A Fashionable Murder by Valerie Wolzien Read Free Book Online Page B

police worry about what had happened and take some time to enjoy herself, as Betty insisted.
    She had never seen or heard so many handheld hair dryers in use simultaneously. Josie started to calculate the total wattage, but gave up when she realized the numbers were too large to manipulate without pencil and paper. Besides, if she were going to count wattage, she would have to add in all those curling irons and those odd halo lighting things standing above the heads of some clients. She gave up, smiling nervously at the woman sitting across the aisle from her. Her smile was not returned—or even noticed. The client and her hairdresser were engrossed in conversation.
    “I told her it would never work. But did she listen to me? Of course not! I know he had an excellent career. I know he was respected all over the city. He’s good-looking . . . for a man his age; he’s fabulous looking, in fact. But he didn’t stick around, did he? And I told her that’s what was going to happen.”
    Josie smiled for the first time since sitting down in the chair. In a spa, salon, beauty parlor—no matter what it was called or where it was located—the subject of men always came up.
    “Now, of course, there’s nothing I can do to help her.” The conversation ended as the last spritz of hair spray glued the last curl in place. The women hugged, pecked at each other’s cheeks, and parted. Josie was fairly sure she’d seen a folded-up bill pass between client and hairdresser, but couldn’t be absolutely sure. Tipping! She and Betty hadn’t discussed tipping! On the other hand, she might not like the way she looked. . . .
    “Seems as though most everybody’s talking about the same thing today.” Josie’s hairdresser had disappeared with a comment about mixing something up, and the woman busily covering Betty’s gorgeous hair with beige sludge chatted as she worked.
    “Really?”
    Josie got the impression that Betty wasn’t terribly interested in talking. She was staring at her hair with a slight frown on her lips.
    “Of course. How often is it that one of your clients is murdered?”
    Betty chuckled. “Well, if you’re Josie . . .”
    “Now that’s not really true. . . .” Josie’s hairdresser returned and interrupted her protest. “What is that for?”
    Mia looked down at the tray she carried. Three little bowls containing three darker colors of sludge sat in the middle of it. “Just a little highlighting. If you’ve changed your mind, I can always . . .”
    Betty spoke up. “She hasn’t changed her mind.”
    “No, I haven’t,” Josie admitted. She hadn’t made it up either. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if she even had a mind. A few hours ago she had found a body. And here she was getting her hair done. Mia stood behind her, a gloppy paintbrush in one hand, a comb in the other; the smile on her face was beginning to look a bit forced. It was now or never. Josie took a deep breath. “Go ahead.”
    It took less than half an hour to cover the crown of Josie’s head with small squares of foil. Conversation swirled around her. Husbands were discussed as well as lovers. Children at prestigious prep schools and colleges. Children who weren’t living up to parental expectations. Shopping. Trips to exotic—and warm—parts of the globe. Designer clothing. The stock market. Jobs. Parties. Weddings. The prices of apartments. Condo boards. Once in a while someone actually mentioned hair. But Josie strained her ears, hoping for more news about the woman who had been murdered.
    When enough hair dryers had been stilled for her to make out more than a few words at a time, the name she did hear was even more familiar than Pamela Peel’s.
    “What I want to know is what Sam could possibly have been thinking!”
    Josie swung her seat around to see who had asked that question. Unfortunately, the small metal stand holding the various hair dyes, combs, and extra foil squares was in her way. As it crashed to the floor,