KillerHair
Chapter 4
The Radfords hosted a small catered reception at the Stylettos headquarters after the funeral. It was across the Potomac in Arlington, Virginia, in a nondescript building on Wilson Boulevard. The reception was set up in the stylist training center, a large room complete with wall-to-wall mirrors and shampoo bowls tucked away in a side nook.
Stylettos’ inner sanctum doubled as a party room for company events, but it could be jarring to visitors. Lined up along a back counter were more than thirty disembodied wig heads with blond, brunette, black, and red wigs in varying textures, from straight to tightly curled. Under the circumstances, Lacey thought, the heads added a macabre touch and should have been removed. Like mute witnesses to unspeakable crimes, they all had bad haircuts. But they were invisible to the stylists.
This was the company mecca, where stylists learned about the latest hair products they were encouraged to push on customers, and all the up-to-the-minute styles. Up-to-the-minute in Washington, D.C., that is, which is not to be confused with up-to-the-minute anywhere else, particularly New York City, where a star stylist haircut, not including the train ride, might cost several hundred dollars.
For the reception, small café tables and chairs were set around the room. The tables were laid with black cloths and topped with white flower and candle centerpieces. Black crepe paper, somewhat out of place, but well meant, streamed down the mirrors, making it look more like Halloween than springtime in Washington.
A buffet and a bar were set up on a central platform in front of enormous black-and-white posters featuring haircuts and perms. Inside the door, a large photo of Angie was displayed next to a somber memorial wreath. Two chubby stylists were stationed there to make sure everyone signed the guest book. Stella and Lacey were seated at one of the tables, plates of hors d’oeuvres in front of them. Lacey eyed her plate without appetite.
“Stella, has anyone ever suggested that you might try a little subtlety? Just for shock value?”
“Oh sure, lots of times, but it doesn’t work for me. Ah, don’t be mad, Lacey, that sad-sack minister made it sound like she died of old age. I had to say something.”
“Thanks to your theatrics, now everyone thinks I’m some kind of fashion detective. I am not, Stella. I am a reporter. Do you hear me?”
Stella was showing off Lacey like a celebrity, self-importantly introducing her to everyone in sight. The stylists seemed thrilled to meet her. They all wanted to be mentioned in “Crimes of Fashion.” Not as one of the crimes, of course.
Okay, so maybe the least I can do is write a column about Angie. But that’s it, positively it. If there were some mystery to Angie’s death, Lacey had no hope of actually solving it. Even so, she reasoned, it wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions.
However, forming an opinion of the dead woman was hopeless. In death, Angie had taken on saintlike qualities. Later, a clearer picture might emerge, when there was a little distance from her death. Lacey figured she’d get out as quickly and gracefully as possible and ask questions later.
Josephine Radford approached. “Stella, an interesting little stunt. What would we do without you for excitement?”
“I have no idea,” Stella said.
Josephine evaluated Lacey in a glance. “Ms. Smithsonian, the ‘Crimes of Fashion’ writer, of course. You must be so busy. So many crimes, so little time.” Her eyes traveled critically up and down Lacey’s outfit. She apparently was satisfied. “I’m so glad to meet you, even under such sad circumstances. Please don’t let Stella’s imagination lead you astray.”
“Is it just her imagination?” Lacey asked.
“But of course it is. Perhaps we could go to lunch someday, Lacey.” She pronounced it Lay-CEE. “I have lots of ideas for you.” Before Lacey could respond, Josephine was distracted. “Oh, there is Boyd, stupid man. I’d better see what he wants now. Probably to meet you. He’s dangerous. Don’t let him charm you.”
As if that were possible, Lacey thought. Josephine exited in a cloud of Chanel No. 5.
“Listen, Stella, one plate of canapés and a glass of punch and I’m out of here,” Lacey said.
But Stella was paying no attention. The Stylettos heir apparent, Beau Radford, was working his way around the room. Stella leaned in close to Lacey.
“Did I warn you about Beau?”
“Now what?”
“He’s kind of a Ratboy-in-training,” Stella said.
“Meaning?”
“Just slap him if he hits on you. I’ll back you up.”
“But he’s just a kid.” Lacey looked at him. He was wearing a tight sports jacket that stretched over his thin shoulders, obviously left over from high school, a pair of baggy khaki pants, a blue work shirt, and a tie emblazoned with Bugs Bunny. A cowlick that would not be tamed stuck out at the back of his head.
