Hide nor Hair (A Jersey Girl Cozy Mystery Book 2) Read online

  I had been freelancing for the paper for nearly a year. Ken Rhodes, the executive editor, promised me a full-time position after my last big story. It had yet to come to fruition. I received a spanking new cell phone to replace the one I had drowned along with my car in the bay, a small raise per story, my own crime column, and nothing more.

  “I heard you found a body,” said Meredith Mancini, the sweet-faced young Special Sections editor. She sat at her desk inside a tiny, claustrophobic cubicle.

  “Kate and I both found it,” I told her. “Dizzie Oliver. Can you imagine?”

  “Was it a robbery?” Meredith asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But who would want to kill Dizzie Oliver? I didn’t know her that well, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting her dead.”

  Dizzie Oliver’s death seemed to be the only subject of interest in the newsroom. Most of us knew her, or at least the women did. There were only two salons in town, and Dizzie’s was the better of the two. She was in her early thirties, nice looking on the days she hadn’t been heavy-handed with her makeup, and had a very big mouth. She tended to ramble on and on about whatever the main topic of conversation happened to be on any given day. She could be coarse at times, and downright crass if the conversation warranted it. Clients tended to overlook Dizzie’s outrageous personality, just as they ignored her exotic taste in clothes and her penchant for in-your-face expensive jewelry—particularly her huge, hoop earrings and her preference for wearing at least ten bracelets on her left wrist every day. The most notable piece she wore was always on her right wrist, the 18-karat gold Paloma Picasso Calife bracelet that she had bought for herself at Tiffany’s. She never hesitated to tell anyone how much she paid for the shiny bauble—a mere eleven thousand dollars. That level of extravagance was just Dizzie being Dizzie. She never misrepresented herself. She was genuine, and she certainly knew hair.

  “Could she have died from natural causes?” Meredith asked me.

  “Beats me,” I admitted. “I mean, the police blocked off access to the salon with crime scene tape. We found Dizzie facedown in a sink filled with water. It could be a murder, though I suppose she could have had a heart attack or something and fell into the sink. She’d have to be pretty determined to commit suicide that way, don’t you think?”

  “She seemed a little young for a heart attack,” Meredith said.

  Margaret Allen came up the aisle and paused in front of Meredith’s cubicle. “Anything new?” Meredith asked her.

  “Zilch,” Margaret said. “The police aren’t saying anything.” The beat reporter looked at me. “Any chance it was an accident?”

  An accident? It was something I hadn’t considered. “How could she accidentally submerge her head in a sink filled with water?”

  Mark Dorn, the sports editor who occupied the cubicle next to Meredith’s, offered an interesting theory.

  “Suppose she filled the sink for some purpose and accidentally slipped, hit her head, and fell in. She might have knocked herself out cold. If she was facedown, she would have breathed in water and drowned.”

  I supposed it could happen. Still, that possibility didn’t feel right to me.

  “Why would Dizzie fill the sink? Even if she had a heart attack or a stroke or whatever, why was the sink filled? And why would she be kneeling on a chair?”

  “To reach something on a shelf or in a cabinet above the sink?” Meredith suggested.

  “Kneeling on a chair won’t make you tall enough to reach something high up,” I told her. “Those chairs are low. They actually make you shorter if you kneel on them. It’s much easier to stand between the sinks to reach something up high.”

  “If this chick didn’t have a heart attack, she was murdered,” Meredith said.

  I looked over to Ken Rhodes’s office. The door was open, and from where I stood, I could see the executive editor leaning back in his chair, talking on the phone.

  “I think I’ll go see the boss,” I said, leaving the crowded cubicle.

  I could feel Margaret Allen’s glare. Though she was the beat reporter, my function at the paper, in addition to writing various freelance articles, was as a crime columnist. I knew Margaret and I would both be covering Dizzie Oliver’s death, but my account would be from a different perspective. I had the good—or bad—fortune to have discovered the body.

