Perish By Pedicure Page 14

  “You could have a new career as a model,” Marla told her with a smile.

  “Like I have time,” Babs responded, tugging on her ruby sweater. “Neat idea, though, if I ever run out of things to do. Wait until I tell my friends about this.”

  Walking away, Marla approached Jan, who stood watching the frenetic activity with an observant air. “I wanted to make a contribution to the flowers for Christine’s family,” she said to the sleek redhead. “How much would my share be?”

  “Oh, thanks, but it’s not necessary,” Jan said with a genuine smile. “Luxor will cover the cost. It’s the least we can do for Chris. I thought we’d also make a donation to her favorite charity.”

  “That’s a good idea. Tell me, where is her family located?”

  “Her mother lives in an old-age home in Pembroke Pines, and she has a sister in Atlanta. The police detective has already spoken to her. She’ll take charge of the body when it’s released.”

  “Is that why Chris arrived a few days early, to visit her mother? Pembroke Pines is only twenty minutes from here.”

  “Who knows?” Jan shrugged. “I don’t keep track of people on their off time.”

  “Maybe you should. Two people connected to Luxor are dead. Aren’t you wondering if someone in our group is involved?”

  “That’s for the cops to determine.”

  “It’s interesting how Chris died.” Picking up a pile of foils, Marla stacked them one on top of the other in perfect alignment. “Someone who knew she took antidepressants slipped her a similar drug with deadly side effects. I imagine this happened during the cocktail party.”

  Jan gave her a startled glance. “How do you figure that?”

  “A waiter brought us a couple of filled wineglasses and said the tab had been paid. Who ordered the drinks? And if the medicine wasn’t in the wine, how could it have been administered? In one of her appetizers? Chris’s plate seemed to be full, yet I don’t remember seeing her standing in the buffet line.”

  “So you’re saying one of us poisoned her? “Jan snapped.

  “I’m suggesting you should be a little more interested in what’s going on beneath the surface,” Marla said, risking her future job opportunities with Luxor to make her point. Hopefully, she wasn’t making it to Chris’s killer. Jan could have knocked off her superior to move up the corporate ladder, but that struck Marla as too obvious.

  “During the show,” she continued, “Heather spotted the detective in the audience just before Sampson’s performance. She was about to tell me something relevant, but we got interrupted. Afterward, she called and set up a meeting between us, but she got killed before she could reveal what she knew. What had she seen that might be construed as a threat by Chris’s murderer?”

  “You seem to be on top of things. If you want to deal with it, be my guest I have enough on my plate.” The look on Jan’s face told Marla she wasn’t completely insensitive, just that she felt overwhelmed.

  “Maybe Chris’s mother knows something.”

  “So go talk to her. Her name is Violet.”

  “Same last name? I gather Chris never married.”

  “You got that right. Chris liked men to fall at her feet, but she never let anyone get too close. She was more into controlling them than marrying them. I’d even wondered at one time if she could be a closet lesbian, until she had that affair with Alonzo. When he dumped her, Chris wore a sour face for nearly a year. But then she got over it and turned back to her usual pattern of conquer-and-control.”

  Marla placed the foils on a nearby cart. “Where does this Alonzo reside now?”

  “I think he moved back to Spain.” Jan’s gaze shifted. “The photographer is signaling me. We’ll catch up later, Marla.”

  Having a spare moment, Marla noticed Tyler getting his nails buffed at the station next to Georgia. Her friend was rambling on about Goat and his animals. Smiling inwardly, she was just about to ask Ron if he needed help when the door chime jingled.

  Oh, no. Why had Ma chosen this afternoon to stop by with her boisterous boyfriend, Roger?

  “Hiya, doll,” Roger Gold called, waddling forward to plant a wet kiss on her cheek. He wore a green golf shirt and tangerine pants, the colors making Marla think of a leprechaun except for his size. His bulging belly bespoke of too many trips to the dessert table to feed his sweet tooth.

  Hiding her distaste, Marla embraced her mother with a firm hug. “What brings you to the salon today? Your appointment isn’t until next week.”

