you could have cute little plastic scissors and blow-dryers and shampoo bowls and stuff.” Jamie paused for breath and took a sip of Coke.

“In Clue you guess whodunit, like, you know, Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the candlestick? In Salon of Death, we guess, How would
you
kill Ratboy? For example, Leo at the shampoo bowl, poisoning him with solution.”

“How would you do that?” Lacey asked.

“Hold him down and make him drink it,” Stella said. “That would be a permanent solution.”

Jamie played with a stray curl, wrapping it around her index finger, which had a nail bitten to the quick. “There are lots of chemical things, you know, relaxers, dyes, and highlights. All totally toxic. Lots of them are flammable too. And for electrocution there’s actually a really old permanent wave machine in the warehouse. They rolled up your hair on these crazy rods that are connected to wires on this machine, and plugged you in. Like way long ago, in the Twenties or Fifties or something. She’s really spooky. We call her Medusa. There’s one just like it in the Smithsonian Museum—just like your name! Wow, I never even thought of that before!”

“It’s more inventive than just dropping the blow-dryer in the water,” Stella said. “In Salon of Death, you get points for originality.”

“What about hair spray and matches?” Lacey asked. “Like a blowtorch?”

“Exactly,” Jamie said. She was obviously a budding games designer.
Or mass murderer.
“Everyone has a favorite method.”

“Really? Stella, what’s yours?” Lacey snagged a potato chip off Stella’s plate, but ignored the little hot dog.
Who catered this thing anyway?

Stella rolled her eyes and snapped a carrot stick.

“Oh, you’d break his bones? That’s my stylist,” Lacey said.

“Stella got grossed out by it. Now if we talk about it, she makes us fold all the towels.”

“It’s only a game, Lacey,” Stella said. “But after Angie—”

“What did Angie think about the game? Did she have a favorite method? A razor maybe?” Lacey asked.

“She wasn’t into it much. She was kind of antiviolence,” Jamie said. She lowered her voice. “Leo said he’d use a razor and slit Ratboy’s throat. ’Course, that’s pretty obvious. But when I think about Angie . . .”

All of a sudden Jamie ran out of steam. Her eyes teared up and she started sobbing. Stella handed Jamie a fresh black Stylettos napkin to wipe her eyes. She took one look at Lacey and handed her a napkin too.

 

There was another teary interlude with Angie’s mother. In spite of her red-rimmed eyes, Adrienne Woods was, at fifty, still a pretty woman in the Southern manner of perfection that demanded equal parts charm and good grooming. The family hung together as if fearing another violent separation. In a show of support, Adrienne was followed closely by her two nearly grown daughters, both brown-eyed blondes: seventeen-year-old Abigail, the middle child, and Allison, the youngest at fifteen. Every memory of Angela Woods brought fresh tears.

“All she ever wanted was to make people happy. She didn’t deserve this,” Adrienne sobbed.

Lacey wanted to know if Angie had been depressed recently. Adrienne said that everyone gets blue every now and then, but Angie had been nothing but smiles since landing her job at the Dupont Circle salon, and the recognition she gained from styling Marcia Robinson put her “over the moon.”

The funeral and reception left Lacey exhausted. Intimacy with so many strangers made her uncomfortable and Salon of Death gave her the creeps. She wanted to dry off all the tears that fell during all the hugs she endured. Suddenly, a pathway seemed to open up in front of her. Stella would just have to catch up. Lacey willed herself to be invisible as she raced for the door.

Chapter 5

Funny, I didn’t see him at the funeral.
He was about six feet tall, broad shoulders and narrow hips, a nice pair of muscular arms. He had curly dark brown hair and, she supposed, brown eyes, if only she could get a look at his face.

Lacey was almost out the door, waving for Stella and on her way to freedom, when she glanced sideways at a mirror and caught a glimpse of this stranger. She turned on a dime. Sightings of an attractive male specimen seemed to be getting rarer.