“He doesn’t have any jobs to dangle as bait. But he’s persistent. Just smack him on the head and he’ll go away,” Stella said.
“Like father, like son?”
“Little rat like big rat.”
“Stella, did Boyd dangle a manager’s position for Angela?”
Stella dropped her voice. “I don’t know. But he’s opening another Stylettos in Virginia Beach. I hear there’s a lot of interest.” Stella stopped talking and started munching carrot sticks as Beau sidled up.
The young Radford introduced himself and held Lacey’s hand a little too long. He wasn’t so bad when he smiled, Lacey realized. A good orthodontist had ensured that when he grinned Beau had the impish look of a mischievous boy, not a rat.
“Is Smithsonian your real name?” he asked.
“Yes. No relation to the museum.” Lacey noticed that Stella had grabbed her plate and headed back toward the buffet table, leaving her alone with this junior Lothario. You’ll pay for this, Stella.
“I read your column,” Beau purred.
“I’ll bet you do.” He lies like a rug.
“I’ll be reading it now, I promise.”
“Good. There’ll be a pop quiz.”
“By the way, you’ve got great hair, Lacey. Bedroom hair. All tousled like that.”
“Maybe I should comb it.” Lacey noticed that people in the hair business had no compunction whatever against commenting on your dark roots, split ends, bad cuts, perm damage or, apparently, bedroom hair. Turning the subject away from herself, Lacey asked about Angie.
“I knew she worked with Stella. I just got home on spring break.” Beau explained that he wasn’t going back to school, as he and the business school in Iowa had had a falling out.
“What did you do?”
“This and that. A little weed. You interested? I know a place.”
“No, thanks, really. I’m trying to quit.” That was a joke, you little rat.
He drew up a chair next to Lacey. “It’s something the folks don’t know yet,” he confided to her. “So about what Stella said. Are you really going to look into Angie’s death? I thought the cops said it was suicide.”
Lacey shrugged and shook her head slightly. “Stella,” she said, implying that, of course, Stella was nuts.
“Stella,” he agreed. “Perhaps we could discuss Stella over dinner sometime.” He was pushy, she had to give him that. But she was ready with her automatic excuse.
“Sorry, I’m seeing someone.” In my dreams, that is. Beau excused himself and slunk off in search of the woman who would be his Mrs. Robinson.
Lacey picked up her untouched plate to find the trash, but as if on cue Boyd Radford popped over to flatter her and put in a bid for a few inches of newsprint about how great his salons were. He also told her she should write a profile about—who else?—Boyd Radford.
“We have a great story to tell, Lacey.”
She wondered what that could be. Maybe, “Rich Weasel Gets in Your Hair—and Your Pants!”
“Call me. I’ll take you to lunch, “Boyd said. “We’ll talk about that article on me.”
Aren’t I the prom queen. Everyone wants to buy me lunch and dinner. Boyd spent too much time pressing a business card into her hand and trying to stare into her eyes, turning on all that imagined charm. People who insisted they would make great copy really irritated Lacey.
“By the way, you’re not paying any attention to what Stella says about Angela Woods?”
“Stella’s my stylist. We share all kinds of secrets.” Lacey smiled.
“I didn’t know Stella had any secrets,” Boyd said.
“How well did you know Angie?”
“As well as any stylist who works for me.”
“Did you think she was depressed lately?”
“How would I know? It was tragic about the girl, but nothing more. Just a terrible personal tragedy. Remember that,” Radford said, turning away. Apparently he’d used up all his charm. And Lacey’s patience.
She marched decisively toward the door. Unfortunately, Polly Parsons, Stylettos’ promotion coordinator, blocked her way. Polly called Lacey at least once a week with some new promotional pitch and always spoke in a breathless rush. For example: “Have you heard? Short bobs with frosted highlights are in style! Isn’t that great?” Today she was blathering on about some fashion show. “Lacey, have you heard? Stylettos is doing the hair for the Sizzle in the City fashion show! Isn’t that great?”
Stella had reported that Polly was currently sleeping with Ratboy. Stella was also spreading the rumor that Polly was a charter member of the Condom of the Month Club. “They send a case of assorted rubbers in different sizes, shapes, and colors every month. I swear!”
