Permed To Death [Bad Hair Day Mystery 1] (3 page)

Cruising down the street, she was relieved to note an absence of parked cars in the driveway. At least the police hadn't arrived yet. Tropical foliage graced the grounds, marred by a standard-issue mailbox on a post by the roadway. Rounding a bend, she caught a glimpse of the pool with a chickee hut in back facing the Intracoastal Waterway.

She'd remembered the directions pretty well considering how long it had been since her first visit. The details of that interview were vividly imprinted on her mind, like the image of Mrs. Kravitz in the shampoo chair. Now the old woman wouldn't plague her any longer with the shame of her past. A sense of liberation lifted her spirits, but it was quickly replaced by guilt. She shouldn't be so glad her wealthy customer was dead, even if it meant one less piece of emotional baggage to lug around.

Shaking off her morbid thoughts, she decided it would be smart to park her vehicle around the next corner. Turning the bend, she pulled onto a grassy swale and switched off the ignition. Sweat trickled down her chest as soon as she stepped outside, where moisture thickened the air. That line of perspiration beading her lip wasn't from the humidity, though.

You've got
chutzpah,
girl
, she told herself.
Go to it and then get out of here
. She was inviting trouble by her foolhardy actions, but what other choice did she have? She had to get hold of that envelope.

Several moments later, she rang the front doorbell. Maybe Mrs. Kravitz's son was home, although she believed he had his own apartment. Still, it was worth a try. She'd make her request, pray that he granted it without question, and leave.

Her hopes were dashed when no one responded. She considered twisting the doorknob, but if the house was wired, she might trip an alarm. She'd look for another means of entry.

Prowling around the side of the house, she searched for an open window without protective screening. Nothing. Maybe a patio door was ajar. Her shoes crunched on dry grass as she edged toward the rear.
Mrs. Kravitz should have turned on the sprinklers more often
, she thought irrelevantly. Both screen doors were locked, and the other side of the house was just as secure. Now what? She couldn't take the risk of breaking in. She'd just have to find another way to get the envelope.

The sound of a car engine threw Marla into a panic. Someone was pulling into the driveway! Keeping close to a sidewall, she peered around a fragrant gardenia bush. Her blood chilled when she observed a beige-and-black police car. Aware of how bad it would look if she were spotted, she changed direction.

Her thoughts raced as she furtively made her way through various neighbors’ yards toward her car. Attending the funeral would be the best way to meet the old lady's relatives. After expressing condolences, she'd casually mention that Mrs. Kravitz kept an envelope addressed to her, an important document that she needed returned. Hopefully someone would agree to find it for her. Today's loss was merely a temporary setback.

Reassuring herself that all would be well, she slid into the driver's seat of the Toyota, shut the door, and started the engine. Her heart still pumping vigorously from a mixture of anticipation and fear, she shifted gears and headed out of the ritzy development. Passing by the police car was her most harrowing moment. She scrunched down in her seat, hoping they didn't already have a fix on the make of her car.

Twenty minutes later, she turned into the entrance of Green Hills, a prestigious subdivision west of Pine Island Road. After driving by the cascading rock waterfall that was meant to impress visitors, she wound through a maze of streets toward her town house. Using the automatic opener, she pulled directly into the garage. At last! Now she'd be able to relax.

Excited barking sounded as she emerged from her car. Spooks would be a comforting presence. At least poodles didn't ask questions.

"Marla! What are you doing home this early? You sick or something?” her neighbor's gravelly voice called from outside.

Marla rolled her eyes.
So much for my peace and quiet
. Strolling into the sunshine, she nodded to the elderly man who was occupied at a worktable in his driveway. A former carpenter, he took on small jobs to keep busy. A naval cap sat at a jaunty angle on his head of sparse white hair, but it didn't provide much protection from the scorching sun. His leathery skin showed the effects of too much exposure to damaging rays.

"One of my customers took ill this morning at the salon,” she explained with a tired smile. “It was quite a scene."

"You look frazzled.” Putting down his drill, he swaggered over. His lined face crinkled into a grin. “I've got just the thing to cheer you.” Reaching into a back pocket, he yanked out a scrap of paper.

