Permed To Death [Bad Hair Day Mystery 1] Page 2

  "You'll be all right,” Nicole said, grasping her hand.

  Tears squeezed from Marla's eyes. How could she bear to go through another inquiry?

  Somehow she survived giving her taped statement at the police station and answering more questions in detail. Thankfully, her involvement in that other incident wasn't mentioned. It was bad enough that she remembered.

  Relieved when the ordeal was over, she sagged against the cushion in Vail's car as he drove them back to the salon.

  "I'll be in touch,” he promised as he dropped them off. His face was impassive so she couldn't read his expression, but his eyes spoke volumes. They never once left her face when he spoke, as though he knew she had a secret to hide.

  "Arnie must be wondering what's going on,” Nicole said, when they were standing in the parking lot.

  Marla glanced at the deli located two stores down the shopping strip from her salon. She didn't want to go home yet. Too many blank walls to face. Too many memories. “I'll talk to him."

  "Tell him not to worry, everything will be fine. You, too, honey. Call us later,” Lucille urged, waving goodbye.

  Exhausted, she nodded, waiting until the two women left. After reassuring herself the salon was properly locked up, she strode to the eatery. The tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bagels wafted into her nostrils as she entered.

  "Hi, Arnie,” she greeted the dark-haired man behind the cash register. He flashed her a disarming grin. His teeth gleamed white beneath a droopy mustache, dimples creasing his cheeks. She glanced at his trim figure encased in a T-shirt and jeans and quickly looked away.

  "What's wrong?” he asked, sobering. “You didn't come in to get your usual order of bagels this morning, and then I saw police cars outside."

  She took a deep tremulous breath. “Mrs. Kravitz is dead."

  "What? The old lady?” She'd told him about her demanding customer before. “How is that possible?” Delegating his post to an employee, he gestured to her. “Come on, sit down. You look like you're about to keel over."

  Taking her elbow, he led her to a vacant table. “Two coffees, Ruth,” he called to a passing waitress.

  Sniffing the aroma of garlic and hot brewed coffee, Marla became aware of an empty gnawing in her stomach, but her appetite had long since departed. Wiping sweaty hands on her belted tan jumpsuit, she related her story.

  "Did she have any medical problems that you knew about?” Arnie probed.

  "No, and I've seen her every eight weeks for a trim. Her hair was so resistant that she needed a perm often, too. No matter what I did, she'd kvetch about it, but I don't recall her ever saying a word about having a medical condition."

  Arnie nodded sympathetically. “I know what you mean about her being a whiner. She came in here for breakfast and was a lousy tipper."

  "Tell me about it."

  Arnie stroked his mustache. “So the detective thinks it might have been something in her coffee that killed her?"

  Marla shuddered. “I hope not, since I served her the drink myself. Vail seemed to find it significant that I smelled almonds near the body."

  Arnie leaned forward. “Cyanide."

  "Huh?"

  "Didn't you ever watch old spy movies? When caught, the guy would take a cyanide pill. He'd be dead in minutes, and his breath smelled like bitter almonds."

  "I don't believe it.” Although that might explain why the presenting officer had called in the crime unit.

  "Whoa, if this is for real, who'd want Bertha Kravitz out of the way enough to do her in?"

  Marla snorted. “Who wouldn't?” Refusing to face the horrifying possibilities, she sought another explanation. “Perhaps this isn't about her at all. Maybe someone wants me out of the picture.” She twisted her fingers together under the table. “Carolyn Sutton has been itching to discredit me so she can take over my lease. Her shop is going downhill. Maybe she planned to make a customer of mine sick so people would be afraid to come to the salon."

  "Mrs. Kravitz isn't sick. She's dead.” Arnie's dark eyes regarded her with concern. “You're going out on a limb with that one. I hope you didn't mention Carolyn's name to the cops."

  "Of course not. You think I'm meshuga?’ The waitress brought their coffee and Marla fell silent, staring at her cup. It would be awful if she'd given Bertha a beverage containing a lethal substance. Then there was the matter of who'd tampered with the coffee supplies. Someone must have added poison with deliberate intent to harm. But who?

  Wait for the medical examiner's report, she chided herself. Bertha could still have had a sudden stroke.

  Grimacing, she looked at Arnie. “Sorry, coffee doesn't appeal to me right now. Got any hot chocolate?” Her throat was parched, and she craved a drink.