Lacey edged around the towering woman: Six feet and thirty-one years of aggressively self-involved female. Polly had a great figure, but a weirdly androgynous face. She dressed in thigh-high skirts to keep attention focused on her legs. She was exquisitely lacquered, perfumed, and hair sprayed. However, in spite of all her efforts at exaggerated femininity, Polly managed to look like a man in drag.
“Send me a press release, Polly. Gotta go.”
“It’s a great cause, Lacey. The proceeds go to . . . umm, something to do with kids, but it’s fantastic and totally politically correct, so you don’t have to worry about anything. I mean, there’s no fur in the show or child labor or sweatshops or anything like that. Nothing depressing. I don’t think. I’m pretty sure.”
“That’s so interesting, Polly.” Lacey was looking for an out. The hulking promo maven was crowding her against the wall.
“Lacey, I really want to know what you think of my hair. Should I cut it?” It would have been curious that Polly did not even allude to the deceased at the funeral reception, but Polly always managed to turn the conversation to her favorite subject: herself. She was busy flipping her locks hither and yon. She wore a long bob, a variation of the Washington Frosted Helmet Head, medium brown with silvery blond highlights. Lacey thought it was standard D.C. issue, although it looked thick and healthy.
“Do you think I should change it? Because I just don’t know. And you are such an expert! I never know what to do with it.” She asked Lacey the same thing every time she saw her. Thankfully, Stella arrived, carrying a refilled plate.
“It gives you so much grief, Polly, I think you should just shave your head,” Stella said. Polly opened her eyes all the way. “Yeah, bald as a billiard ball. I’d be happy to wield the razor. My treat.”
“Well, Stella, I guess you’d be the expert on bald heads, wouldn’t you?” They glared at each other, Polly towering over the petite but pugnacious Stella. Lacey interrupted them.
“Polly, did you know Angie Woods? What do you think happened that night?”
“Happened? To Angie?” Polly seemed stumped. “When?”
“The night she died.”
“Died? Oh, wow, I better talk to Boyd.” Polly promised to send Lacey information on the fashion show and stomped off in her enormous red patent leather high heels. Stella guided Lacey back to the table.
“That bitch. I swear I’ll deck her someday.”
“Don’t forget your slingshot, little David. Can we go now?” Lacey asked.
But they were joined by Jamie Towers, one of Stella’s coworkers at the Dupont Circle salon. Jamie was all bouncy curls and perky personality, which couldn’t be masked by too much black eyeliner and purple nails. She bubbled in spite of herself and seemed younger than her twenty-four years. It could have been the multicolored hair, light brown striped with shades of bright orange and clown red.
“Stella, you were so fabulous! It’s like you think someone killed Angie and she so didn’t do it to herself, but like the cops are too stupid to even notice, right? Wow!” She contemplated those thoughts while crunching a carrot. “That’s so brave.” Jamie stared at Lacey. “And you’re going to, like, do something about it, right? That is so tremendous.”
Lacey glared at Stella. “Actually, I’m not—”
A tall, slender man flung himself down in a chair next to Stella. “How much longer for this little drama, do you think?” Wire-framed glasses were perched on an aquiline nose. He pushed them up with his middle finger and gazed around the room. A dark auburn lock of hair drooped ever so piquantly over his forehead. Black slacks and a white linen poet’s shirt completed the tormented-artist look. He was, Lacey concluded, not one of the straight male hairstylists. “Piled it on a little thick, didn’t we, Stella?” he said. “You really think she was Little Miss I-Love-My-Hair-Too-Much-to-Die?”
“What do you think?” Stella said.
“I think the salon was closed for two whole days just to clean up the bloody mess she left. Simply destroyed my appointment book.”
“Don’t be a jerk. She didn’t kill herself, Leo.”
“Of course she did. Angela Woods was not important enough to murder.”
Stella’s eyes were daggers and her bloodred fingernails looked dangerous as she spread them on the table.
“Maybe not, Leo, but you are.” He merely snorted. “Leo, this is Lacey Smithsonian. You know, ‘Crimes of Fashion’ Lacey Smithsonian. Lacey, this is Leonardo, the Leonardo. He worked next to Angie. Sometimes he’s almost human.”
“Dear sweet Angie. C’est la vie. She was so young and naive. I shared what I could with her. My skills, my experience, my je ne sais quoi. My card.”
