KillerHair
Chapter 25
There was an air of anticipation about Boyd Radford’s memorial service. The little black dress was out in abundance on the sunny Tuesday morning at eleven a.m., creating a surrealistic cocktail-party atmosphere. Whether the stylists thought it was appropriate mourning attire or they simply were celebrating Radford’s demise, Lacey didn’t know, but she enjoyed the not-quite-Washington ambience.
It certainly felt like old home week at Evergreens Mortuary, the place of Lacey’s last sighting of Angela Woods a few short weeks before. Unlike Angela, Boyd Radford was not on display. His body had been released from the medical examiner’s office and cremated as soon as possible, per the request of his heirs. Approximately seven pounds of his lingering earthly remains occupied a plastic sack in an empty shampoo carton until Josephine could select a tasteful silver urn. For now, he resided in the trunk of his ex-Jaguar, next to his ex-golf clubs.
Many of the stylists were disappointed at this turn of events. They wanted to see him dead, or at least to witness the reassuring testimony of a coffin. Instead, the mourners were all handed a brochure titled In Memoriam featuring Radford’s last professional photograph, which unfortunately emphasized his rodentlike features, a tally of accomplishments, personal testimonials, and a listing of all twenty-five salons with phone numbers, presumably to keep on the refrigerator as a handy reference. Lacey was surprised it didn’t include a Stylettos magnet for the refrigerator door in the shape of the high-heeled scissors logo.
Lacey stood in the back of the chapel with Stella on one side and Michelle on the other. The wig felt like a hot bathing cap with hair. In her somber outfit of black beret, Stylettos smock, black skirt, tights, and sunglasses, she looked identical to at least half a dozen other stylists. Stella and Michelle shepherded Lacey like a lost lamb. Their cover story was that Stella’s new stylist, “Claudette,” had laryngitis and was under strict doctor’s orders not to speak. Every time they said it, “Claudette” rolled her eyes, which, of course, were covered.
No one questioned why “Claudette” wore sunglasses. Stella also wore shades and had encouraged others to wear them as a special sign of respect for Ratboy. “They’ll think we’ve been crying,” she explained. “With joy,” added Michelle, behind her Ray-Bans.
The widow Radford was so grief stricken she had to employ Vic Donovan as a bodyguard. At least until Boyd’s killer was caught. That’s what she told Donovan, and that’s what Donovan had told Lacey when he called Monday to reemphasize that she was not wanted, invited, or expected at the service. When will he learn I cannot be ordered around?
As Vic escorted Josephine up the aisle, he stared at Lacey hard and long, making her nervous. He looked slightly puzzled and she was glad for the sunglasses. Vic shrugged as Josephine’s hand closed over his arm with a gentle squeeze of ownership. They took their seats in the front row.
The raven-haired mistress of Stylettos wore a plain black silk dress with a square neckline outlined in magenta piping. The matching princess coat had a band of magenta around the bottom of wide bell sleeves. Josephine also chose a close-fitting hat, worn on the crown of her head above the sleek black chignon. Large diamond earrings and the simple wedding band, retrieved from the bottom of her jewelry box for the occasion, were her only jewelry. She accessorized with black patent leather pumps. Josephine’s face bore no obvious signs of tears or lamentations, only a stately solemnity. She played the part of the bereaved widow so well that to mention the divorce would be gauche. Her demeanor suggested a queen in full command of the whole royal shebang.
“She really knows how to dress for a funeral,” Lacey admitted grudgingly.
“She’s been planning that outfit ever since the divorce,” Stella said. “Maybe since the wedding.”
On Josephine’s right arm she wore Donovan, the perfect accessory. The sorrow of losing her ex-husband evidently required the tall, handsome Vic to console her. Lacey felt a pang seeing them together. The fox and the hound.
They made a stunning couple, and Vic even wore a beautifully tailored navy suit, a pale blue shirt, and a subdued striped tie. It was a look Lacey had never seen him in.