"Oh, joy.” Marla wasn't in the mood to hear one of his limericks. Moss Cantor dreamed of fame as a poet and kept adding verses to an increasing volume of pages in his manuscript. Not being an English buff, she had no idea if his work had the proper cadence, not that it mattered. Moss kept himself entertained, and that made the project worthy in itself.

He read in a loud, steady voice:

There was a man who lived in Walloon

Who liked to stop in every saloon

One day he met a tall fellow

Who dared to call him yellow

Whereupon he deflated fast as a balloon

Marla couldn't suppress a grin of pleasure. “That's very good, Moss. I like it"

His expression brightened. “Then listen to this next one I've been working on."

"Not now,” she cut in quickly. “I've got to go inside. Tell me later when it's finished."

His blue eyes darkened with concern. “You'd better get some rest, mate. You know you can count on Emma and me if you need anything.” Tugging on his beard as though for emphasis, he hovered solicitously.

"Thanks, but I'll be all right."

Breathing a sigh of relief to finally be alone, she rushed inside the house. After letting Spooks out to the fenced backyard, she strode into her study. Ignoring the pile of mail on her desk, she picked up the phone. Business first, she told herself. She punched in the number for her salon's janitorial service.

"Tomas?” she said when his accented voice answered. “Who was on duty last night? One of your boys left the back door unlocked at my salon. You may have heard what's happened today, and I'm pretty upset"

"
Si
, I get a call from the cops already. Pete and Carlos did your place. Pete says Carlos was the one who locked up. They finished by midnight and went on to their next job. I try to reach Carlos, but he lives on a boat. I have to leave message with dockmaster."

"I see. Well, if he comes in to work tonight, I hope you'll reprimand him for being so careless."

"I will talk to him, miss."

"Send someone else next time, okay?” She hung up, disgusted. She had enough problems without worrying about a sloppy cleaning crew.

She'd just changed into shorts and let Spooks back inside when the phone rang. Snatching up the receiver, she wondered who'd be calling. “Hello,” she answered, half-fearing it was Detective Vail with a new slate of questions.

"Marla, dear,” crooned her mother, “how are you? Don't forget you're coming to dinner on Sunday. Uncle Moishe will be in town."

"I don't know if I'll be able to make it."

"What do you mean?” Anita demanded. “Of course you'll come! Your cousins will be here."

As far as Marla was concerned, that was reason enough to stay away. Something warm and moist nudged her hand. Glancing down, she smiled at Spooks, who gave her an imploring look. She scratched behind the poodle's ears, gratified when he arched his head in response. His creamy white hair felt fluffy and soft as she stroked his neck.

"Ma, let me tell you what happened today,” she said, anxious to share her tale.

"Sorry, I've got to run. I'm late for the Hadassah luncheon. You can still come if you want; I'll pick you up."

She heard the hopeful note in her mother's voice. “No way."

"You should get involved, you know, Marla. It's for a worthwhile cause."

"That's your opinion."

"Suit yourself. I'll talk to you later."

Marla heard the click and hung up, exasperated. Spooks, having her full attention, flipped onto his back and lay with his legs bent while she patted his belly. If only her mother would get off her case about religious groups. Marla had plenty of projects she supported; they just weren't the same as Anita's.

Fierce stomach rumblings propelled her into the kitchen, where she fixed herself a bagel with nova and cream cheese and a cup of hot tea. Just as she finished eating, another phone call disrupted the afternoon.

"Hello,” she barked into the receiver. What now?

"It's Tally,” said her best friend. “What's going on at your place? I saw the commotion on my way to work. I stopped off, but a cop told me you'd already left. This is the first chance I've had to call you."

Marla's shoulders sagged. “Oh God, Tally. Mrs. Kravitz croaked in the middle of a perm!"

A brief moment of silence met her words. “What did you do, use a lethal solution?” Mirth-filled chuckles followed. “Sorry, I know how much you disliked the old biddy. Tell me what happened."

Hearing her friend's voice cracked her reserve. Briefly, she related the sequence of events.

"How awful! You must be wiped out."

"I'm doing okay, except I can't help feeling it was my fault."

