Facials Can Be Fatal Page 12

  Marla thought about Tally and Ken, who’d asked her to be guardian of their child if anything happened to them. She’d also been named as their successor trustee. Ken had a brother who was a chemist but the guy was a bit of a flake. Tally didn’t trust him to give her son the love he needed. Marla hoped to hell their faith in her would never have to be tested. And speaking of her friend, Marla needed to call Tally to check up on her.

  “So, will you be home for dinner?” Marla asked, anxious to get off the phone.

  “I should be able to leave by then. Love you, sweetcakes.”

  She thrilled to his endearment. “Love you, too.” She hung up, glad to focus on personal issues and leave the crime investigation to her husband.

  The rest of the day she spent calling Tally, working on bookkeeping tasks, and consulting with her mother and Dalton’s mom regarding arrangements for Hanukkah and Christmas. Marla couldn’t believe the first holiday was three days away. Meanwhile, she had her salon party coming up on Friday, gifts to wrap, more greeting cards to send out, and myriad other things to do. Her heart rate accelerated at the frantic pace of it all.

  Her good intentions to steer clear of Dalton’s affairs went awry on Tuesday at the salon, when the same friend of Val’s entered and accosted her.

  “Marla, do you have a minute?” said Nadia, an eager look on her face. The forty-something woman clutched a large handbag under her arm.

  Marla, in between clients, nodded with a smile. “Sure, I’ll step outside with you.” She could use a breath of fresh air. Pine and cinnamon scents emitted from their holiday decorations as she headed for the exit. They passed an electric menorah shining with blue lights on a bed of silver tinsel at the front desk. A miniature Christmas tree stood at the other end.

  As soon as they were alone, Nadia withdrew a wrapped parcel from her purse. “I received this in the mail. It’s from Val.”

  “What? How is that possible?”

  “She must have mailed it before she died, or else she’d left instructions for this to be sent to me in the event of her death. A note inside said I should turn it over to the police if anything bad happened to her.”

  Marla took the item, sank onto the bench in front of her salon, and opened the packaging. Inside was a bound book with a black leather cover.

  “It’s a journal that appears to be written years ago,” she said, flipping through several of the browned pages.

  Nadia pointed at the typewritten text. “I don’t know why Val sent it to me. Your husband might find it useful for his case. You can give this to him, can’t you?”

  “Yes, and I appreciate your trust in us.” Marla wanted to delve into the book to see what secrets lay hidden inside. Why would Val keep this item until her death? Could this journal be what the intruder had meant to find at Val’s house?

  This discovery opened a whole host of new questions. Marla didn’t have time to take it to Dalton now, though. She showed it to Nicole in a spare moment, noticing other people’s eyes light up when she mentioned Val’s name. Aware of the potential for gossip, she hastily stuck the book inside a drawer at her station until closing time.

  Dalton was late getting home from work after all, and by the time she got around to mentioning the journal, they were both ready for bed. She’d taken Brie to dance class and forgotten about the item until she and Dalton were alone.

  “Why don’t you copy it before you turn it in?” he suggested, tickling her arm as he lay beside her. “I wouldn’t mind having you glance through the book. You might find something significant.”

  “Thanks, I’m eager to see what’s in it. The journal must be important for Val to have kept it stashed away. How is your investigation going? Was there a particular reason why you had to stay late?”

  “We’ve been looking into the FOFL board members. Some interesting details have come to light. But let’s not talk about work now. I’d much rather relax.” His fingers roamed south, showing her what he had in mind.

  It wasn’t until Thursday morning that Marla finally had time to sit with Val’s journal on the family room sofa. This was her late day into work, and also the first night of Hanukkah, so she had until one o’clock to accomplish her tasks. But she’d awoken early to send Brie off to school and kiss Dalton goodbye before he left the house.

  She wore a bathrobe against the chilly weather since another cold front had come south. Resting the journal in her lap, she opened the first page. The book was titled Florida Escapade. It appeared to be an account of a young man’s 1934 trip through the Sunshine State. The author’s name, Warren Brookstone, didn’t ring a bell.