Nevertheless, Lacey had to appreciate Josephine’s knack for keeping Vic under her control. Other women might lack the financial upper hand, but Josephine was not embarrassed to use that strategy. Shouldn’t take too long, Lacey thought, and it made her sadder than she expected. Josephine was older than Vic, but still a striking woman. And for all his fine law-enforcement skills, he was a dope about the fairer sex. After all, he knew nothing when it came to Lacey.
She also spotted Tony Trujillo, who was representing The Eye Street Observer. He knew Lacey without a moment’s hesitation, smiled and gave her a thumbs-up sign. She looked away.
The crowd milled around for half an hour. Then the organist began playing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” which saved the day. People took seats and the program began. The head accountant for Stylettos, a small, wizened man in oversized spectacles with age spots on his bald head, opened the event with an account of Radford’s little-known charity work.
“Tax dodge,” Stella said.
Josephine apparently was too overwrought to address the multitudes of little people who kept the cash registers full. But Beau Radford was scheduled to speak. He stood to Josephine’s left, and he had also spruced up for the occasion, in an oversized black suit, which must have belonged to Boyd. The white shirt was likewise too large; the French cuffs, fastened with gaudy gold cuff links, fell to his knuckles. His only personal affectation was a blazing blue tie, featuring the cartoon emblem of Superman. He was still wearing the ponytail.
“His hair looks darker and thicker,” Lacey whispered.
“Yeah, he must be dyeing it. Thickens the hair shaft,” Stella said.
“Looks like he curled it.”
“Maybe Josephine permed it,” Michelle added.
Josephine fussed with Beau’s suit before he got up to speak. She glared at his tie. She whispered in French, but it didn’t seem to faze him.
Mild-mannered Beau informed the crowd he would be running the company, along with his mother, as stipulated by the will. He promised to make his old man proud. Beau quietly stepped away from the podium just as Leonardo flew into the hall, looking like a wild man. He was puffy faced, red eyed, and disheveled, his hair matted and sweaty. He had thrown on a dirty black trench coat over a black T-shirt and wrinkled black jeans. Stella shot him a dirty look as he threw himself down next to them.
“Leo, you’re late and you’re a mess!” Stella whispered. Leo glanced blankly at Lacey. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong? I’ve just spent four hours being interrogated by the goddamn cops!” His voice was piercing and several rows of mourners turned to look at him. “They think I did it. They think I killed Boyd!” Leonardo’s voice soared higher and louder. His diction had slipped back into his old neighborhood. This was no longer the smooth, professional Leonardo, star stylist, but a desperate Leonard Karpinski from Queens, New York. He had everyone’s attention, and people began to stand and crane their necks to get a better view.
“But why do they think that?” Claudette asked, forgetting her laryngitis.
“How the hell do I know? ’Cause the cops are idiots!”
Donovan crossed the room like a freight train. He locked an arm around Leo’s bicep and lifted him out of his loafers.
“You were told not to come.” Two plainclothes Arlington cops were right behind him, and two of Vic’s employees moved to screen Josephine.
“You can’t keep me out! I belong here.”
“Do you want everyone to know you were fired yesterday?” Vic’s voice was low and dangerous. A ripple of excitement pulsed through the crowd.
“Fired?” Stella blurted. “Leo, but why?”
“Leo knows why,” Vic said.
“I can explain about that shampoo warehouse shit. Josephine! I have to talk to Josephine. She knows what was going down there. Josephine, you gotta give me my job back!” Leo tried to escape Vic’s grasp, but Vic marched him out of the room in an armlock.
“This is insane. I’ll sue! You’ll be sorry. Josephine, you gotta tell them!” The Arlington cops pulled the chapel door shut behind them, but Leo had succeeded in stopping the proceedings in their tracks. Vic returned alone and the organ began again. It was too late. The crowd was on its feet. Nothing was going to get them back in their chairs now.