  Ken Rhodes lifted an index finger to signal me to wait when I appeared in his doorway. I glanced at the clock over his door, pretending to be interested in the time and not the least bit in his phone conversation. He hung up before I could get the gist of the chat.

  “You can drop the act and come in,” he called out.

  Ken had the uncanny ability to see right through me—just one of his many annoying attributes. Others included his God complex and his incredible good looks. The fact that he was in his forties and, at least in my opinion, middle-aged, didn’t matter in the least. I was teetering right on the edge of falling for the guy, and it wasn’t because I was newly single and looking for revenge for my ex-husband’s infidelity. Ken Rhodes intrigued me—his gruffness, his style, and, though I hated myself for admitting it, his money, too.

  At times I thought the attraction was mutual—the looks he gave me sent shivers through my body, and he had a habit of turning up when I was in a pinch. But then he’d abruptly turn stoic and silent on me, and I would decide the feelings were only one-sided. I always felt like a naïve schoolgirl in his presence, which never failed to irritate me. I usually dealt with him by going on the defensive.

  I took a seat in front of his neat, all-things-in-order desk. “What act?” I asked.

  “Making believe you were checking out the time and not listening in to see who I was talking to on the phone.”

  “Why should I care who you were talking to?” I tried to sound nonchalant about the whole thing and leaned back in the chair in an effort to look relaxed. When I crossed my legs, one of my green flip-flops flew off my foot and hit his desk with a dull thud. Somehow, I never managed to be anything but my klutziest self in Ken’s presence.

  He smiled. “Did you want something?”

  “I’d like a decent job,” I began as I tried to gracefully lean forward and retrieve my wayward footgear. “Then maybe I’d like a life, straight hair, a jackpot-winning Powerball ticket …”

  “The job part is coming, Colleen. You’ll just have to figure out the rest for yourself.”

  “I was working on the straight hair thing this morning. It didn’t happen.”

  “I can see that,” he said.

  I self-consciously ran my fingers through my curls. “I have a column ready, but I’ll probably have to go with the obvious and write about Dizzie Oliver’s death first.”

  “What’s the other column about?”

  “Those fake PBA donation calls,” I told him.

  For the past few weeks, Tranquil Harbor residents had been receiving phone solicitations from the local Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association. As it turned out, the local PBA never called contributors. They always mailed out donation requests to cut down on fraud.

  “Go with the hairdresser story,” he said. “We can always run the PBA one next week.”

  “How would you like me to proceed with Dizzie’s death?”

  Ken and I had at least one thing in common. We were both cynical, and our musings on things like dead bodies tended to follow the same pattern. “Could it have been an accident? Was she murdered? Did she have any enemies?” he asked.

  “Dizzie was outgoing in her own way,” I told him. “She also had a big mouth. Not that she was malicious; she just gave her opinion without reservation. At times she could be a little obnoxious. I doubt she had enemies, though I understand Trina Cranford wasn’t exactly lovey-dovey with her.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “She owns the other hair salon on Bay Boulevard—Trina’s Tresses.”

  “Never heard of it,” Ken said. “Never saw it either.”

  “You’re a guy. You woul
dn’t have noticed the place if it bit you in the butt. Besides, her shop is five blocks down from where you live. It’s not like the place stares you in the face every time you step outside your building.”

  “Why didn’t this Trina person like Dizzie Oliver?” he asked.

  “Because as crass as Dizzie is, or rather was, she knew hair. Trina Cranford only knows how to charge a fortune, and her stylists aren’t very handy with a pair of scissors. They also overbook and pretend they’re a cutting-edge salon, so to speak, but they stink. I wouldn’t go there.”

  “But you will, my dear. Make an appointment at Trina’s Tresses to get your curls uncurled, or whatever it is they do to get that desired Morticia Addams look.”

  “You mean straightened?” I guessed.

  “Yeah, straightened.”

  “No way,” I protested. “They’re awful, and I heard they charge an arm and a leg. The only reason I made the appointment with Dizzie to get my hair done was because Kate was treating me. She won’t if I go to Trina’s, and I’m not made of money, you know.”