  Warren had been twenty-eight at the date of the entries. A naturalist, he and two of his friends had traveled to Florida in search of adventure and a slice of paradise. Marla frowned as she flipped through the pages. Why were only two of the men present in the final photos? What happened to the third guy? Did he leave the expedition at some point?

  The pages were browned and brittle and the corners crumbled at her touch. Afraid they’d fall apart before she read much further, she closed the book and headed for the bedroom to get dressed. At least the author had typed his manuscript. Had he tried to publish it?

  She detoured to her home office and did an online search for a book by that title. Nothing by this author popped up. So Warren must have kept it for personal reasons. But who was he in relation to Valerie Weston? And how did she acquire the forty-page journal?

  She’d have to deal with those questions later. After getting dressed, she put her brisket in the oven and commenced making the side dishes for tonight’s family dinner. She hadn’t booked any clients past six, so she’d scheduled the meal for seven o’clock. Brie would set the dining room table when she came home from school.

  It was trash day so she took some additional garbage out to the curb and waved to Susan Feinberg, two doors down. Susan waved back. She was a consulting editor for a women’s magazine as well as a popular blogger. Fortunately, Susan could work from home.

  That could be me, Marla thought every time she saw the woman with her two young children. They were the same age at thirty-seven. It merely confirmed Marla’s resolution not to get tied down with kids or to experience the years of worry that came with them. Caring for Brianna gave her enough gratification. She didn’t feel the need to expand her family.

  Finally having cooked the dishes for later and refrigerated them, she stuffed the journal inside a large handbag and headed for the local office store. There she had a clerk make a print copy of the typed manuscript. She had the guy scan entire pages of pictures rather than each photo individually, or it would have taken hours. As it was, she left to do her other chores and rushed back to pick up the completed order.

  She dropped the original off to Dalton on her way to work. “Here,” she said, thrusting the package at him. “I have a copy that I’ll look through later. Good luck with it. I researched the author’s name online and came up empty.”

  Dalton, seated at his desk with papers strewn across its surface, thumbed through the journal pages and paused at one of the photos. “This guy looks familiar.”

  Craning her neck to examine the picture, Marla uttered a cry. She opened her cell phone and retrieved one of Jason’s photos. “See these two men in the photo Jason sent me? There’s a resemblance between the man in the journal and this fellow.” She felt the pair could be related by their rectangular-shaped faces, light-colored hair, and deep-set eyes.

  Dalton frowned, examining first one photo and then the other. He pointed to the picture Jason had sent. “Now I recognize him. That’s Howard Cohn, the group’s treasurer.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t connect this photo to him earlier.” She’d only met the guy once, and Jason’s picture showed him at an angle. “He must be related to the man in the journal.”

  Dalton’s mouth compressed. “See what you can find out when you’ve read Warren’s account. There has to be something important to Valerie Weston in the story.”
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br />   Or perhaps in these photos the author included. “Will you show Howard the picture Jason took? He could identify the other man in the picture with him.”

  “I don’t want to tip Cohn off yet about what we know. We might find the connections we need in the journal without going further.”

  “Can you tell me what you’ve learned about the board members?” Marla asked with a surreptitious glance at her watch. It was already noon and she hadn’t eaten lunch. She’d have to pick up a sandwich at Arnie’s deli on her way to work.

  A rap on the door forestalled his response.

  “Hey, Dalton, do you have a minute? Oh hello, Marla. I didn’t realize you were here.” Detective Katherine Minnetti hovered in the doorway, looking stylish in a pencil skirt, cream sweater with gray pearls, and heeled pumps.

  “I’m just leaving,” Marla said, gathering her purse.

  Through the open doorway, she spied the police captain speaking to another cop she knew. She’d encountered nearly everyone in the department by now and didn’t want them to think she beleaguered her husband with personal visits.

