Facials Can Be Fatal Page 8

  “This is where my staff will work, I gather?” she said, bobbing her head in approval.

  “That’s right. The makeup artist works over there.” Biggs indicated a cubicle with only two seats but generous counter space. “At least we won’t have to worry this year about Miss Weston coming back here.”

  Marla glanced at him, startled at hearing Val’s name. “Why is that?”

  “With her latex allergy, you couldn’t be too careful. The makeup lady warned Val to steer clear of this area.”

  Marla’s jaw dropped. “How many people knew about her problem?” Perhaps the killer wasn’t someone who’d gained this information from Rosana’s files. That broadened the possibilities, and not in a good way.

  “Val told most folks she met, so she wouldn’t be inadvertently exposed.”

  “Why did the makeup artist warn Val away? Does she wear latex gloves?”

  Biggs examined Marla as though she had been born in the past century. “Don’t you know? Liquid latex is a staple in the entertainment industry. That stuff can cover up blemishes, reshape your face, and add special effects. It’s handy for makeup people to keep in their kits.”

  “My day spa is where Val died. We were all horrified.”

  “So you must know about the substance then. Val’s death was a terrible tragedy.”

  “Yes, it’s saddened everyone who knew her.”

  Glancing toward the outer corridor, he lowered his voice. “New owners are coming in as of January. They’ll be remodeling the property and making changes around here. I’m hoping FOFL will be able to continue this event without Val’s presence. It’s an important revenue-maker for the hotel.”

  From his sour expression, Marla wondered if his position might be at risk once the new owners took over. What would happen if FOFL cancelled their annual event? Would they have done so if Val had withdrawn her support as Nadia suggested? But now that she was dead, the provision in her will would provide continued funding, or so everyone hoped.

  She tried to keep her face expressionless as she regarded Biggs Kahuna. It appeared he had a stake in Val’s sponsorship. How far would he go to ensure his job security? Or was she merely being paranoid, finding suspects around every corner?

  Best to pass this info on to Dalton and let him approach the hotel manager.

  Marla spent the next half hour examining the space where her staff would work, calculating what tools to bring and figuring which chair she’d assign each stylist. At least they’d have plenty of room, although things could get hectic with models, dressers, and other personnel crowding the area. Her pulse rate accelerated. She was excited to meet the designer, Yolanda Whipp, and see her creations. Marla had always admired the gowns in the window of her Las Olas shop, but the prices were prohibitive. This would be the chance of a lifetime. She hoped to make enough of an impression that Yolanda might hire her for photo shoots or other events. Maybe she could even get a foot in the door for Fashion Week.

  As Saturday approached, her anticipation grew. She worked through her clients at a feverish pitch, eager to be done at the salon and to head over to the hotel. Dalton had offered to drive her so he could observe the proceedings and meet the people involved. Kat would arrive later to hang out in the ballroom and mingle with the guests.

  “Kat wasn’t thrilled about her assignment. She’s a no-frills type of person. All those society types and ball gowns aren’t her cup of tea,” he said during the drive over.

  “I can imagine.” A wry smile curved Marla’s lips.

  Lieutenant Katherine Minnetti rarely let down her guard, maintaining a business-like mien even at police department social functions, such as their annual barbecue. Despite Marla’s efforts to get to know her better, she kept tight reins on the emotional wall she’d erected. Dalton still had no clue why she’d asked for a transfer from her former location. They got along but on a professional level.

  “You look nice tonight,” he said with an approving glance. “New outfit?”

  “Yes, thanks, I splurged for the occasion.” Marla wore a black cocktail dress with a beaded crepe overlay. Dressed for a party, she hoped to slip into the ballroom once the fashion show started. Nicole had offered to remain backstage for any last-minute hair fixes.

  They gave their car to a valet. Dalton helped Marla carry in her toolbox that she’d transferred earlier from her trunk to his vehicle. She patted her handbag, which had an ample supply of business cards inside. This would be a good opportunity to publicize her establishment and perhaps gain some recognition among the town’s movers and shakers.

