Killer Hair by Ellen Byerrum Read Free Book Online

they considered this good fun. They informed people they had a “cordial” relationship for the sake of the business and their family, which consisted of Beauregard Radford, or “Beau,” a perennial college student. Wired together by recrimination and revenge. And Stylettos.
    Beau, the heir apparent, was present and accounted for, sitting beside his mother. The stylists called him “Shampoo Boy,” after the menial position he had held in the various salons when he was in high school. He looked slightly bored and somewhat less feral than Dad. He was neither as repulsive as his father, nor as exotic as his mother. It was as if the family genes had petered out by the time Shampoo Boy came along. His thin hair was nearly black and he wore it in a modified Prince Valiant that reached his shoulders. He had a smattering of freckles, the Radford nose, and an apparent inability to grow a beard. Beau was twenty-four years old, and had been sent home from another school in what seemed like an endless tour of colleges, due to his fondness for recreational drugs and naughty pranks. Beau wanted to go into the business as a stylist just like Dad, but Ratboy insisted he get a degree first. The son yearned to be like his father in the seduction category as well. Stella reported all this with relish.
    “What kind of naughty pranks?”
    “Don’t know, Boyd doesn’t broadcast Beau’s crimes.”
    “Like you would.”
    “It’s what you don’t know, Lacey, that can kill you.”
    At fifteen minutes past ten, the short, pudgy minister cleared his throat and the room came to attention. There was a good deal of sniffling and teary eyes. A soloist sang “Bridge over Troubled Water,” not quite hitting the high notes.
    After the long wait, the service was short. The nondenominational preacher, squeamish about offering a eulogy for a suicide, and a stranger at that, gave a generic talk suitable for any candidate on his or her generic ride to a generic afterlife. Most of the mourners seemed willing to be generically comforted.
    Not so Stella. “That’s just not good enough,” she growled to Lacey, who stared at her in alarm. “You call that a send-off?” Stella rose and strode purposefully to the podium, her beret bobbing. People turned to stare at her. Stella was not scheduled to speak, but the spirit moved her and there was no stopping her now. She cleared her throat and blew on the microphone. It squealed. “Is this thing on?” Stella’s voice boomed over the speakers. Just to make sure no one slept, she scratched her long nails over the microphone, creating a shriek that opened every eye in the house. Except Angie’s, of course.
    “Excuse me, but I have something to say about this whole damn sorry mess.” Stella took a deep breath, adjusted her black tam over her red crew cut, and flung a tail of the scarf over her right shoulder. “I was Angie’s manager at Stylettos Dupont Circle salon. I know we’re all feeling bad here because, well, Angie won’t be with us anymore. And nobody feels worse than I do. She was a great kid who had a bright future as a star hairstylist. We all read about her in the papers. With all the sleazy politics and college-educated morons in this town, she could have had a steady gig improving their sorry asses.” There were a few titters, but Stella soldiered on.
    “But anyway, what happened to Angie should not have happened. Oh sure, the D.C. cops say it was suicide, and the coroner says it was suicide, and the newspapers say it was suicide. What do they know? Nothing!” The mike squealed again. The mourners had been drifting during the minister’s soothing remarks, but they were fully awake now. Stella grabbed the mike and stalked the room like a TV preacher.
    “Suicide my ass! Pardon my French. Angie Woods did not kill herself, and everyone who knows her knows she couldn’t have done it. Now, I don’t know much, but I do know hair. Angie had some of the prettiest hair I have ever seen.