Page 81 of Thankless in Death

“I see. Do you know what he might have wanted, what sort of products he might have come in for? Frankly, I hardly see why a suspected murderer would shop for enhancements or body products. We’re hardly a den of iniquity.”

“You recognized his face.”

“I told you I saw it on the media bulletin last night.”

Put it together, sister, Eve thought, but spelled it out.

“I bet a lot of other people did, too. A lot of people who might recognize him if, say, he walked into a deli for a freaking bowl of soup. So being the suspicious type I figure he might have enough brains to change his hair color.”

“Oh.” The manager took a deep breath that projected both annoyance and concern. “We should move into hair then. Perhaps one of our stylists can help you. That’s a lovely shade on you,” she said to Peabody, with a much warmer smile. “You shouldn’t be without it. Should I have it held for you?”

“Oh, I... it does look mag.”

“No.” Eve cut them both off. “I think, I don’t know, just spit-balling, but we should spend our time here trying to track down a murderer. Hair?”

“Of course.” The smile faded, the eyes chilled. “This way.”

She wound through the kiosks, the shelves, the customers who, like Peabody, played with samples or loaded up silver baskets with products they figured would make them sexier, prettier, softer, smoother, younger.

Feeling Peabody’s attention wander, Eve bared her teeth. Peabody quickened her pace.

“Marsella? I’d like you to help these women.”

“I’d love to.” Marsella, her short, sharp cap of raven black edged with candy pink, beamed a welcoming smile. “What a stellar and interesting cut,” she said to Eve. “So few could pull that off. I have a wonderful product that would punch out your highlights. And I love the casual day-do,” she said to Peabody. I bet you’d look mag in hot curls for an evening bounce. The home-care kit is incredibly easy to do. And you could—”

“Fascinating,” Eve interrupted in a tone that said otherwise. “But we’re more interested in him.”

She flashed the photo of Reinhold, and her badge.

“Oh. Oh.” Marsella shot a wide-eyed—smoked lids, heavily kohled—glance at her manager. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you recognize him?” Eve demanded.

“Well, yeah. I don’t understand,” she repeated.

“How do you recognize him?”

“From yesterday, when I served him. I don’t—”

“Understand,” Eve finished. “What time did you serve him?”

“Um, um. He came in maybe around one-thirty. I’m not sure, but it was right after I got back from lunch.”

“I need your surveillance discs from yesterday. Open till close.” After ordering the manager, Eve turned back to Marsella. “Do you remember what you... served him?”

“Tropical Blond Hair Color, with a caramel lowlights add-on kit, Drenched shampoo and conditioner—color bond—the Master of Your Own deluxe styling kit.”

She rattled them off as if itemized in her head.

“He wanted other products from other sections, so I stuck with him, recommended the Sun Blast Bronzer—face and body in number four. Um... the Solie Quench, again face and body, and the Lightning Blue Eye kit by Francesco. He wanted the top of the line. I suggested he apply for the store credit service, which would give him ten percent off on his purchases, but he wanted to pay cash.”

She bit her lip. “I offered him the free consult, and recommended Aly do his eye change here on site for a very reasonable fee, but he blew that off. If done incorrectly, it can cause swelling or redness, but he insisted on pay and go. He signed the waiver, so if he had a problem, I don’t understand why he called the police.”

“Don’t watch much screen, Marsella? Don’t keep up with current events?”

“I’ve been pretty busy. My sister and her fam’s coming in for Thanksgiving, and I’m helping my mother... Why?”

“If you had I think you’d recognize him from media reports. His name is Jerald Reinhold, and he killed three people in the last couple days.”