"Marla, stop with the guilt trip. You've been there before.” Tally's voice sharpened, and Marla cringed. She didn't want to hear what came next. “Mrs. Kravitz's unfortunate demise had nothing to do with a two-year-old toddler. You were nineteen when Tammy drowned in that pool. I thought you'd finally put her to rest Hold on a minute, will you?"

Tally spoke aside to one of her clerks at Dressed To Kill. As owner of the women's fashion boutique, she often referred customers to Marla and vice versa. “Look, why don't you come over here? You shouldn't be alone,” Tally urged her.

"That's okay. I need some time to think. I'll call you later."

As soon as she hung up, the phone rang again. It didn't stop for the next few hours. Apparently the story about a woman taking ill in her salon had spread, and everyone she knew was trying to reach her. Tired of repeating her story, she turned on the answering machine and screened calls for the rest of the day. That night, she retired early, feeling emotionally drained.

Freshly alert in the morning, she turned on the TV while getting dressed in her bedroom. Buttoning the top to her pale yellow shorts outfit, she focused her attention on the screen where a view of her salon was on the air.
I timed this just right
, she thought sardonically, wondering how much news coverage she'd missed already. Spooks flopped at her feet, licking her ankle, while she stared, transfixed.

"The victim was poisoned,” said the news anchor, a deadpan-faced man in a dapper suit “The police won't release any further details except to say they're pursuing an investigation."

Poisoned
! Marla sank onto her bed, stunned.
Dear Lord, what does this mean
? Before she could think, the phone jarred her senses.

"Why didn't you tell me about this yesterday?” her mother demanded without so much as a friendly greeting.

"I tried, Ma. You were in a hurry.” The doorbell sounded, making her grimace in annoyance. “Sorry, I've got to go. Someone's at the door.”
God, this promises to be a long day
.

"Spooks! Get back!” she ordered as the dog leapt against the front door in a barking frenzy. Swinging it open, she stared at her caller.

"May I come in?” Detective Vail asked, marching inside without waiting for a reply. He wore a lightweight suit in a medium wheat color with a striped tie, a nondescript outfit that would let him blend in with the crowd. His hair, gelled and coiffed, was properly styled for the conservative image he tried to project. But his purposeful stride, gray eyes glinting with determination, gave him away as a man used to command.

He halted in the foyer, his narrowed gaze sweeping the living room. She took the opportunity to study his profile, noting the stubborn thrust of his jaw. He looked like a man who focused on his job without allowing any distractions.

"I hope you don't mind the intrusion, but I have a few more questions,” he said, his gaze leisurely roaming her body and settling on her bare legs. She thought she saw mild interest flickering behind his expression, but then it was gone. Her imagination must be on overdrive.

"Have a seat,” she offered, graciously gesturing toward the living room. Planting herself in an armchair, she crossed her ankles self-consciously and waited for his first move.

"Are you familiar with Mrs. Kravitz's acquaintances?” he asked, leaning casually back in an upholstered love seat.

"She was quite chatty with some of our customers at the salon.” Marla described a few of the ladies, most of whom considered themselves buddies when Bertha

Kravitz was present and who gossiped about her when she wasn't there.

"Would anyone have reason to bear a grudge against her?"

Marla shrugged. “She was well respected in the business community, but on a personal level, most people disliked her."

"What about her relatives?"

"She has a son. I don't know what he does for a living, but she used to speak disparagingly about him. She always bragged about her niece."

"Would you say she favored the niece over her son?"

"Why are you asking me these questions?"

"Women confide in their hairdressers."

She appreciated his understanding of her occupation. “The news report gave poisoning as the cause of death. Isn't it possible Bertha ingested a toxic substance before coming to the salon, and it just took effect while she was there?"

His eyes narrowed, but not before she'd noticed their remarkable shade of smoky gray. “Traces of cyanide were found in the powdered creamer jar,” he said, watching her reaction.

Marla gasped. She hadn't truly wanted to believe Bertha had drunk a cup of poisoned coffee, one that she'd prepared. Did Vail suspect her of doing the deed? Who else might have contaminated the supplies, and why? “Have you contacted the cleaning crew yet? Carlos left the back door unlocked."