Murder Most Fancy, page 11
‘No need,’ she said, marching on.
‘Oh. But the hair salon is closed. The only salon open is the barber,’ he said, palms open, trying to negotiate.
‘Totally fine, dude,’ she said as she neared the door. ‘I’ll meet you there after my uber exciting trip to the laundry.’
‘Perfect!’ I smiled brightly.
Although she was halfway through the door, her right arm cradling two slightly used stolen hotel uniforms, I swear she gave me the finger.
I don’t know if it was the shame of being related to Gilly, Bettina and Gregory or the dignity inherited from Dame Elizabeth, but as we walked down the hall to the elevator, Astor neither asked me why I had been, nor admonished me for, spying on his family dinner. His only concession to the idea that this might be an odd situation was him fidgeting with his hair, pulling it down past his ears to cover the tiny holes he shared in common with his niece. She did the same thing to cover hers when feeling unsettled.
‘Is your mother well?’ he asked, tugging his hair before pressing the elevator’s down button.
‘Quite, yes, thank you,’ I said politely. I was not going to make small talk about her vacation with Jed. She was happy. She deserved to be with whoever made her happy. I was unsure if my father had ever made her happy. I liked to think he had, at least for a while. Before it had all unravelled.
‘And your grandmother?’ he said, grinning. ‘She’s got spirit.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, recalling Grandmother’s recent visit with Dame Elizabeth. ‘Your mother is fairly spirited herself.’
He laughed, delighted. ‘She certainly can be. She’s a sweetheart, but sometimes you have to watch the quiet ones.’
No kidding.
‘I saw her just yesterday. She seemed very well,’ I said as the elevator doors pinged open.
‘Is she?’ he asked, not moving. ‘She’s been very happy of late.’
We exchanged looks. What could I say? He probably knew more about her relationship with Max than I.
‘You’ve met him?’ I asked, discarding the pretence that heiresses simply hang out under tables in private rooms as a recreational activity. Perhaps he thought I was Grandmother’s spy, come to check up on her best friend’s mysterious new beau?
‘Yes, many times,’ he said, allowing me to board the elevator first then following. ‘Max is a lovely man. Solid. Polite. Kind. An excellent tipper.’ He grinned. ‘The staff like that.’
I smiled back. ‘Always a positive sign. I’m sure he and your mother will be blissfully happy together.’
He smiled radiantly. ‘I think so too. The others will get used to him.’
A silence sat between us as we stood in the elevator.
‘I appreciate trust, loyalty and protectiveness in a relationship,’ he said finally. ‘Between new partners and between old friends.’
So, he did think we were spying for Grandmother. Who was I to correct him? ‘Me too.’
He stepped out of the elevator. ‘I have just the manicurist for you.’
According to Astor, Shale was the best manicurist at the inhouse spa. Shale was five foot zero, early twenties, blonde and had freckles in her tan. She was traditionally good-looking, but also had that unique confidence that some petite women have. She seemed very certain of her place and space in the world. This made her even more attractive.
After introducing me to Shale, Astor made a quiet exit, leaving us to chat. Shale was happy to talk Max. She’d done his nails on many occasions and he was, just as Astor had reported, kind, polite and a fantastic tipper. She added he was always punctual, never sleazy (which must have been a relief to her) and was actively interested in the comings and goings at the hotel. She had given him the lay of the land.
Who was dating who: everyone was dating everyone, including Bettina, who was allegedly dating the concierge who had shown me to the door (that explained that).
Who was whose boss: as predicted, Gregory Holly spent very little time actually being a manager except when it suited him, which was mainly when celebrities were staying.
Who worked hard and who was a slacker: surprisingly, Bettina was considered a hard worker, although no one wanted to work for her. She was a nightmare boss. Gilly’s dedication to her job was, however, sporadic at best.
Which were the best rooms: least noise, best view, optimal layout, the perfect distance to the elevators.
Which were the best times to use the gym and pool: either when no one else was using them, or when everyone else was using them (Max preferred to use the pool when no one was around).
And, of course, how to score hotel ‘freebies’ like free valet parking, drinks, meals and massages.