  “I wanted to meet your cohorts from Luxor since you told me so much about them,” Anita said, smiling. “How is the photography session going?”

  Marla swept an arm toward the makeshift studio. “Babs agreed to substitute for Heather, the model who, er, couldn’t make it.”

  Roger punched her arm. “You mean, the one who bit the dust?” Marla had phoned her mother last evening and filled her in on recent events. “We’d better warn this group that you’re a magnet for trouble.”

  Marla gritted her teeth. “Ma, can I talk to you in private? Maybe Roger would like to try one of our new shampoo products. It’s on the house,” she told him with a sugary smile. Not that he had much hair to wash, but like many condo commandos, he grasped at anything he could get for free. After waving him off to the shampoo chair and a waiting assistant, she ushered her mother toward the back storeroom.

  “Do you know of any assisted-living facilities in Pembroke Pines?” she began without preamble once they were alone. “Christine Parks, Luxor’s former director, may have visited her mother at an old-age residence there before the show started.”

  Anita gave her a keen gaze. “I have my list at home from when I researched those places for Aunt Polly. If you tell me the woman’s name, I’ll find out where she’s located.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Crossing her feet, Marla leaned against the counter. “I told you I’d been to a shvitz. It wasn’t what I expected. Instead of wizened old men, there were muscled hunks and girls in bikinis using the place like a day spa.”

  Anita walked over to the coffeepot and helped herself to a cup. “It’s supposed to be healthy for you, but I’ve never been,” she said, adding cream and sugar to her drink. “My mother went to the mikvah in her day.”

  “What’s that?” Marla said, vaguely remembering the term from her heritage.

  Anita’s eyebrows shot up. They were dark, unlike her soft white hair. “Women go to the mikvah as part of the marriage ritual. I’ll see if there’s one in the area in case you’d like to go before your wedding. Which is when, bubula? I have to shop for my dress.”

  Marla grimaced. Why was everyone asking about her wedding date today? Did she have an announcement pasted across her forehead? “Never mind about that. I don’t understand how a mikvah is different from a shvitz. If it’s for women only, then why wouldn’t Heather have chosen to meet me there?”

  “Probably because you wouldn’t qualify to get in on short notice. The mikvah is used most often by Orthodox married women after their periods. It purifies them so they can resume sexual relations with their husbands. Even if you wore a fake wedding band, you’d still have to follow procedures.”

  Marla straightened her shoulders. “I’ve playacted before.”

  “You pretended to be a nurse’s aide to get a job with Miriam Pearl’s family in order to snoop out their secrets. Going to the mikvah is much more personal.” Anita gave her a knowing smirk.

  “How so?”

  “You must have seven clean days prior to coming to the mikvah. There is a certain way to tell.” Anita blushed, making Marla more curious.

  “Go on.”

  “You start counting the days once your period ends. Religious women use little white cloths and, er, insert it to make sure there aren’t any stains. They do this each morning and each afternoon before it gets dark.”

  “Eww,” Marla said, cringing at the thought. ‘Then what?”

  “You prepare for your appointment at the mikvah. This
is what I’ve heard, mind you, from a friend who used to go on a regular basis. She said that on the last evening, you take a bath at home for thirty minutes and wash your hair with shampoo, no conditioner. You have to remove all nail polish and clean the dirt under your nails. You brush and floss your teeth, and can eat no further snacks. You can’t wear any jewelry or makeup and are even supposed to clean the holes in your ears, nose, and naval area.”

  That wouldn’t be popular with people who have belly button rings.” Marla couldn’t conceive of who’d want to undergo this ritual. “So once you’re all clean, what happens?”

  Anita sipped her coffee. “You go to the mikvah, where you’re led to a bathroom. Inside, you take a brief shower, comb out your hair, and put on the robe provided. An attendant brings you to a private room where she examines your nails to make sure you’ve complied. Then you go into the chlorinated pool, submerge yourself, come up and say a prayer, go underwater twice more, then get dressed.”

  “Sort of like a baptism, huh?” Religious customs had more in common than people realized.

