Bad Hair Day 4 - Body Wave (11 page)

*Chapter Eleven*
"Finding the murder weapon in Stan's yard doesn't mean anything," Marla said, stiffening. "The killer must have dropped it there."
"Uh-huh." Vail, finished with his meal, pushed his empty plate to the side.
She glanced at his implacable expression. "If Stan murdered his wife, do you think he'd leave the knife in such an obvious place?"
"The front door was unlocked. Maybe he killed her, opened the door, ran outside and around to the back of his house. He wasn't thinking straight, just wanted to get rid of the letter opener with its damning inscription."
"Oh, and then he returned inside the house to call the police? Stan wouldn't be so stupid. Did you tell him you'd found the weapon?"
"Not yet, and you won't tell him either."
They glared at each other, while Marla's heart pounded in her chest until another thought surfaced. "Christine mentioned Leah's name during our conversation. She said Kim might have worked out an arrangement with Leah. What do you suppose this meant?"
"Are you implicating Leah?"
"I'm not implicating anyone! Unlike you, I have an open mind. I don't believe Stan killed his wife."
"You're biased in his favor."
"And you're jealous!" Marla shoved to her feet. Ignoring the smirk on Brianna's face, she collected their dishes.
In the kitchen, she rinsed the plates. Footfalls sounded behind her, and she felt Vail's hands on her waist. Her breath hitched as his body heat radiated toward her.
"Sorry," he said in a soft, low voice that aroused her senses.
Clutching a dish in her hand, she resisted the urge to turn into his embrace. They still had too many barriers between them despite their shared confidences.
"You know I don't want you to get hurt," he murmured, his hot breath near her ear. The scent of wine mingled with his masculine essence to batter down her resolve.
"Dalton, do you really believe Stan is guilty?" She placed the plate into a dish drainer and then wiped her hands on a towel. Slowly, she turned to face him. His arms encircled her, drawing her close. Through her cranberry sweater and short black skirt, she felt every point of contact between them.
"He's the most logical suspect, but I'm looking into all possibilities. Circumstantial evidence isn't enough; it has to be conclusive."
"I know you want Stan to be the culprit."
"Only so he'll stop bothering you." His intense gaze stole her breath. "You've had a lot of grief from him in the past. It's time to turn the page on that chapter in your life."
"Same as for you and Brianna? You have your own sorrows that need healing."
He lowered his head until his lips hovered above hers. "We can help each other."
A few inches more and their mouths would meet. Marla tilted her head, wanting nothing more than to be pulled into his arms.
"Hey, isn't it time for dessert?" Brianna demanded, trouncing into the room.
Marla jerked back, but Vail didn't let go of her. His eyes flamed with desire. "Brianna, you're going to have to get used to this," he said. "Marla and I like each other."
"So I see," Brianna said, her voice full of disgust.
Marla disentangled herself, turning to the preteen. "I care about your father, honey, and about you, too. I'm not trying to steal your father's attention, or ... or subvert your mother's memory. I'd like to be part of your lives ... I think."
"Well, you're not very helpful about my birthday," Brianna whined, but some of the sullenness left her expression.
Marla blinked. Was that a hint of grudging respect she detected? "I promise I'll work on it this weekend," she said.
"We'll have more opportunities to discuss things on Monday," Vail added, his suggestive gaze making her wonder what other activities he had in mind.
_I don't know how much talking we'll do,_ Marla thought to herself. A whole day together without distractions. Just thinking about it made a delicious shiver run up her spine. Still, they had a long drive either way to Tarpon Springs. _Not much you can do with a console between your car seats._
"I made a lemon meringue pie for dessert," she announced. "Oh, wait till you hear what my mother said about Roger. He's Ma's new boyfriend," she explained to Brianna.
Once they'd settled in the dining room, she told him about her earlier conversation. "Roger bought tickets to the Miami City Ballet so he can escort Ma to the next performance. By coincidence, he also likes to play bridge and feast on Thai food. Don't you think it's strange how they have so many interests in common?" she asked Vail.
"Why do you consider it strange?" queried Brianna, giving her a frank stare. "Just because you and Daddy have nothing you do together?"
"We talk about murder suspects." Vail winked at Marla.
"You know what I mean." Brianna played with her fork, pushing pieces of pie around on her plate. "We used to take walks in the park with Mom, and we'd have contests on who could identify the most palms. And how about action films? Have you ever taken Marla to see one? You and Mom studied the newspaper listings together."