  She led the way toward the ballroom. The foyer was crowded with patrons sipping cocktails and snacking on hors d’oeuvres passed out by white-gloved waiters. Sequins and jewels sparkled in the light from crystal chandeliers. Marla’s stylists would have plenty of time to do their work, since the fashion show didn’t start until guests were midway through dinner. From inside the ballroom came strains of a dance band warming up for the night.

  No wonder this event made money for the hotel. Finishing at a late hour, the ball probably brought in lots of overnight reservations. People wouldn’t want to drive home after an evening of drinking and dancing. So hotel nights plus the food and beverage bill would add to a tidy sum. Biggs Kahuna had true cause to worry about the continuation of this holiday event.

  She pointed him out to Dalton, who wandered in his direction to strike up a conversation. Marla hesitated at the door to the dressing area, while her imagination conjured Val working the crowd. The socialite must have loved this event. Being its main sponsor, her purpose had been to secure more funding for her cause. She’d been selflessly dedicated, or so it appeared. Would anyone offer a tribute to her tonight, or would things move on as her memory faded?

  Someone tapped Marla on the shoulder, and she spun to face Lora Larue. The woman wore an ankle-length royal blue gown with silver beading that flattered her robust figure. Her bosom nearly spilled from a low scoop neckline, while her heavily applied makeup reminded Marla of a hand-painted doll. An exotic perfume scent drifted into her nose. Clearly Lora knew how to make the most of her generous assets.

  “Marla, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to introduce you to our board members. We appreciate the work you are doing here tonight.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Lora. I’m grateful for the opportunity and so is my staff. I’ve already met your group’s secretary and president.” She paused. “Are you always in town for the holiday ball? I gather you do a lot of traveling for the organization throughout the year.”

  Lora’s gaze sharpened. “That’s right. I’m liaison to similar preservation groups around the country.”

  “So what do you do on these trips? Meet with their people to exchange ideas?”

  “Why do you want to know, dear?”

  Marla spread her hands. “It must be a worthwhile expense for the organization to send you into the field. Otherwise, you could communicate via the Internet or phone.”

  Lora’s mouth compressed, and her gaze grew chilly. “It’s important to establish a personal connection. I find it’s helpful to observe firsthand what other people do in terms of fundraising events.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Did Val look into these trips to see if they were purely business-related? Surely if her funding stopped, Lora could simply communicate with her comrades online.

  To preserve good will, she changed the subject. “I can’t wait to see Yolanda’s creations. I’ve always admired her gowns in the windows of her store. You’re fortunate to have snagged her for these shows each year.”

  Lora’s face softened. “Yolanda loves doing it. She has a generous heart, even if each of her designs costs thousands of dollars. The publicity doesn’t hurt, either.”

  A leggy, rail-thin model rushed past to enter through the dressing room door. Spotting a tall guy in a tuxedo, Lora waved him over. He had sandy hair, deep-set blue eyes, and a mouth with a bemused upward tilt. He’d just obtained a drink at one of the
cash bars located throughout the area.

  The man sauntered over, highball glass in hand. “You look ravishing, Lora.”

  “You’re too kind. Howard Cohn, this is Marla Vail, our head stylist for tonight’s models. Howard is our group’s treasurer,” Lora explained.

  He examined Marla through wire-rimmed eyeglasses. “So you’re the salon owner where our dear Val met her unfortunate end?”

  “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—”

  He gave a dismissive wave. “Your fault, I know. We’ll miss her.” His insincere tone said he’d miss her money more.

  Lora poked him. “There’s my Bigsy. I’ll leave you two to chat.” And she dashed off with a swish of skirts toward Biggs Kahuna, whose unmistakable large form had lumbered into view.

  Bigsy? From her body language as she greeted him, Lora must be more than merely acquainted with the man. And was that a room key card he was handing her?

  Bad Marla, thinking gutter thoughts. Of course, Lora would be staying the night so she wouldn’t have to drive home. Biggs had probably just done her the courtesy of checking her in at the reservation desk. Never mind the way her bosom jiggled under the manager’s lustful glare.