  “The whole thing takes about fifteen minutes and is supposed to remove spiritual impurities.”

  Marla’s lips twisted. “I should’ve done it after my divorce from Stan. I could have used a spiritual cleansing to scrape him off my skin, but I think I can live without this experience.”

  “Suit yourself.” Anita shrugged. “It’s been a tradition for three thousand years. My mother described it as an emotional journey that brought her closer to God.”

  “Heather is closer to God, but not through the mikvah”

  Anita pointed a finger. “She may have been going to the shvritz every week, like people go to a gym. The shvitz, unlike the mikvah, is a public place to relax, sweat, nosh on snacks, and shmooze with people. Probably she figured no one would follow her there.”

  “Well, she figured wrong.”

  Hearing raised voices, Marla emerged into the salon to see Sampson in a snit with Ron.

  “What’s the problem?” She hastened to intercede. The two hair-design artists faced each other on either side of a chair in which sat a model, finger-combing her long golden hair.

  Ron maintained eye contact with the master trainer. “Chris scheduled me to do the instructional video for our new color-diffusion process.”

  “Christine isn’t making the decisions any longer,” Sampson retorted. “Jan said I could do the demo.” He jabbed a hairbrush in the air. Marla noticed it was one of his signature boar-bristle brushes that he imported from China. Liesl had told her how particular he was about his supplies.

  “You’ve already had your share of presentations at the show.” Ron’s face reddened. “I’m just as qualified to do this film, and I’ll present the material without an ego trip. If you brag any more about your accomplishments, I’m gonna puke. Stylists need their directions to be straight and clear.”

  “Is that so?” Sampson sneered. “I imagine that’s why you acted so cool when Christine refused to be your next bimbo.”

  “She told me flat-out that I wasn’t her type, but I bounced right back. Unlike you, I didn’t let her intimidate me.” He bared his teeth. “Isn’t it convenient how everything works out in your favor now that she’s gone?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marla consulted the piece of paper in her hand while facing the double front doors to the Hibiscus Blossom assisted-living facility. Her mother had called the night before with information that Violet Parks was registered there as a resident, and Marla had cleared time from her busy Thursday schedule for a visit.

  Inhaling a breath of cool winter air, she reflected on the commotion in her salon yesterday. Ron had had the chutzpah to confront Sampson and point out how conveniently Chris’s death factored into the maestro’s plans. It reminded her of the check she’d returned to Sampson, made out to the company director. Maybe Chris’s mother knew what that was all about.

  Pushing open the doors, she stepped inside, wondering what to expect. A whiff of food rode along a current of heated air. She identified the mouth-watering aroma of roasted chicken and potatoes, presumably coming from an empty dining room on her left. Lunch hour must have just passed.

  Approaching the reception desk straight ahead, she unbuttoned her leather jacket. This turned into a juggling act, considering the strap of her handbag chose that moment to slip off her shoulder, and she held a potted silk plant in her other hand. Adjusting her load, she grinned at the receptionist, a fiftyish blonde with teased hair who chewed gum and doodled on a notepad. The woman’s bored gaze took in Marla’s arrival with the barest acknowledgment.

  “Hi, I’m Iris. Can I help youse?” She had a strong New York accent.

  “I’m here to see Violet Parks on behalf of her daughter. We worked together,” Marla added, feeling the need to explain. She eyed a sign-up sheet, hoping she wouldn’t have to leave her name, then realized the list was for relatives signing residents out for temporary day trips.

  The receptionist shook her head, clinking her tiered earrings. “Such a shocker. A good girl, that one, and to come to such a tragic end. She called often to check on her mom’s welfare.”

  Marla recognized a good source of gossip. Glancing at the lounge on her right, she stepped forward. Most likely, those elderly folks occupying the armchairs and sofas couldn’t even hear them, let alone take an interest in their conversation. She couldn’t be certain about the bookkeeper in the back office, however. Lowering her voice, she leaned forward from the waist.

  “I’d like to assist the police with their investigation. Do you have any ideas about who might have wished Christine Parks any harm?”