"I didn't know you liked those things," Marla said quietly, feeling like an intruder.
"There's a lot you don't know about me," he replied, his eyes sparking with an unmistakable invitation.
"I'm just curious how Roger waltzed into my mother's life, likes the same things she does, and Ma falls for him like a schoolgirl. No offense, Brianna." Her face reddened.
"You're probably reading too much into things," said Vail. "Why don't you invite them both over one evening so you can get to know the guy?"
"I don't have any free time!"
* * * *
She contemplated her words Sunday morning on her way to the Pearl residence. Saturday she'd been too busy with work and bookkeeping to spare any thoughts beyond her salon. Today would be taken up with Miriam all day, and tomorrow she and Vail would have their excursion. What Marla needed was to divide herself into three people: one to manage the salon and work with her clients, a double role in itself that was difficult enough to handle; one to chase after suspects; and one to relax and enjoy life. This last goal seemed to be the most elusive, and if she got involved with Brianna, she could kiss freedom out the door. What was it she'd said to Vail? _I'd like to be part of your lives._ Her face blanched as she recalled her exact words.
_Don't think about that now. You've got important things ahead of you today._
Marla arrived at the mansion early enough to catch Agnes before she left. "We have to talk," she said to the nurse in the downstairs hallway where Agnes donned a sweater prior to leaving. Smoothing down her starched white uniform, Marla plopped a hand on her hip.
Agnes, her hair pulled into a severe bun, scowled at her. "You've given Miriam ideas that aren't good for her. Going outside in the cold weather, joining the family for dinner. She gets worn out from these efforts, and then I have to work doubly hard to keep her well. I've recommended to Madam and her son to dismiss you."
"You treat the old lady like an invalid, so it's no wonder she tires easily," Marla retorted. "With you as her caretaker, she's cooped up in her room all day. If anything isn't healthy, it's confinement and limiting Miriam's social contacts!"
"Who are you to talk about health, missy? I'd like to see your credentials."
"Morris accepted my references. I don't have to show you anything," Marla said, lifting her chin.
"If the old lady hadn't taken a liking to you, you'd be gone by now."
"But I'm not, am I? Miriam enjoys my company, which is probably more than she can say for yours."
Agnes's expression, which already looked as though she'd swallowed a prune pit, became more taut. "If I didn't have to leave..."
"What is this pressing personal business, Agnes? How come you haven't needed to take Sundays off on a regular basis before? Why now?"
"I always had a day off each week."
"But not so urgently, from what Miriam told me. Do you have a sick relative who needs care? Or are you meeting someone of whom Miriam would disapprove?" Marla asked.
A flash of anxiety clouded Agnes's blue eyes. "I don't believe it's your concern. See that you take good care of Miriam today. I don't want any harm to come to her under your ministrations."
The nurse's words set off alarm bells, and Marla hastened upstairs, but the old lady slept peacefully in her bed. Time to get her up and out.
"Why do you put up with Agnes?" Marla said, rousing the matriarch, who snuggled under the covers.
Miriam groaned in protest, but she allowed Marla to plump her pillows. "She takes good care of me, but Agnes doesn't think you do. She wants me to get rid of you."
"So she told me. Where does she go on her days off?"
"Agnes keeps a small apartment in Hollywood Beach. I believe she checks on things there and visits her sister in a convalescent home. The sister needed eye surgery and isn't doing so well." She pointed a regal finger toward the bathroom. "Call Kathleen for my breakfast and then get my pills. What's in that suitcase you're holding? Are you moving in, dearie?"
Marla laughed. "I brought a few beauty supplies. We'll use them after you're fed and bathed."
Shoving herself into a sitting position, Miriam grimaced. "Oh, my bones ache. I should stay in bed today."
"Nonsense, it's too nice outside." Marla scuttled into the lavatory to retrieve the medication bottles.
"Morning, ma'am," Kathleen said about ten minutes later. Entering with a breakfast tray, she set it on the bedside table. "I made Madam's gruel just the way she likes it," the maid told Marla.
Marla glanced at the bowl. "Yuck, what is that glop? Where are the eggs and toast? This is food for a baby!"
"Agnes says I have to eat Cream of Rice since my stomach was upset after dinner Thursday night," Miriam interjected, although she didn't appear too enthused.
Marla compressed her lips, unwilling to go against too many of Agnes's dictates. Maybe the old lady had suffered a bout of diarrhea as a result of changing her diet. She didn't want to clean up after her if that were the case.
