Killer Hair by Ellen Byerrum Read Free Book Online Page B

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