I carefully, but shamelessly, pumped Shale for additional information about Max. He was five foot seven-ish, somewhere between seventy and eighty, ‘most days he got out and about’, had longish white hair, no wedding ring, dressed in expensive clothes but never wore a belt, carried a bundle of cash—fifties and hundreds—never took change (hence the tipping), never used a credit card or hotel credit, swam in the hotel pool (at the times suggested by Shale, between 9 and 10 pm, receiving maximum privacy), didn’t drive, had an older model smartphone but never used it and, on no occasion, had he ever come into the hotel with a woman.
Everybody loved Max. And Astor.
If this manicurist had known Max was dating Dame Elizabeth, she would have told me about it three seconds into our conversation. The woman had a memory like a steel trap and missed nothing.
‘Jesus, that’s an improvement,’ she said, admiring her work. She had performed miracles with the nails butchered the week before by Dr Bailly. I wanted to tell her that forensic pathologists made rotten manicurists, but since I didn’t want Jimmy the valet parker, who was dating Cindy from the front desk, to know before I exited the spa, I kept it to myself.
The good news was that Max seemed like a great guy. The bad news was that his physical description was similar to the man in the lilies.
‘Oh,’ Shale said as I was leaving. ‘Some days he has an amazing appetite. Steak and all.’
That seemed like a strange observation. Then again, she was a young, urban Gen Z. Maybe anyone with a diet that wasn’t keto, raw food or vegan was odd. Or was she implying he was overweight?
‘You said he’s very trim. He swims,’ I said, trying to be casual.
‘Oh yeah, he’s super trim and he does swim, but, you know, old people, they’re not great eaters,’ she said in a tone that implied I knew what she was talking about.
I did not.
‘My nanna, she never eats apples anymore. You know. And my grandpa’s always going on about how he misses steak,’ she added with a lopsided grin.
I did not know. I was not more enlightened. Less, in fact. My grandfather ate anything and everything until the day he expired. My grandmother was no slouch in the eating department either.
‘Oh crap!’ she suddenly gasped. ‘Your grandparents are dead, huh? I’m sorry, babe.’ She gave me a soothing pat and explained patiently. ‘You see when they get really old their teeth go, they get dentures. You can’t eat a steak with dentures. It’s hard to swallow some stuff too. Slows them down, eating wise.’
‘Max eats steak?’ I pondered, mainly to myself.
‘Oh yeah!’ she answered, wide-eyed. ‘On his eating days, he goes steak, corn on the cob, pizza, apples, burgers.’
‘His eating days?’
‘Yeah, you know oldies, some days they don’t eat much. Then other days it’s just savoury, other days just sweet stuff.’
I did not know, but I encouraged her to finish.
‘He gets free snacks and meals from the restaurants all the time. Salads, desserts, coffees, soup, you name it. Sometimes they deliver them here. I heard he even got free lobster once! Never seen that before. Then again, he’s a crazy good customer. And super cool. And a hella tipper.’
High value customers did often get free extras. I certainly did. When I was able to get into a hotel, that is. None of this was really news.
‘But I haven’t seen him in a while.’
‘He’s probably popped up to Byron or out to Lord Howe,’ I reassured her, standing to leave.
‘Yeah, probably,’ Shale said, packing her equipment away. ‘I know he’s just a guest and all, but I kinda miss him.’
I thanked her and slid into the barber’s shop next door to find Esmerelda about to have her elbow-length, sun-streaked locks shaved off into a buzz cut, a la Britney. I reminded her that Britney became more conspicuous than ever with her sparkling bald head, and the paparazzi doubled down on their efforts to stalk her to death. She made a comment about me ruining her buzz cut buzz, which got a chuckle out of the somewhat bemused barber.
As it turned out the barber, Mayson, was a master at trimming split ends, not that I had any. Mayson was six foot, built like a man who saw a gym often, his hairless brown arms covered in a careful choreography of intricate bright green, pink, yellow and turquoise tattoos. His hair was nothing but stubble on the back and sides, with longer hair on top that was moussed into submission and combed into shiny rows. It suited him.