Kathleen smiled sympathetically at Marla, who in turn took an admiring glance at the middle-aged woman's auburn hair. Those silver streaks added dimension, like the lilt in her voice. "I'll see that Cook leaves you something more substantial for lunch, ma'am. If you don't need me until later, I'll be going to church. The minister promised us a fiery sermon, bless him."
Marla raised an eyebrow. "Have either of you heard of the Ministry of Hope or its leader, Jeremiah Dooley?"
Miriam, who'd lifted a spoonful of cereal, froze for the pace of two heartbeats and then resumed her motion. Kathleen uttered a choking cough.
"Never heard of them," the maid said, her face flushed. Her skirt swished as she turned and left.
"Marla, I need my teeth," commanded Miriam, effectively dismissing the subject.
She wasn't about to be swayed from her course. After she brought the old woman her teeth, Marla switched on the television to Jeremiah Dooley's show. The distinguished-looking, gray-haired man exuded charisma like a messiah as he exhorted his audience to listen to the Lord.
"You've heard His words. You read them in the Bible," he said, gesturing. "Y'all must do good in the eyes of our Lord if you expect to enter the pearly gates of Heaven. Surely, what could be more generous than helping those poor unfortunates who are too downtrodden to help themselves?"
Marla heard a gasp and whirled around. Miriam's face had turned a ghastly hue. "Turn that off," she croaked.
"In a minute." Marla returned her attention to the television.
Jeremiah pointed to a map of the southern Americas displayed on a wall behind his pulpit. "Our missionaries in Costa Rica and Brazil bring hope to the people. We provide food for the multitude with our fish farms. Yields finance our operations so we can offer sustenance to those who embrace the Lord. I know you want to contribute. Your hearts are open to do God's bidding. We'll accept your offering..."
Her mouth curved down in disgust, Marla shut the TV off. "Those shows are all alike. What do you think, Miriam? Do you believe people really fall for his spiel?"
"Why did you take a job with this family?" The old lady had recovered her composure enough to fix her with a piercing glare.
Marla swallowed. "I, uh, heard about the opening and needed to earn extra money."
Miriam pointed to her Louis Vitton handbag. "You don't look as though you're hurting."
"That was a gift." _You'd better change the subject fast, girl._ "If you're finished eating, let's move into the bathroom. We have a lot to do this morning. I'm going to make you look years younger!"
"It's amazing," Miriam admitted two hours later as she studied her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her gray hair, which had been blunt-cut and dull, now fluffed in soft waves around her face, which Marla had enhanced with makeup. "You're very talented, dearie. Where did you learn to do hair like this? You use a pair of shears like a professional."
_No kidding._ "A friend who's a hairdresser taught me." She wouldn't call Cutter Corrigan a friend, necessarily. He'd been her best teacher at cosmetology school, but now he ran Heavenly Hair Salon on Las Olas. Marla hadn't spoken to him in years.
Someone knocked on the bedroom door. "Mother, are you there?" shrilled Stella's voice.
"We're in the bathroom," Miriam answered. "Come on in."
Stella sauntered into view. "Oh my God, what is this mess?" Her gaze widened in shock as she surveyed the cut hairs on the lavatory floor surrounding Miriam's wheelchair.
"I'll clean up later," Marla said. "Doesn't Miriam look great?" Winding the cord around her blow-dryer, she started to pack away the supplies that cluttered the small counter space.

"What's that smell?" Stella wrinkled her nose.
"Perm solution. Miriam's hair was too flat. I gave her some lift along with a body wave." She licked her lips in anticipation. "Next weekend, we'll turn you into a blonde," she addressed Miriam.
Stella gasped in horror. "These fumes are too strong for her, and you're planning to put more chemicals on her hair?"
Marla gave her a sardonic glance. "I see you're not averse to coloring your hair."
"I'm not frail and in poor health."
"Having heart failure doesn't mean I'm dead yet, dearie," announced Miriam, eyes gleaming. "What did you want to see me for anyway?"
"I can't find my cameo. I haven't worn it in years, but it would go perfectly with this blouse. I'm on my way to a floral art design class in Davie," she explained.
"Why don't you take bookkeeping instead? That would be more useful than those silly crafts. Then you could help Morris with the business."
"I hate math, and besides, you do the accounts."
"I won't be around forever, and my mind isn't as sharp as it used to be."
"Agnes helps you. She's good with figures. Maybe Morris will hire her after you don't need her anymore."