  “Make the appointment and ask specifically for the Cranford woman. The paper will foot the bill. Tell her you’re doing a story on hair straightening and ask questions. Lead the conversation around to Dizzie Oliver. See if you think she hated Dizzie enough to drown her.”

  Even with the paper paying for the pricey procedure, I didn’t like the idea of Trina Cranford messing with my curls. I knew Dizzie wouldn’t have let me walk out the door unless I looked picture-perfect. “What if Trina ruins my hair?” I asked.

  “It’ll grow back.”

  Frustrated as usual after an exchange with Rhodes, I left his office and returned to Meredith’s cubicle. “I guess Dizzie Oliver will be your next column?” she asked.

  “I’ll write up something tonight and get it to Ken in the morning. But he did say I can do a feature on Trina’s Tresses for your Special Section next week.”

  “The folks in advertising are going to love you guys for this. We’re going to need Trina Cranford to take out bigger ads. God knows Dizzie’s advertising days are over.”

  I hadn’t even thought of that. “We’re nothing but a bunch of mercenaries,” I mumbled. “Meanwhile, a few more stories wouldn’t hurt the old bank balance.”

  Meredith flipped through a small stack of papers on her desk and pulled one out from the middle of the pile. “In that case, I have an interesting assignment for you.”

  I read the paper and felt all the color drain from my face.

  “Oh, come on! We’ve postponed this story for months. It’s only flying lessons,” Meredith said. “You don’t have to actually fly the plane, for God’s sake! Just go for the ride and take some notes. The kids around here are itching to get their wings, and half their parents are, too. You’ll be supplying our readership with practical, invaluable information, and you’ll make a paying advertiser extremely happy—not to mention the money-obsessed androids across the room in accounting.”

  “I can’t do this,” I told her, trying to give the paper back. “Really. I just can’t. The idea of being up in the sky in a tiny little plane scares me to death. Please. Give this to someone else—anyone else.”

  “There is no one else,” Meredith told me, refusing to take back the assignment. “The three other stringers are all busy. You’re it, Colleen. Sorry.”

  I shoved the paper into my purse. “Fine. Great. I want flowers at my wake. Lots of them. I’m partial to pink carnations.”

  “Will do,” Meredith said, waving me off.

  There was no need to hang around the office. I headed for my car and met up with Ken Rhodes out in the parking lot.

  “Where are you off to?” I asked, eyeing the new, extravagant silver BMW X5 SUV he was about to climb into with more than a touch of envy.

  “Lunch with the publishers. I hate these things. They start early, end late, and I always have indigestion by the time I get back to the office,” he told me.

  Poor guy, I thought, rushing off in a gorgeous new car for a freebie lunch. I’d sell one of my kids for his troubles.

  I got into my mother’s red Nissan and drove straight to one of the few people in the world I knew I could vent to and depend on—my best friend.

  * * *

  “I found a body today,” I told Bevin Thompson, my best friend and across-the-street neighbor.

  “Who was it this time?” she asked, as if I routinely found bodies.

  “Dizzie Oliver. I told you I was going there with Kate to get my hair straightened. We walked into the salon early this morning and found Dizzie floating in a sink filled with water.”

  “I heard about it on News 12,” Bevin said. “That was you? They said two patrons discovered a stylist dead inside an exclusive hair salon in Tranquil Harbor. I figured it was either Dizzie’s salon or Trina’s. Too bad it turned out to be Dizzie. At least she knew her way around a head of hair. Dear Lord! What’s this world coming to?”

  “I’m writing it up for my column. I have two other assignments, then that’s about it until the end of the month. If I don’t go full time pretty soon, you’ll see me sitting outside the train station in Matawan selling chewed-up pencils to commuters.”

  “You got a nice settlement from the divorce,” she reminded me. “Where’s all the money going?”

  “I’m trying to live within my means,” I explained. “Unfortunately my means seem to come up a little short now and then.”