  “Thanks for bringing in this evidence,” Dalton said in a hearty tone so his voice would carry.

  “Sure. How’s it going, Kat?”

  “Just fine, Marla.” Minnetti wore her ebony hair in a French twist. She looked more like a savvy businesswoman than a detective.

  “Do you have plans for the holidays?” Marla asked in a friendly voice, curious to see what melted Kat’s frost.

  “I’ve signed up for the duty shift. No sense in depriving my fellow officers of time home with their families.”

  “That’s generous of you.” She almost blurted out an invitation to their Christmas dinner but hesitated at the glower on Dalton’s face. “Well, I have to be going. Nice seeing you.”

  After muttering her farewells, she fled the station. She always felt awkward going there anyway, even though the guys made her feel welcome. Kat was another animal. She’d been transferred there without an explanation and wouldn’t discuss her background.

  Wait a minute, I have an idea. She’d send Kat a gift certificate for a cut and blowout for the holidays. If she could get Kat in her salon chair, she’d worm the woman’s secrets out of her.

  Meanwhile, what could Dalton have learned about FOFL’s board members? Dying with curiosity, Marla pondered the possibilities as she slid inside her car and started the engine. Who else besides people from the volunteer organization could have been involved with Val?

  At work she greeted everyone, stashed the sandwich she’d bought in the refrigerator, and headed to her station. She opened the top drawer to stuff her purse inside and paused. Hadn’t she left her favorite pen on top? She dug inside, finding it buried beneath the spare hairbrushes, ticket book, color key, breath mints, hair clips, and extra makeup she kept there.

  Could someone have gone through her stuff?

  She glanced around, noting the familiar faces. A shiver crawled up her spine. She kept client notes in this drawer with hair formulas and sensitivities. Remembering how the killer might have accessed Rosana’s notes about Val, she vowed to keep the drawer locked hereafter.

  She fit her bulging purse inside. She’d stuck the copy of the journal into her handbag, not wishing to leave it in her car. Now she locked the drawer, feeling less secure about her environment despite their security system. Then again, it could merely have been another stylist looking for a tool. They often borrowed each other’s implements.

  Busy at work for the next several hours, she lifted her head when a car alarm went off in the parking lot. “What’s that?” she called to Robyn at the front desk.

  “I dunno. Don’t see anybody. Must be a fluke.”

  Her nerves jittery, Marla dashed outside. She peered at the scattered cars parked on the asphalt lot. It was after five, and most workers had left for the day. The darkening sky made it difficult to discern details.

  Was it her imagination, or did that noise sound as though it were coming from the direction of her vehicle?

  CHAPTER NINE

  The alarm deactivated as Marla approached her car and tapped on the remote. Her Camry appeared intact, but the parking lot lights weren’t too bright in this area. Peeking inside, she noticed the office store bag on the rear seat. Had a thief been going for that item? The holiday season was rife with shoplifters and thieves stealing things from cars.

  Maybe Dalton could get fingerprints off the car’s body. Then again, no crime had been committed. Kids could have come by looking for easy loot to steal.

  Or might somebody be after the journal, the same reason why Val’s house was invaded? She couldn’t think about it now. Her family was coming for dinner in just a short while and she had to finish up at work.

  Finally home by six-thirty, she rushed to heat the food, put the shamash and first night candles into her menorah, and pour oil into her electric fry pan to make latkes. Brianna had finished her chores and was in her room doing homework. Dalton hadn’t come home yet.

  Marla, wearing an apron, bustled about the kitchen blending the potato pancake mix. She’d taken shortcuts with tonight’s meal, but that was permitted, considering she’d had to work all afternoon. Ma was bringing desserts, and Dalton’s parents were bringing a salad.

  Hanukkah was never as big a deal as Christmas. Nonetheless, Marla had attempted to bolster the holiday. At the very least, it warranted a special dinner.

  The lights on their tree twinkled from the living room. She still hadn’t gotten used to decorating a Christmas tree, but she could see how collecting ornaments through the years and hanging them together would be a joyful family activity.