Mayson was not quite as well informed about hotel goings-on as Shale, but he happily volunteered some similar information about Max: five foot seven, good guy, excellent customer, amazing tipper, no cards, no change, cash only, staff loved him.
He released a section of Esmerelda’s hair from a metal clip and combed it through, saying, ‘The guy comes in at eight every morning. Boom. Like clockwork. Cutthroat shave, hot towel, the whole deal. Real old-school. Except …’
‘Yes?’
‘Except not for the last week,’ he said, hesitating, not wanting to speak out of turn.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he’s off doing a wine tour in the Hunter or walking the beaches down south.’
‘Yeah,’ he smiled. ‘Prob’ly.’ But then a shadow crossed his face and he shook his head ‘no’ despite not having been asked a question, and talking to himself, gave a reprimand.
‘Something else?’ I asked nicely.
‘Nah.’
‘Cross my heart, I won’t tell a soul. I hate gossip. I would never start a rumour.’
Esmerelda coughed violently and I threw a dog-eared Pazzia in her lap.
‘It’s not even a negative. It’s amazing really,’ he said, flicking his razor in and out in a trance.
‘He sounds like an amazing guy,’ I encouraged.
‘Totally,’ Esmerelda added from under a blanket of damp hair that had been combed over the front of her face.
Mayson expertly flicked his razor open and sliced the scrappy ends off another section of Esmerelda’s hair. ‘He wears his hair long. Not like hipster long, but beachy. Still-cool-in-a-tux long. And he was grey, you know, salt and pepper,’ he said. Comb, razor, slice, comb, razor, slice. ‘Not a criticism.’
He had my attention. The man in the lilies had snowy white hair. No grey.
‘Grey is very distinguished,’ I said happily. Max sounded lovely. I hoped he and Dame Elizabeth would be très happy together and spend all their money on abstract art and opera productions.
‘Yeah, it is, right?’ he said, pointing both comb and razor at me in enthusiastic agreement. ‘I think so too. It’s wild that anyone who’s salt and pepper would dye their hair, right?’
‘Not really,’ I said, feeling defensive. I single-handedly put my colourist’s son through medical school. According to my mother, going grey early was a genetic trait passed through on her father’s side. A genetic trait that, of course, skipped her and came straight to me.
‘I think it is perfectly fine to cover a few greys. Even if you’re a man.’
‘No, no,’ he said, gesturing apologetically, ‘it’s not that. It’s that he dyes it white. Bleaches it. It’s salt and pepper at the roots but he whitens it. You’d never know he was salt and pepper. I mean, I noticed but, you know, I’m a professional. I’ve just never seen an old guy do that. Make it look white on purpose. Most of ’em are keen to hang on to the dark ones, mix ’em up with the whites. Go George Clooney.’
I felt a distinct drop in the bottom of my stomach.
‘So, Max looks like he has white hair, but he’s really salt and pepper?’ I clarified.
‘Yeah, a hundred per cent.’ Comb, razor, slice. ‘Fully odd.’ Comb, razor, slice.
‘Do you use Atkinsons California Poppy Hair Oil?’ I asked Mayson.
‘Not yet,’ he said, not objecting to the conversation’s change in direction. He combed out another section of hair. Slice.
‘But you intend to?’
‘Yeah, I’ve ordered a couple bottles,’ he said, examining both sides of Esmerelda’s hair to see if they were even.
‘Really?’ I feigned surprise. ‘It seems a little, well, old.’
He laughed. ‘I’ll say! I had to order it off eBay. It’s fully vintage. But, you know, lots of old-school stuff is making a comeback. Look at whisky.’
I dreaded the answer but I asked anyway. ‘What gave you the idea?’
‘Oh,’ he said, making a final, tiny slice on Esmerelda’s now perfect hair. ‘Max uses it. It’s great on him. He rocks it, you know?’
Slice, comb, slice.
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. I knew.
‘There!’ Mayson said, spinning Esmerelda in the chair. Her newly razored hair looked amazing. She was more beautiful than ever.
She ran a hand through it. ‘Cool,’ she said to Mayson by way of thanks. Then, turning to me, she said, ‘Bummer.’