Lacey took his offered business card. “Why would Angie kill herself when she was a rising star? Isn’t that what she worked so hard for?”
“Because she couldn’t handle all the attention. Besides, Marcia Robinson should have been mine.”
Lacey had heard a lot about the temperamental Leonardo. No last name, just Leonardo. He had been the resident star stylist at Stylettos and “a royal pain in the butt,” to quote Stella. He often left other stylists in tears during a tirade. He refused to see clients if they had been “unfaithful.” He overbooked his schedule and made clients wait for hours, or he disappeared for days and made others cover for him.
Leonardo straightened up and gave his full attention to Lacey. “So you’re the little style sniper at The Eye. I can’t believe we haven’t met before. But of course, Stella has told me all about you. We just adore your column. You know, you have great hair. You’re wasted on Stella.”
Leo grabbed a handful of Lacey’s hair and ran his fingers through it, pulling gently and letting it fall into place. “Nice texture, good weight. Do make an appointment with me, doll, next time Stella’s out of town. Don’t tell Stella.” He winked at Stella and squeezed Lacey’s hand.
“You wouldn’t like her, Leo,” Stella snarled. “She’s one of ‘those.’ ”
“You mean she insists on having it her way? Naughty, naughty. You have to remember who the expert is, Lacey.”
Yes. Me. It’s my hair. I’m the expert. “Sorry, Leonardo,” Lacey said. “Stella’s my stylist. I’m afraid to ditch her.”
He sighed. “Come in anyway, we’ll talk about ‘Crimes.’ You know it’s a crime what women in this town do to their hair. Can you believe they still want their hair frosted? Oh my God. With all the edgy alternatives available? It’s ridiculous. Does it make you want to gag or what? You take a twenty-five-year-old woman and give her a frosted Helmet Head, what do you get? A woman who looks forty-five. Of course, D.C. is full of the prematurely matronly and geezerly. Forget the spandex, and bring on the sweatpants, honey.” Leo’s private mission was to break the hammerlock of the frosted Helmet Head look that was so popular in Washington.
“Tell me, Leo, did you know Angie very well?”
“Are you going to quote me?” Leonardo thought for a moment, weighing each word, calculating its effect. “We were close, so close. It’s hard to talk about.” He paused and didn’t seem at all embarrassed by his previous comments.
Josephine swooped by and placed her hand on Leonardo’s shoulder. “Come, cherí. I need you.” Leonardo dragged himself away from the table, tossing “It’s so tragic,” over his shoulder. Lacey watched Josephine latch on to him and lead him away.
“Thick as thieves, those two,” Stella said.
“What did he mean when he said Marcia should have been his?” Lacey asked.
“Marcia actually had an appointment with Leonardo the first time she came in,” Jamie explained. “But he was sick with Virginia Beach fever.” Jamie rolled her eyes. “He’s the one who called in sick, but he wouldn’t even speak to Angie after she gave Marcia that great makeover and got her picture in all the papers. He is so not funny.”
“Whatever,” Stella said. “Marcia’s lawyer and her mother, who is a close friend of Josephine Radford’s, told Miss Robinson not to show her face to the cameras until she tamed that mop and lost a few pounds. Josephine wanted her star Leo to take care of her. As a special favor. No one thought it would be a big deal, so he played hooky. Anyway, with Leo out I gave Marcia to Angie. The rest is in the newspapers. Leonardo never forgave Angie for getting a break.”
Jamie nodded her agreement. “Or for being more talented than him. I thought it was totally cool that Angie was recognized for what she did, because all the big celebrity stylists are men.” She made a face. “You ever notice that? That is so . . . you know?” The younger stylist leaned forward. “So, are you going to write something about the funeral, Lacey?”
“Of course she’s going to write something,” Stella said. “She just has to think about it first.” Stella tapped her manicured fingers on the table. “So what do you think, Lacey?”
“I think it’s time for me to go.” Lacey picked up her purse and stood up. Jamie took a roll and tore it into little pieces.
“You know, it’s kind of funny, but Angie’s death was just like that game we play, Stella. You know the one,” Jamie whispered. “Salon of Death.”
Stella sighed. “No, it’s not.”
“Excuse me?” Lacey perked up. “Salon of Death?”