  She should put on a CD with Hanukkah music to make things more festive. While the oil was heating, she did just that. As the strains of “I Have a Little Dreidel” played, she thought about how an oil lamp had started the holiday. While Passover remained her favorite religious occasion, this one also held fond memories from her childhood. Thus she let her mother explain what it meant to Dalton’s parents after dinner, when they gathered around the menorah.

  Anita was happy to oblige. “In the early days, the Syrians— under the leadership of a tyrant named Antiochus—defiled the holy Temple in Jerusalem and abolished the practice of Judaism. Jews were given a familiar choice: conversion or death. But a resistance movement grew strength, led by Judah Maccabee. His forces liberated the Temple from Syrian armies. To purify the Temple, the Jews lit the eternal lamp that is in every synagogue to this day. But there was only enough oil to last for one night. Miraculously, the lamp burned for eight days. Hence, Hanukkah is known as the Festival of Lights. It symbolizes freedom from oppression.”

  “That’s why the menorah has eight branches,” Marla concluded, “plus this top one called the shamash candle. We use it to light the others. Each night, we add another candle from right to left.” She handed out copies of the blessings, and everyone read them together as Anita did the honors and lit the candles. Normally, the kindling was done from left to right so the newest candle got lit first.

  They stood around in harmony, staring at the flames. Marla felt a swell of affection for her extended family. Religion didn’t matter in her book as long as you cared about each other. The power of love surpassed all belief systems.

  “So this is why we eat potato pancakes,” Brianna said to her paternal grandmother. “They’re fried in oil.”

  “Jelly doughnuts are another traditional food,” Anita added with an affectionate smile. “But usually I forego that treat because they’re too fattening.”

  They exchanged small gifts, saving the larger gift exchange for Christmas, and played the dreidel game, which Anita taught to everyone after passing out silver foil-wrapped chocolate coins known as gelt.

  With all the hustle and bustle, Marla completely forgot to tell Dalton about the near break-in of her car until she heard his exclamation in the garage the next morning.

  “How did you get these scratches on your door?�
� he called.

  She let the dogs in from the backyard, locked the patio door, and rushed through the kitchen to the garage entry. Pressed for time, she still had to give Brianna a ride to the bus stop and finish the breakfast dishes before leaving for work.

  “I meant to mention it to you last night, but it slipped my mind. I heard a car alarm go off in the parking lot at work last night. It turned out to be mine. It was too dark out for me to look closely except to note nothing had been stolen, and then I was in a rush when I got home.” Her mouth curved downward when she saw the damage. “Oh, crap.”

  “Did you see anyone in the vicinity?”

  “Nope. Whoever did this must have been scared off by the alarm. See that empty shopping bag? I figured it was a crook looking to steal Christmas gifts.” Chilly air swept in from the open garage, and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. “But then again, I could have sworn somebody searched through my drawer at work. Things weren’t the way I had left them.”

  “Really?” Dalton frowned at her. “What would someone be after?”

  “Possibly the same thing they wanted at Val’s house—the travel journal. It’s in my handbag. They wouldn’t know mine is a copy and you have the original. Have you read any of it yet?”

  He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I haven’t had time. You’d better be more careful. I don’t like this. Your safety has been compromised.”

  Yeah, and I’d better not remind you that Jason’s killer has my number.

  “I’ll watch my back. I’ve been meaning to read that book, but tonight is our holiday party at work and tomorrow I’m booked solid. I might not have time until later on this weekend.”

  “That’s okay. Maybe I’ll get a chance to take a look today.”

  “You never told me what you’d learned about the Friends of Old Florida board members. Come in for a minute. You still have time to get to work.” She cast a glance at her car. Now she’d have to pay a visit to the body shop.

  Dalton followed her back into the kitchen. “Solomon Gold is having renovations done on his properties by the same companies he recommends to the city for restoration work. It makes me wonder if he’s getting kickbacks by means of personal services.”