Die Charred, page 10
There was no way I could get George, the sigma male, to behave—at least not yet—and that was going to ruffle a lot of feathers. But Bird was the strongest woman I knew. She had the number-one most toned arms I had ever seen on a woman because she kept them up all day as she worked on heads. But more than that, she was a very sure woman. She was sure that she was in the right career. She was sure that you needed a number seven color with highlights. She was sure that she would not allow you to leave the salon until your mustache was waxed or your cracked heels were pedicured, or whatever else you needed in an emergency way.
Bird was always sure.
When George and I entered the salon, Bird gave him the side-eye right away. Somehow, she knew that he was trouble. She was in the middle of working on three women at once. She had one of them under the dryer. One had color on her hair, and the other was getting hers cut. Bird was a dynamo, never pausing for a moment.
“You haven’t been in here for a while,” she chastised me, as she cut long layers into her client’s hair. “How are you going to keep that man if you don’t keep yourself up?”
“I know! I know!” one of the stylists cried. She was working on Myrtle’s hair. Myrtle seemed calm. Not the wreck she had been on the phone just a few minutes before. “A lot of women are doing it now.”
“Women are Botoxing their vaginas,” Bird said, cutting her off.
“I was going to tell her, Bird,” the woman complained.
“Why do they do that?” another client asked.
“To plump the lips to make them look younger,” the other stylist explained.
“This is why I’m done with men,” the woman under the dryer said. “Only men care about vaginas looking young.”
Bird nodded. “I’ve got a lot of lesbian clients these days.”
“I would love to be a lesbian,” the woman whose hair she was cutting said. “But I don’t want to see anyone’s vagina. Not even if it’s Botoxed.”
“Tell me about it,” Bird said. “I don’t even want to see my vagina. I take my contacts out before I take my clothes off at night.”
That’s when I remembered that I had brought the sigma male in with me. He had blanched, and his mouth had dropped open. It was like the sigma part of his malehood had drained out of him. I didn’t blame him. Bird’s salon was a lot. There was a lot of information and wisdom imparted there by women who were upkeeping and maintaining. Not everyone could handle it, especially not someone who had never experienced it before.
“Are you all right?” I whispered to him.
He blinked and the color returned to his face. “Duh. And just so you know, sigma males don’t care about vaginas. We think about them as a revolving doorway. Nothing else.”
“Okay, but don’t spread that around in here. There are a lot of curling irons, and they could do damage.”
He took his coat off, and I noticed the tattoo on his arm. This time, it was a word in Japanese instead of a naked woman. “Your tattoo is different,” I pointed out.
He shrugged. “Where’s the bathroom? Not that I need a bathroom. Sigmas never use the bathroom.”
I sighed. He went to the bathroom, and I got to work. Stepping around Bird, I waved to Myrtle.
“There you are,” she shrieked. “Do you know what I’m going through? Dana says that my hair has gotten dry. That’s from the stress, Gladie. What’re you going to do about it?”
The salon went quiet, as everyone waited for me to tell Myrtle what I was going to do about her stress-induced dry hair.
I plastered my wedding planner’s smile on my face. “Everything’s going to plan,” I told Myrtle. “Your wedding’s going to go without a hitch.”
“You have to keep my mother in line,” she continued to shriek. “It’s her fault this happened. I didn’t want Poppy at my fake wedding shower. Fake wedding showers are important. They set a tone, you know.”
“That’s true. They set a tone,” her stylist Dana said.
“And what tone do you think I’ve got now, Gladie?” Myrtle asked. “Huh? Huh? A very bad tone. A worm woman got murdered, and it’s giving me a very bad tone.”
Sometimes I wondered why I decided to become a wedding planner when I had been perfectly happy as a matchmaker. I had become good as a matchmaker. Well, maybe not good. But I had become competent. I had made a lot of matches. Why, in the face of near success, did I decide to move on and conquer something else?