  “So how did you meet Lora, Mrs. Vail?” Howard’s droll tone drew her attention.

  “Valerie Weston recommended our salon to her. Val had been seeing a beautician at our place for years,” she explained. “Lora contacted me about working the fashion show. How did you get involved with Friends of Old Florida?”

  “I’ve always been interested in the past. Actually, you might say I’m more interested in treasure, to be precise.” He covered his mouth and gave a high-pitched giggle. “Did you know the waters off Florida are teeming with shipwrecks? Millions of dollars in silver, gold, and jewels lay at the bottom of the sea, much of it undiscovered. Spanish galleon ships alone may account for up to forty wrecks off our coast.”

  “Are you a treasure hunter, Mr. Cohn?”

  His gaze fired with enthusiasm. “In a manner of speaking, if you consider our history to be valuable. These priceless pieces of our heritage should be preserved for future generations. Many of the wrecks are listed on the National Register of Historic Places. They’re time capsules from an earlier age and contain a wealth of history. Imagine locating a vessel from the sixteen-hundreds.”

  “Do you dive on these sites yourself?”

  He giggled again. “Not me. I’m in the banking business. But Ian over there is a certified diver.” Howard waved over a lean fellow with an aquiline nose and a haughty expression. He wore a crimson cummerbund with his tux. “This is Dr. Ian Needles, one of our finest plastic surgeons. He’s on the Board of Directors for FOFL. Ian, meet Marla Vail. She owns a hair salon. Her stylists were hired to prep the models for tonight’s show.”

  Dr. Needles gave her a scornful glance. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “I was telling her about shipwrecks and how you like to dive on the sites.”

  “Yes, the Underwater Archeological Preserves offer a fascinating glimpse into our region’s history,” Dr. Needles said in a snotty tone, as though Marla’s interests couldn’t possibly go beyond hair and nails and other frivolities.

  “I’ve heard of the Atocha,” she stated. “I’ve always wanted to visit Mel Fisher’s museum in Key West.”

  “Spanish treasure ships are not the only ones sunken off our shores. Pirate vessels, slave ships, merchant transports, and Civil War ships plied these waters, too.”

  “So did hurricanes get most of them?” she asked, curiosity taking hold. A clock ticked in her head, reminding her that she needed to move on.

  “Storms, shallow water, coral reefs, you name it. We have hazards aplenty.”

  “Hence all the lighthouses up and down the coast.”

  “Exactly.” Dr. Needles pronounced his words with precision, as though doing surgery on his sentences. “I go diving every chance I get, which isn’t as often as I’d like.” He exchanged a meaningful glance with the group’s treasurer, making Marla wonder if their shared interest in marine archaeology extended beyond the group’s preservation goals.

  A woman marched their way, turning heads in her wake. Yolanda Whipp, the famous dress designer, was recognizable by her blunt-cut black hair, high cheekbones, and exotic eyes. Her wide lips made a splash of crimson against her powdered complexion. She wore a colorful silk embroidered robe over a satin pants set, the top inlaid with bronze beading. Towering high heels added a few inches to her height. A wave of sensual perfume accompanied her.

  Scurrying at her side was a fellow with curly red hair and an earnest expression. “All I need is ten minutes,” he said in an urgent tone. “We’re putting the interview in our next newsletter.”

  “Yes, darling. I’ll catch you later, after the show. Now please let me get to work.” Carrying a silver backstage box, Yolanda breezed past Marla, pushed open the dressing room door and swept inside.

  “I’d better get moving.” Marla turned to say a quick farewell to her companions, who then meandered off to greet some guests.

  “Who are you?” the third fellow asked, forestalling her departure. “Have we met?”

  “I don’t think so.” Marla identified herself. “And you are?”

  “Andrew Fine, publicist for Friends of Old Florida. Is this your first time doing the show, Mrs. Vail?”

  “Yes, it is, and I’d love to talk to you about my salon when things are less hectic.” She handed him her card. “Maybe we could meet for a chat some time. I’m hoping to do more of these types of events.”