CHAPTER 9
THE MORNING AFTER
I decided I had earned a sleep-in and so refused to budge from bed until 11 am. Not only had last night been emotionally exhausting and socially awkward, but Esmerelda decided to use a streetlamp instead of the brake pedal at an intersection on the way home.
Patricia would not be pleased. Her car had a massive scrape down its left side and a substantial gap where its left headlight used to be. Actually, there was a substantial gap where most things on the front left side used to be.
Esmerelda swore the brakes ‘weren’t sticking’ but I suspect her laces came loose and wrapped themselves around the accelerator pedal. Either way, it was an excellent reason for me to win the right to drive, and to drive my own car, the next time we required private, non-driver driven transportation. I had thus far lost that argument. It didn’t help that my somewhat spotted driving history had been so thoroughly documented by the paparazzi.
Esmerelda ordered a tow truck and an Uber. The tow truck beat the Uber to the scene and we were left standing by the side of the road for several unacceptable minutes. I did not enjoy my first Uber experience. The car was older than I was, the driver was younger and there was nothing five-star about it. Unless it was five out of ten. There would not be a repeat experience.
‘Where’s my car?’ Patricia wanted to know as she bustled in with my breakfast tray.
‘Getting cleaned,’ Esmerelda lied, walking in her wake, eyeing my waffles. ‘But like, if you won Lotto, what kinda car would you buy?’
Patricia glared suspiciously over her shoulder at Esmerelda. ‘I just had it cleaned. You’d better not have left it somewhere shady.’
‘You have your car cleaned?’ It seemed odd that a housekeeper or a maid would have her car cleaned.
‘What?’ she said, dropping the tray on the table by the window. ‘I have to clean in my downtime too?’ Her hands moved to her hips and her head cocked to the right.
‘No, I just thought that—’
‘Yes?’ She leaned towards me, as if trying to prompt the rest of my sentence.
‘Why’re you so crabby?’ Esmerelda said, deftly snagging half a waffle. If I didn’t make it to the table soon, my tea would disappear as well. I slid out of bed and wrapped myself in a peach silk robe, making it to the breakfast tray just in time to remove Esmerelda’s hand from my teapot.
‘It’s that Dylan Moss boy. He’s been calling for you all week. He’s annoying the crap out of me.’ Patricia scowled.
‘Dylan called the house?’ A long-forgotten butterfly floated in my stomach.
‘Called? Yes, he’s called! He’s also been coming ’round! Sending flowers. The hide,’ she said, her voice rising several octaves.
I sat in the shell chair and peered at her in what I hoped was a poignant way. She remained silent. ‘And you did not tell me because …?’ I finally prompted.
‘Your mother said if he ever came ’round here, I was to say nothing to you and to tell him you weren’t home,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘And to bugger off.’
‘When did she say that?’ I queried, pouring my own tea.
‘You know,’ she said, pulling up the sheets on my bed and fluffing my pillows.
I did not know. I started on my waffles.
‘When he …’ She paused, searching for the right words. ‘Hoodwinked you. Cad of a kid.’
‘When he …’ I too searched for a way to say what we were all thinking—when he’d cheated on me and broken my heart.
‘Dude, just say it. When he got it on with that other chick,’ Esmerelda said, ever helpful.
I looked to Patricia for confirmation. She nodded.
‘When I was sixteen?’ I asked, my fork, loaded with waffle topped with banana and strawberries … okay, and clotted cream and Canadian maple syrup, stopping halfway to my mouth.
She nodded while banging a pillow. ‘Uh-huh.’
I gazed at her, eyebrows raised. ‘In year eleven?’
‘What?’ she said defensively. ‘Cat’s given me no reason to think she’d changed her mind. No update in the Bugger Off Dylan Moss policy.’
Esmerelda made a face, indicating she conceded the point.
I let out an exasperated sigh.
‘What?’ Patricia cajoled, eyeing me. ‘You wanna see that little troll?’
‘No!’ I yelped, shocked at the very notion. My gut and my nose might have had a school-girl reaction to him but my brain had no such issues. Clueless. Bungling. ‘Most definitely not.’
‘Then eat your waffles and let me be annoyed with him,’ she said, hanging clothes up in the walk-in robe.