Of course, there was only one explanation: I loved wedding cake. Now, as a wedding planner, I ate wedding cake more weekends than not. And I went to a crap ton of wedding cake tastings. There was nothing better than wedding cake. Not even Pop-Tarts.
I would never admit to another living soul about my love for wedding cake and how it had tipped me over the edge into wedding planning. Sure, I did love to organize a couple’s happiest day. Sure, I loved the wedding vows and the pomp and circumstance. But in the scheme of things, nothing beat buttercream frosting on a multi-tiered cake.
So, I thought about Myrtle’s wedding cake as she continued to shriek at me. I had gone with her and her fiancé to their tasting, and that’s how I knew they had chosen the toffee crunch, double-white chocolate cake. Yum. I had eaten three slices of it at the tasting, and next week at their wedding, I was going to eat a whole bunch more.
My wedding planner smile grew more and more natural as I fantasized about eating the cake.
“So, what’re you going to do about it, Gladie?” she finished with one last shriek.
I took a deep breath and tried to summon every empathetic gene I had. Weddings were stressful. Maybe Myrtle was totally normal outside of wedding planning. It was doubtful, but I had to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Well,” I started. Everyone in the salon leaned toward me, like they didn’t want to miss a word. “This was an unfortunate event. I’m sorry it put a blemish on your wedding. Poppy was a good woman, and she didn’t deserve to be murdered, but I can assure you that by your wedding next week, no one will remember that she was at your fake wedding shower right before she died.”
There were a few gasps in the room.
“Did you hear that?” a woman with tin foil on her head exclaimed. “Poppy was at Myrtle’s fake wedding shower right before she was murdered.”
“Poppy was murdered?” the pedicurist asked loudly. “I thought she died in an accidental fire.”
There was a lot of murmuring then and more than one cellphone came out in order to text the world about Poppy. Uh-oh. I might have put my foot in it. I had a tendency to do that.
George walked out of the bathroom. “There’s a lot of women’s period products in that room,” he complained. “Why do women have to bleed? Am I right?”
A few women gasped, but most just threw things. Thank goodness for sigma males. He effectively changed the subject. Then, Bird changed the subject again.
“Did you hear about Raven?” she asked her client. “She gained fifteen pounds because her husband cooks every night.”
“Yeah right,” her client pooh-poohed. “Every time I hear about a man cooking or cleaning, I call ‘urban myth’.”
I gave Myrtle a supportive goodbye hug before she had time to ask me any questions. When I came in for the hug, however, she whispered into my ear. “Keep my mother in line. Don’t let her screw up again. That woman needs to be controlled.”
I shivered at her words and left with George immediately. Outside, I hugged myself, still cold from what Myrtle said to me. She had said it with such a quiet force, like she was used to controlling her mother. Like she was hard as a stone and nothing like her flighty airy-fairy outward persona. I didn’t know what to make of it, but my third eye was twitching pretty at a pretty fast clip.
“Now what?” George asked.
I caught a glimpse of the mayor up the street. “Now, you go home, George, and think about love. I’ll talk to you later.”
“But…”
“No,” I interrupted. “It’s time for you to listen to me, George. Go home and think about what you’ve done.”
“I didn’t kill that girl.”
“But you were there.”
“Because I love fishing! But don’t tell anyone that. Killing is very sigma.”
“Okay. Go home. I’ve got things to do.”
Miraculously, he listened to me. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and slouched against the wind, as he walked away. Hopping in the car, I drove the couple blocks up the street and parked near the mayor.
“Mayor!” I called. He turned, and I stepped back in surprise. The parts of him that weren’t bandaged were now covered with Band-aids.
“Hello there, Gladie,” he said, weakly.
“What happened to you? Were you in a car accident?”
“The llama is having a hard time fitting in. He’s slow to adapt. But I’m holding out hope.”
“Holy cow,” I breathed. “You still haven’t named him, huh?”
“Oh, heavens no. He wouldn’t like that at all. He has a certain reaction toward me.”