“Yeah, it is, kind of. Of course we don’t play Salon of Suicide. Just murder.”
Lacey perched on the edge of the table and took a petit four off Stella’s plate. “Tell me about the game, Jamie.”
Stella jumped in. “It has nothing to do with anything.”
“I want to hear it, especially if it has nothing to do with anything,” Lacey insisted.
Stella shrugged. “If you think the wig heads are creepy, you’ll love this.”
Jamie picked up all the bread pieces and balled them together in her fist, then rolled the ball around in her fingers. “Sometimes it gets really boring, right? So one day we just sort of started talking and everything, about how easy it would be to kill someone in the salon. There’s lots of ways. Mostly we talked about how—actually it’s Ratboy we kill. Once in a while Josephine, or a real irritating client like Sherri Gold. But anyway, Salon of Death is our imaginary board game, like Clue. Clue has these cute little plastic murder weapons? In Salon of Death you could have cute little plastic scissors and blow-dryers and shampoo bowls and stuff.” Jamie paused for breath and took a sip of Coke.
“In Clue you guess whodunit, like, you know, Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the candlestick? In Salon of Death, we guess, How would you kill Ratboy? For example, Leo at the shampoo bowl, poisoning him with solution.”
“How would you do that?” Lacey asked.
“Hold him down and make him drink it,” Stella said. “That would be a permanent solution.”
Jamie played with a stray curl, wrapping it around her index finger, which had a nail bitten to the quick. “There are lots of chemical things, you know, relaxers, dyes, and highlights. All totally toxic. Lots of them are flammable too. And for electrocution there’s actually a really old permanent wave machine in the warehouse. They rolled up your hair on these crazy rods that are connected to wires on this machine, and plugged you in. Like way long ago, in the Twenties or Fifties or something. She’s really spooky. We call her Medusa. There’s one just like it in the Smithsonian Museum—just like your name! Wow, I never even thought of that before!”
“It’s more inventive than just dropping the blow-dryer in the water,” Stella said. “In Salon of Death, you get points for originality.”
“What about hair spray and matches?” Lacey asked. “Like a blowtorch?”
“Exactly,” Jamie said. She was obviously a budding games designer. Or mass murderer. “Everyone has a favorite method.”
“Really? Stella, what’s yours?” Lacey snagged a potato chip off Stella’s plate, but ignored the little hot dog. Who catered this thing anyway?
Stella rolled her eyes and snapped a carrot stick.
“Oh, you’d break his bones? That’s my stylist,” Lacey said.
“Stella got grossed out by it. Now if we talk about it, she makes us fold all the towels.”
“It’s only a game, Lacey,” Stella said. “But after Angie—”
“What did Angie think about the game? Did she have a favorite method? A razor maybe?” Lacey asked.
“She wasn’t into it much. She was kind of antiviolence,” Jamie said. She lowered her voice. “Leo said he’d use a razor and slit Ratboy’s throat. ’Course, that’s pretty obvious. But when I think about Angie . . .”
All of a sudden Jamie ran out of steam. Her eyes teared up and she started sobbing. Stella handed Jamie a fresh black Stylettos napkin to wipe her eyes. She took one look at Lacey and handed her a napkin too.
There was another teary interlude with Angie’s mother. In spite of her red-rimmed eyes, Adrienne Woods was, at fifty, still a pretty woman in the Southern manner of perfection that demanded equal parts charm and good grooming. The family hung together as if fearing another violent separation. In a show of support, Adrienne was followed closely by her two nearly grown daughters, both brown-eyed blondes: seventeen-year-old Abigail, the middle child, and Allison, the youngest at fifteen. Every memory of Angela Woods brought fresh tears.
“All she ever wanted was to make people happy. She didn’t deserve this,” Adrienne sobbed.
Lacey wanted to know if Angie had been depressed recently. Adrienne said that everyone gets blue every now and then, but Angie had been nothing but smiles since landing her job at the Dupont Circle salon, and the recognition she gained from styling Marcia Robinson put her “over the moon.”
The funeral and reception left Lacey exhausted. Intimacy with so many strangers made her uncomfortable and Salon of Death gave her the creeps. She wanted to dry off all the tears that fell during all the hugs she endured. Suddenly, a pathway seemed to open up in front of her. Stella would just have to catch up. Lacey willed herself to be invisible as she raced for the door.
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