  The waitress changed her beverage, and she sipped the hot cocoa, seeking solace in its sweetness.

  "If this does turn out to be something sinister, I hope you'll let the cops handle it,” Arnie warned her.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Sticking your nose into a murder investigation could be dangerous. You're not responsible for what happened, Marla."

  "Yes, I am. My customer's well-being is my responsibility. But this could mean nothing,” she retorted. “Mrs. Kravitz probably had an attack of some kind."

  "I hope you're right. Look, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call me."

  Touched by his concern, she sipped her drink to hide her swell of emotion. “Thanks for the offer, but it's bad enough that my staff is involved."

  "Say, I've got tickets for the Florida Philharmonic this

  Saturday,” Arnie said in an obvious attempt to cheer her. “Want to keep me company?"

  "Tally and I are supposed to go to the Southern Women's Exposition. I can't disappoint my best friend. Maybe another time.” Inwardly, she smiled. A lonely widower, Arnie needed a wife for many reasons, none of which suited her. She'd been down the matrimonial road before, and it had been an unpleasant experience. She preferred to keep their relationship on a friendship level, although Arnie had other ideas.

  "You're a tough nut to crack, you know that?” Arnie said, his dark brown eyes gleaming.

  She grinned, her mood lightening. “I don't know why you keep trying."

  "I like the challenge. So what's it going to take to get you interested, huh?"

  "Just stay as sweet as you are."

  "Come on, I know we'd hit it off if you'd give me a chance."

  "Sometimes just being friends is more important"

  "You've got a lot of friends. Look,” he said, flexing his muscles, “don't I have sex appeal?"

  She raised an eyebrow. “Sure you do, pal, but that's not the issue here."

  "Then what is? Wait, I've got it. You don't like my hairstyle."

  "Well, now that you mention it,” Marla began, pretending to study his receding hairline.

  He glanced at the waitress bustling between tables. “I should get back to work.” Scraping his chair back, he stood, giving her a wry grin. “Let me know if you change your mind."

  She smiled in response, nodding. A few minutes later, she was walking outside. The shopping strip was a bustling center, unlike many others with empty storefronts. Her clientele mainly consisted of young professionals, who provided a brisk business. Squeezed between Fort Lauder-dale to the east and the Everglades far to the west, Palm Haven's prime location guaranteed success.

  Marla was proud of her reputation, one she'd struggled to earn after the tragic incident in her past. It hadn't been an easy choice to settle near the place where the accident happened. Too many reminders still haunted her, but she'd learned to use them as a force for good. Viewed as an active, helpful member of the community, she'd reached a tentative peace with herself. Customers appreciated her sensitivity, and many had become good friends.

  She veered toward her Toyota Camry, its white color being the most popular choice in sunny south Florida. Reflects the heat, said the salesman, like all the white-tile roofs. Black was the other com
mon choice, in her mind representing funerals of so many senior citizens. Now Bertha would be among them.

  Heat from the car's interior slammed her face as she slid into the driver's seat. Gripping her keys, she started the engine. A refreshing blast of air-conditioning cooled her cheeks. Though late May, humidity hung heavily in the air.

  Heaviness burdened her heart as well as she considered her next move. Now what? To her knowledge, Bertha Kravitz still kept that damned envelope in her mansion. Marla had no doubt that if the cops found it, they'd accuse her of having a motive for murder if this did turn out to be a homicide case. Her best bet would be to retrieve it before they searched the Kravitz house. At least

  Bertha can't use it to blackmail me any longer, she thought with grim satisfaction.

  Switching gears, she backed out of the parking space. She'd been to Mrs. Kravitz's stately home on the Intra-coastal Waterway once before, an occasion she'd never forget. This was her chance finally to bury the mistake she'd made years ago. Survival instincts, honed through past traumas, took precedence over any attacks of conscience that might afflict her.

  Gritting her teeth, she pulled onto the main road and headed east.

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  Chapter 2

  Maria drove slowly past the imposing two-story Mediterranean-style house, her gaze sweeping the red barrel-tile roof and stucco exterior. At the upper level, a balcony jutted outward, enhanced by iron grillwork. Brick red shutters flanked jalousie windows, their vacant exteriors like eyes on a mannequin. The light paint applied to the rest of the house reminded her of the gray peppering Detective Vail's black hair, and that dire thought increased her heart rate. She'd better complete her business quickly and move on.

  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 pl
ace. 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.