I put my hand on his arm, and he pulled away in pain. “Sorry,” I muttered. “Listen, you can’t go on this way. You need to get rid of that llama. Send it to a zoo or something. You’re going to wind up in the hospital.”
“He’s going to the llama sanctuary in Phoenix, just as soon as the Christmas pageant is over. I need him for the Christmas pageant.”
I tried to reason with him, tried to get through to him that Christmas pageants didn’t need donkeys, let alone llamas.
“In fact, I don’t think that there are llamas in the Bible,” I added. “I mean, I haven’t read it, but I’m pretty sure.”
I couldn’t get through to him, though. The Christmas pageant was the mayor’s signature event, just like peach was Lucy’s signature color. He wouldn’t budge. His entire psyche, reputation, and career were wrapped up in it.
“Do you hear that?” he asked.
I stopped and listened. “Away in the Manger?” I asked.
He nodded. “Somebody’s got to do something about those Wandering Carolers. They’ve wandered away, but we need them here.”
He marched up the street where the Christmas pageant rehearsal was starting. I didn’t have the heart to explain to him that the Wandering Carolers had wandered themselves to getting lost and that we might never find them. I followed the mayor up the street, since the rehearsals were happening near Tea Time, and I still hadn’t eaten lunch.
“I’m freezing my Christmas balls out here!” a Salvation Army Santa complained as he rang his bell. I stuck a dollar bill in his can. “Freezing! In Los Angeles, the Santas get portable heaters, and they don’t even need them in Los Angeles.”
“That’s rough,” I said.
But he wasn’t listening to me. He was looking up the street. I followed his gaze to see Charity.
“Oh, shit. I’ll be right back,” he said and headed right for her.
That’s when she spotted me and ran for it. Santa ran after her. I didn’t have the heart to run after either of them. I had more suspects than I knew what to do with, but I was no closer to solving Poppy’s murder.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I was starving. I opened the door to Tea Time. It was packed with people in blue and red outfits and coats with fur collars. The Christmas Pageant players were taking shelter in Tea Time’s warmth. Cannes was known for occasionally getting snow, but this season’s cold and snow were breaking records for us. We weren’t used to it.
Ruth was grumbling over all the orders for hot apple cider and hot chocolate. “This is a tea shop, people! Tea!” she screeched while making whipped cream. She was working double-time, like Bird with her three clients at once, but Ruth had about fifty going. Every seat was taken, and there was no way I was going to get Ruth to stop what she was doing to make me a ham sandwich or even a grilled cheese. It had been a long time since I had skipped a meal, and I didn’t like it one bit.
“Hey there, Ruth,” I greeted her at the back bar counter.
“Don’t you dare give me trouble,” she growled at me. “Don’t you see I’ve got every Christmas-loving lunatic in here?”
“I’m not a lunatic,” I pointed out, which made her guffaw.
“That was a good one, Gladie. Thank you for that. I needed a little levity today. Look at these disgusting people. They’re eating and drinking nonstop. They can’t get enough. Makes me sick to look at them.”
“You probably don’t want to put that in your ad campaign, Ruth.”
“Look at that one over there,” she continued. “She ordered my last chocolate chip scone. She’s crammed a dozen in her mouth. And I can’t stand that woman with her namby-pamby outfits and all the makeup on her face, and her high little voice like she’s more of a woman than I am just because she’s dumb. You know what I saw her wearing once? Pedal pushers. Pedal pushers, Gladie.”
I had no idea what pedal pushers were. I turned to see who she was talking about, and I almost fainted when I saw Daisy, Myrtle’s mother. She was sitting at a corner table, and she was hunched over a platter of chocolate chip scones, shoving them into her mouth, just as Ruth described.
“Whoa,” I said. “I’ve never actually seen her eat. I’ve seen her move food around a plate, but that’s about it. At her daughter’s cake tasting, the cakes never touched her lips.”
“There you go,” Ruth said, like she was delighted that I recognized the importance of her complaints. “Gross. All of these people are gross. Why don’t they go somewhere else? It’s like horses lining up at the trough.”
