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CHAPTER 17
Allure Salon was buzzing with conversation as Johnson and Thomas entered. Three of the four stations along the wall were occupied, the acrid scent of some hair dye tinging the air. A manicurist’s chair at a small table was empty, tiny bottles of colorful polish glinting under the lights.
The first beautician was clipping an older woman’s gray pixie cut, the second applying goop to hair that she wrapped in pieces of aluminum foil. Celeste Margrove’s area was near the back of the salon. She was taking payment from a client who was chatting up a storm about her plans for Christmas and what a “nightmare” her sister-in-law’s family was.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know how I’ll get through it.” The thirtysomething with streaked blond hair and tinted glasses was nodding but, as the police approached, glanced nervously at them as she handed Celeste a credit card. “Be sure to put a tip on there—the usual.” She made a sweeping motion with her hand. “Fifteen percent.”
“Got it,” Celeste said, but it took her several swipes of the card before she could finish the transaction. “Call me about your next appointment.”
“After the first of the year,” the client with streaked blond hair and tinted glasses said as she pulled a puffy coat from the rack on the wall, pulled out a pair of gloves from a deep pocket and hurried out.
The other two clients and their stylists stared at the detectives in the reflection of the mirror that lined the wall over the sinks. Conversation died to the point Thomas heard the smooth jazz playing from speakers mounted high overhead. The beauticians stopped working.
That’s the effect cops had on people—innocent or guilty. Everyone froze. No more snipping. No more applying the dye. No more conversation.
Thomas and Johnson made their way to the last station, where Celeste, too, had stopped talking and was watching them. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Celeste Margrove?” Thomas said quietly. “I’m Detective Thomas and this is my partner, Detective Johnson.” They showed their badges.
“Is there something wrong?” Her expression had shifted to one of concern.
“It’s your husband,” Johnson said. “Merritt.”
“Oh, Lord.” Celeste’s face drained of color. “No . . . oh, no,” she whispered, shaking her head, tears springing to her eyes. “Oh, no, no, no.”
Thomas asked, “Is there somewhere private where we can talk?”
“Oh, God. Jesus, no,” she whispered, tears running from her eyes, mascara streaking her cheeks. “I knew it, I just knew it. Something’s happened to him. Something awful. Is he going to be all right? In the hospital? What?” Her chin wobbled and the nearest stylist dropped her scissors on the counter and came to give her colleague a hug.
“Maybe you should go in the back room,” one of the stylists suggested. She was a pretty woman with streaked hair, worried blue eyes and a kind smile. “Roxanne and I can handle things.”
“But–but I have more clients. Belva . . . Uh, Mrs. Hightower and then . . . God, I think it’s Heidi Willis or . . .”
“Got it,” Roxanne, the woman who was working with the aluminum foil, said. In her fifties, with white hair and an easy grace, she glanced back at Celeste. “Seriously, Celeste. Donna and I can handle everything.” She managed a smile that was full of empathy and locked eyes with the other beautician. “I’ll reschedule her. For . . . sometime next week. And the others. They’re booked online.”
Celeste leaned hard on the back of the chair.
“You can talk back here,” Donna said, motioning to the cops and opening a door markedEMPLOYEES ONLY.Celeste didn’t protest, and Donna ushered them into a tiny back area filled with a stacked washer and dryer, baskets of folded towels and boxes of hair products. Wedged by the back door was a coffeepot and two folding chairs, and another door with a unisex sign indicating a bathroom. “We’re right out here if you need us,” she said, her eyes holding Celeste’s. “Okay?”
“Yeah. I-I’ll be fine.” But Celeste steadied herself against the dryer.
“What happened? Where’s Merritt?” she asked, as Donna returned to the main salon and closed the door discreetly behind her.
“We’re sorry,” Johnson said. “For your loss.”
“Sorry . . . For . . .” Celeste seemed confused.
Thomas said gently, “He’s gone.”
“Gone?” she repeated, but understanding crossed her features. Her face fell. “You mean he’s gone as in . . . as in dead? You’re saying that he’s not hurt somewhere, that he didn’t have a heart attack and is at the hospital and—”
“He was found today in the mobile home in the mountains,” Johnson said directly. “He’d been murdered.”
“Oh.” She gasped, all remaining color draining from her face. “Murdered?” And then it hit. Her entire body crumpled as she dropped into one of the folding chairs and let out an animal cry of pain. “Ooowwww-ooo...no, no, no!” Tears flooded her eyes and she dashed them away, using the back of her hand. “Damn it.” She sniffed. “I just knew something like this would happen,” she squeaked, and found a box of tissues near the coffeepot. She plucked one and blew her nose. “How many times did I tell Merritt to give it up, that the Jonas McIntyre case would kill him? Huh? How many?” She dabbed ferociously at her eyes.
“You think someone connected to the case killed him?”
“Well, who else? He lived and breathed that case for twenty damned years.”