  “I gotcha.” Andrew lowered his voice and leaned inward. “Have fun tonight. Keep your ears open and your mouth closed.”

  She got a whiff of cheese breath and recoiled. “What do you mean?”

  “These people have secrets. They don’t like you to probe too deeply.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Toting her supply case, Marla entered the chaotic scene where models prepped for the show. She headed over to the row of hair stations and set her purse on a counter. Her gaze took in the worn linoleum floor and the scuffed walls that she hadn’t noticed on her earlier visit. Hopefully, the new owners would fix things up in the nonguest areas.

  She opened her kit and confirmed it contained the brushes, combs, pins, clips, gels, and sprays she might require. She had wired tools and even a surge strip with extra outlets should they need it.

  A different model occupied each station chair. Marla had brought four stylists plus herself for eight models. She’d decided to let her staff do the actual work while she supervised. In a separate alcove, the makeup artist was laying out her cosmetics. Each model would head over there for a touch-up once her hair was done.

  Marla glanced at the racks of glittering dresses, wishing she had time to admire each gown. She imagined herself gliding into a ballroom in one of those creations. Bold burgundy, lemon yellow, sexy black, tropical turquoise, and luscious lime stood out among the satins, silks, and chiffons, along with sequins, seed pearls, and intricate beading. A separate rack held a dazzling array of wedding gowns. Who else but a wealthy socialite could afford these outfits? With a sigh, Marla realized this was the closest she’d ever get to high society.

  Yolanda bustled about, greeting each person and keeping her tote box at hand. What was in there? Needle and thread for last-minute repairs? Jewels to go with her gowns?

  “Thirty minutes per person, ladies,” Yolanda shouted. “That’s the goal.”

  Marla winced. That wouldn’t give her stylists much time. “The guests have to eat dinner yet. It’s still relatively early,” she said, after introducing herself.

  “Our show starts before the entrée arrives, to get people in the mood for dancing. The models must finish with makeup and be into their gowns by eight-thirty at the latest.”

  “How many changes does each girl have to make?”

  Yolanda pursed her lips. “The show is divided into four segments, including the bridal procession at the end. That one requ
ires five models. So some girls will have three changes and some will have four. You’ll have mere minutes between scenes to fix any stray hairs, so make sure your people do their jobs right the first time.”

  Marla glanced around, noting the lack of privacy screens. Where did the models get dressed? Being professionals, they might be used to a lack of modesty.

  The familiar smells of a salon met her nose as her stylists got to work. Music played in the distance from inside the ballroom. Florescent lights burned brightly overhead. A little girl wandered inside with an older woman in tow.

  “Excuse me, where do you want my daughter?” the latter asked in a bewildered tone. She wore her black hair in a bun and had on a matronly dress.

  “My darlings, I’m so glad you’re here.” Yolanda swept up to them with a wide embrace, air-kissing the older female. Her chandelier earrings swung with each movement. “Marla, would you mind fixing Juanita’s hair? She’s the flower girl in our bridal sequence.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Marla sought an empty space where she could work. Hadn’t there been some stacked chairs in the hallway?

  She summoned one of the stagehands to help her, and then set up shop adjacent to the makeup station. After plugging in her tools, she positioned the child in the chair delivered by the stagehand. They faced a mirror propped up against the wall.

  “Ringlets might look cute on her. Is she wearing a headpiece?” Marla asked the designer, who paced restlessly within hearing range.

  “I have some jeweled barrettes to fix in her hair. Damn, where is that man? He should have been here by now.” She gazed with an annoyed frown at the entry.

  “Who are you waiting for?”

  “My husband. He has my computer printouts.”

  Marla obtained the barrettes and placed them on the counter. She engaged the girl and her mother in conversation as she worked. The scents of hairspray mingled with perfume in the room. Cooled air whistled through a nearby vent, competing with the ever-present chatter and background music.

  Nicole, busy using a dryer on a tall blonde, cursed when the power blew out.