  “The world is full of bad people, honey. You worked with the lady. Someone wanting her job? A jilted boyfriend? If you’re here to ask her mother, you won’t get far.” Iris’s expression questioned Marla’s motives.

  Marla lifted the plant into the woman’s view. “Actually, I’m here to deliver this. I thought it might cheer her.”

  “She’ll love those pretty pink blossoms. Go on upstairs, honey. Violet will be glad to have a visitor. The last person who saw her was Dr. Greenberg. He stopped by on Sunday.”

  “Is that her personal physician? Maybe he knew Chris.”

  “Dr. Greenberg is a dermatologist. I think the daughter requested his visit, because she was here the first time he came. The nurse upstairs would know. Seems to me he was more anxious to talk to Christine, but that could be because her mom ain’t in her right mind. Violet is in the Orchard, our special-needs section. You’ll be wantin’ the code to get out: seven-five-eight-three-zero.”

  Marla followed her instructions to the elevator down the hall, passing an old man wearing a cardigan, pushing himself along with a walker. Wheelchair-bound residents sat about, their sagging postures matching their mood, if their bleak expressions were any indication. Unpleasant odors permeated the corridor, but at least the place was clean and brightly lit. While waiting for the lift to descend to the first floor, Marla noted a wall chart listing daily social activities and another one with menu choices.

  “Hello, dearie. Come for a visit?” A woman sidled over, her face showing an excess of makeup and years. Marla’s observant gaze took in her topaz jewelry that matched a blouse she wore with a black skirt as though dressed for the theater.

  “Yes, I’m here to see a friend’s mother.”

  “That’s so sweet. I never see my children. They live up North, you know, and it’s hard for them to get away. But I stay active. It’s really important, if you don’t want to lose it like those folks in the Unit.” She spoke the last word on a descending note, as though it were a place to dread.

  “It seems as though you have a lot of activities to attend,” Marla said in a friendly tone.

  “Oh yes, I’ve even started a reading circle for those of us who can still see well enough to read.” The lady chuckled.

  “That’s wonderful.” Marla felt a pang of sympathy for this woman whose children lived so
distant from her. She could see in the lady’s eyes that even though she hadn’t complained, she missed her kids. How many old people were deposited in institutions like this and left to waste away in loneliness and despair? Their plight tore at her heart, yet she knew also that caring for elderly parents forced a heavy burden on the adult children who had their own families to tend. She shuddered, picturing the day when Anita’s faculties would falter. At least Marla had a brother with whom to share decisions.

  The elevator door slid open, and she cantered inside, eager to complete her business and leave. Already her mood had swung from hopeful to depressed. This place with its forlorn residents got to you, she thought, pressing the button for the second floor.

  The upper level repeated the first-floor pattern, with room after room opening off the corridor as in a hospital. The linoleum floor, dull gray walls, and harsh lighting were common to both types of facilities, but that was where the similarities ended. Personal belongings such as framed photos, knick-knacks, and crocheted blankets adorned people’s rooms here, Marla noticed as she strode by, peering curiously at the occupants.

  She’d never really thought about it before, but assisted living was not the same as nursing-home care. Residents who lived here took care of their own personal hygiene and wore street clothes, unlike the people who needed a higher level of care. Marla recalled her mother had mentioned one upscale place that had apartments with kitchenettes. You could even keep your own car, or move into a place that had its own van to take residents shopping, to the bank, or to doctor’s appointments. Probably the cost escalated along with the services offered, but it wasn’t a bad deal for older folks who were afraid to live alone.

  Those in the special-needs unit in Hibiscus Blossom, however, required extra supervision. Marla approached the rear of the second-floor hallway, where she faced a closed door with the orchard emblazoned on it in bold red paint. Swallowing, she wondered what she’d find beyond. Maybe she should have asked what “special needs” implied. Evidently, the door stayed locked, because she had to push a buzzer to gain entry. Repeating the exit code in her mind, she let herself in and faced another corridor with doors opening off each side. God forbid there should be a fire. These unfortunate souls would be trapped.