“Gee, Ruth. You really were made for the restaurant business. You get so much enjoyment from feeding the public.”
Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment I thought she was going to punch me. “Listen, girl. I’m old and cranky, and I’m allowed to think, feel, and say whatever I damned well please. And don’t think I’m feeding you. Go home and feed yourself. What do you think I am?”
“Again, I thought you were the owner of a food and drink establishment.”
She pursed her lips. “Not for you. Not today. Begone, before somebody drops a house on you, too!”
Okay, she didn’t actually say that last line.
“I don’t need your food, Ruth,” I lied. “I’ve got work to do.”
I made a beeline for Daisy’s table and sat down across from her. She was startled when she saw me and stopped eating, letting a handful of scone rest in the air for a moment before she decided something, shrugged her shoulders, and shoved the scone into her mouth.
“How’s it going?” I asked. Even though Myrtle had made me promise to talk to her mother about her overstepping with the wedding plans, I could feel the anger bouncing off Daisy. As far as I had seen, she was a laid-back mother of the bride.
“Grand,” she said and bit into another scone. My stomach growled. I was really hungry. It was all I could do not to steal one of her scones and stuff it into my mouth.
I hadn’t forgotten that she was one of my suspects. Why had she insisted that Poppy come to the fake wedding shower?
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told her.
“What loss?” she asked with her mouth full.
“Poppy. I know you were close.”
Daisy stopped chewing. “Who told you that?”
“Myrtle said you insisted that Poppy come to the fake wedding shower, so I assumed you two were very close.”
She swallowed and wiped her hands and mouth with a paper napkin. “I’m full, and I’m late for Myrtle’s dress fitting. Are you coming?”
“Uh…” I said. I was starving. I wanted to eat. I wanted to hear about Poppy. I didn’t want to go to the dress fitting. Wedding planners planned dress fittings. They didn’t attend dress fittings. But there was a chance that Daisy would come clean about Poppy on the way there, so I agreed to go with her.
Outside, Daisy insisted that we take her car. As she unlocked it, I spied the deputy mayor talking to the mayor. Reese had a completely different demeanor with the mayor than he did with me or Spencer. He made himself look smaller, and his voice had taken on a whiny tone. Gone was the bully that had been after Spencer and me. In its place was an insipid kiss-ass.
I wanted to punch him.
“That’s right, Mr. Mayor,” he was saying. “I’ve got it all under control. You can go home and take a nap. All will be well.”
Suddenly, he turned around and spotted me. His back straightened, and his face grew hard. He narrowed his eyes and marched toward me without saying goodbye to the mayor.
“What’re you doing?” he demanded, looking from me to Daisy and back again.
“I’m going to a dress fitting,” I said, even though I just wanted to kick him where I knew it would hurt.
“I’m watching you,” he warned. “I’m watching every step you take.”
“Funny, you don’t look like Sting.”
“What’s going on?” Daisy asked. “Is that man bothering you? I have mace in my purse.”
Oh, I so wanted to use her mace.
The mace comment got his attention. He wagged his finger at me one last time and returned to the mayor.
“Thank you,” I told Daisy when we got in the car.
“Men think they can harass women whenever they want. I have news for them. If they don’t go down with the mace, I have a twenty-two that’ll make them back off.”
Daisy carried a gun. That was good to know. But if she had a gun, why would she sabotage Poppy’s vibrator instead of just shooting her? I knew the answer even before the question formed in my mind. She needed to make it look like an accident. And it would have looked like an accident if I hadn’t also bought the Alpha and Omega vibrator and noticed a difference.
I tried to bring up Poppy during the drive, but Daisy made it clear that she had enough stress going on with the wedding, and she didn’t need to talk about a dead woman on top of it. I bit my lip and tried to summon some patience. I didn’t have a lot of patience to summon, though. When it came to murder mysteries, I was more or less a now sort of person.