"Ha! Wishing me dead already!"
Stella's face puckered, and her eyes clouded with pain. "I don't think so. One death in the family is enough."
Miriam half-rose from her chair. "I'm so sorry, child. Forgive me. This has been difficult on all of us. We don't need to bicker with each other."
"Let's go downstairs," Marla suggested to break the silence that followed. "We'll go out later after it warms up."
"If you find my cameo, let me know, will you?" Stella said, her shoulders sagging as though she were drained. "I must be losing it. Can't seem to find lots of stuff these days. Last week I lost my best pen."
_You look like you lost more than that,_ Marla thought sympathetically. Maybe Kimberly's loss was just now beginning to sink in.
Morris arrived while Marla was pouring a cup of tea for his mother in the parlor. "Everything all right?" he said in his gruff manner.
"We're just fine," Miriam answered, looking spry in a turquoise pants outfit. She grinned at him, her false teeth giving her an even smile. Marla had transferred her from the wheelchair into a high armchair.
"What happened to your hair?" Morris said. "You look different."
"Marla spruced me up. She wants to take me to the mall this afternoon."
"What?" He couldn't have looked more astonished if he'd swallowed a live grouper.
"It's not that cold out today," Marla explained. "I'll bundle her up, and we'll park in one of the garages at Galleria. Just in case, I'll take some of her medicines along. Miriam is sturdier than you think."
"We're going shopping for cosmetics," Miriam said in a childishly eager voice.
Her tone made Marla think of Brianna. Had anyone taken the girl under her wing in regard to makeup and other feminine advice? She didn't know if Brie would accept her guidance, but next time they were together, she'd offer it.
"Will you join us for dinner later?" Morris asked his mother.
"If I feel well enough, sonny."
"I enjoyed our discussion on coffee growing when I was here last Thursday," Marla said, mentally refocusing. His plantations were in Costa Rica and Brazil, same places as Jeremiah Dooley's missions. Maybe she could learn more about the family business. "Are the coffee cherries edible?" she asked with a naive smile.
Morris leaned his elbow on the fireplace mantel. "They're not really cherries in the sense that you mean."
"How so? Does coffee grow on trees, or is it a plant?"
A hint of amusement seeped into his eyes. "Let me start at the beginning. The three most cultivated types of beans are arabica, robusta, and liberica. Arabica beans taste better because they grow at higher elevations. They account for nearly seventy percent of the world's coffee production."
"I remember reading somewhere that they come from Africa."
"That's true, the first arabica coffee plant was discovered in Ethiopia. However, Africa and the Far East account for only forty percent of the market share. Columbia, Brazil, and Central American countries produce the rest."
His cadence of speech increased, as though she'd wound up a toy that needed to spend its energy. "We plant the beans in moist, fertile soil. Seeds germinate six to eight weeks later. At this stage, healthy seedlings are transplanted to nurseries." He gestured animatedly. "When the nursery plants reach two feet high, we remove them to our plantation. Here it takes up to five years for the tree to mature. It can grow as tall as twenty feet high, but usually we prune them to under twelve feet."
"What does the tree look like?"
"It has glossy evergreen leaves and blooms with fragrant white flowers."
"The tree bears fruit?" Marla refilled the old lady's teacup from a silver service set on a cocktail table.
Morris nodded. "After blossoms appear, it takes six to nine months more for the trees to produce the rich red berries that we call coffee cherries. The size of the cherries depends on the amount of water received during the sprouting process, so plenty of rainfall is desirable. Ripened cherries are handpicked. Harvesting can take as long six months, so unripe cherries have a chance to be picked later in the season after they mature."
"Where does the coffee bean come from?" Marla glanced at her patient. Miriam seemed content to watch her son, pride glowing on her face.
"In the center of the cherries are two seeds. These are the green coffee beans," he explained. "Each bean is covered by a thin parchment skin. The pulping process removes pulp and debris, then the beans are fermented using either a wet or dry technique. The wet fermentation process gives the beans more acidity, while the dry method gives them more body."
"Which one do you use?"
"We wash the beans. The drying method is too dependent on the weather, and you get more debris."
"So what happens next?"
"A huller removes the silver skin and parchment and polishes the beans. They're sorted and graded by standards set for coffee roasters, with Grade One being the best quality. The higher the altitude where they're grown, the hardier and better the coffee bean. Lastly, the beans are roasted."
"Did you tell her about the poisons you put on the plants?" demanded Florence from the entry.