  My divorce had been finalized only two months before. My ex had been in charge of the finances throughout our marriage, which left me completely clueless about budgeting and bill paying. Though I was far from destitute, a good portion of the settlement money was tied up in stocks, bonds, and retirement accounts. I had felt a cash-flow crunch on several occasions over the past few weeks.

  “There are plenty of ways to make more money if you’re strapped for funds,” she told me.

  We sat inside her sunroom, where Bevin did most of her work. She was a good enough artist to actually make a comfortable living selling her landscapes. Her work differed from most artists in that the scenes she painted were more melancholy than serene. That air of despondency attracted interest in her work and, more importantly, buyers. Bevin’s easel stood at an angle to catch the last of the morning light coming from the east. She wore a smock splotched with dots and dribbles of color, Jackson Pollock-like, though the canvas only revealed a dull gray sky and what looked like a dirt floor toward the bottom. She kept referring to a photograph shoved between tubes of Van Dyke brown and titanium white.

  “Of course there are ways to make extra cash. But it’s not like I could go out on the street to sell my body. We both know I’d probably starve to death.” I smiled. “The only talent I have to depend on is writing.”

  Bevin put her palette aside and awkwardly pushed her stunning red hair away from her face with the heel of her hand. Her fingers, I noticed, were smeared with paint.

  “You seem to be forgetting you only freelance for the Town Crier. You’re not a permanent employee. Try some of the other newspapers and a few magazines. Query them. Send out feelers.”

  “Is that ethical?”

  “Ethical?” Bevin frowned and tossed her brush in a can of something that smelled like turpentine. I knew she considered the question absurd. “Is it ethical that you were promised a full-time position and it didn’t happen? Or that you’re broke by the end of the month and you’re newly single, with two kids to feed and a house to run? Stop with the loyalty crap. Try the Crier’s competition. It’s not like you’re selling government secrets. You need to take care of yourself!”

  Married three times, divorced twice, and with her present marriage in ruins, Bevin considered ethical behavior a complete waste of time. She believed in making her own opportunities, occasional drunkenness, and, when necessary, doing whatever it took to get ahead. Bevin caught on fast when it came to life lessons. I had always been more of a slow learner.

  “I’m not like you, Bev. It
wouldn’t seem fair.”

  She grabbed a rag off her supply table and scrubbed at her stained fingers. Even smudged with paint, her fingers looked delicate and refined. What came out of her mouth was anything but ladylike. “I never saw anyone who bends over backwards to do the right thing the way you do, Colleen. All you’ve ever gotten for it is a good, swift kick in the butt! For God’s sake, break some rules!”

  “As if I know what the rules are,” I said.

  “Think back to when you were a kid. Everything your mother told you not to do, go out and do it.”

  “I’ll consider it,” I lied, knowing I never would. It wasn’t only loyalty to the newspaper. I knew I would miss interacting with my colleagues: Meredith Mancini, Willy Rojas, and Ken Rhodes—most especially Rhodes. “Meanwhile, I have to write up a column tonight about Dizzie. I can’t imagine what I’m going to say. Does anyone really want to read about my pitiful attempt at mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?”

  “I would,” Bev said. “I should think everyone in town would. The follow-up on this will be fantastic! People will be asking how Dizzie died and under what circumstances. You’ll get a month’s worth of columns out of this alone. And your position at the paper is bound to improve because of it. Of course, you’ll have to interview that cretin husband of hers.”

  “And just how am I going to do that?”

  “You need to talk to him one-on-one. Use your imagination. How about a bad air conditioner? How’s your condenser?”

  “Fine, thank you,” I said. “How’s yours? What, exactly, is a condenser anyway?”

  “It’s the thing that cools down your house,” Bevin said.

  The air inside Bev’s house felt cool and dry, as opposed to my own house, which felt like south Florida in August. “It’s a steam bath over at my place.”

  “I thought Neil was supposed to get that fixed as part of your settlement.”

  “He’s been a little slow on the follow-through.”

  “So first we call your lawyer. She’ll squeeze the money out of Neil to fix your central air. They don’t call her Nut Cracker Maynard for nothing.”