“So Leo was the shampoo bandit?” Lacey whispered to Stella through the excited buzz of the crowd. “Vic must have caught him and Radford fired him. But what’s Josephine got to do with it?”
“What doesn’t she have to do with? You think Leo killed Boyd for her?” Stella said. “Jeez, I never had Leo as Suspect Number One.”
The mysterious “George” had failed to appear, at least under that name. Stella had checked the signatures in the book at the door. Could Leonardo be “George”? Lacey wondered. But why would Leonardo want to buy long hair? And what about the videotape?
As the service broke up prematurely, Lacey kept her eye on Vic and Josephine, who in turn had her big imploring eyes on Vic. Lacey could only guess what she was saying to him in that mellifluous French-accented voice. Something like: “You cannot leave me alone, you big handsome American man, I am so afraid. Make love to me.”
Sex is always the answer in French movies, Lacey lamented. She lost sight of them as she and Stella drifted with the crowd out of the chapel into the lobby, which had doors leading to viewing rooms. The smell of flowers mingled with waxen death while large fans kept the air circulating.
“You coming to the reception, ‘Claudette’?” Stella asked. “You still up for it?”
“So far, so good. I’ll just get my car and meet you—”
“Could I see your invitation, ‘Claudette’?” From behind her, Vic clamped a hand on Lacey’s arm and very firmly steered her away from the others.
“Oh, man!” Stella squeaked. “Busted!”
Vic dragged Lacey into one of the Colonial viewing rooms. It was empty except for the lone occupant, an elderly man in his coffin. She shook Vic’s hand off and rubbed her arm.
“Oww. You bully. Save your armlocks for Leo.”
“I don’t believe you’d pull a stunt like this! After I expressly told you not to come, at the specific request of the family.”
“Ex-family. I’m sure she has lots of special requests for you, Vic. Just how many gatecrashers will you toss out?”
“As many as I have to, Lacey.”
“It’s ‘Claudette.’ ”
“Whatever your name is, you’re not welcome here.”
“Vic, is it true? Leo killed Radford? And what about Tammi and Angie? What about the scandal angle? Boyd was on the missing tape.”
“Lacey, stop playing detective. Please.”
“I’m not playing anything, Vic Donovan,” she snapped. “I am a reporter and my life was threatened.”
His eyes narrowed. He looked dangerous. “Unless you want to be threatened again, I suggest you stay away from that reception. It’s a private affair.”
Affair being the operative word. “I bet.”
“If I so much as suspect you are on the premises, I’ll find you, handcuff you, and throw you in the Jeep until Labor Day.”
Promises, promises. Lacey backed up and nearly fell into the open casket, catching herself just in time to avoid the cold embrace of a very dead octogenarian. She glared at Vic. She noted the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not going. I hope you’re happy.”
He took one long look at her, lifted an eyebrow, turned on his heel, and left.
“I still want those photos, Donovan!”
He kept walking. She adjusted her beret and returned to the hall in time to see Vic lecturing a defiant Stella and a sullen Michelle. The crowd was thinning. Lacey noticed Beau standing in an alcove with his mother. Josephine reached out her hand to straighten a flyaway strand of her son’s hair. Beau slapped her hand and laughed. Josephine sighed and looked away.
Lacey had had enough of Vic, Josephine, Beau, and “Claudette.” She needed the safety of her Z. But first she had to make it past the line of photographers outside the funeral home. The media apparently had caught up with the connection between dead stylists and Boyd Radford. She spotted Todd Hansen, who had been sent by Mac. With sunglasses in place, she walked briskly past them. If only she could get away without anyone else unmasking her or ripping her wig off, or making her feel even smaller.
Too late. Trujillo caught up with her just outside the door. “Pretty good show, don’t you think? How do you like your friend Leonardo as a suspect? By the way, Mac told me you called in sick. You’re not fooling anyone.”
She strode past Radford’s silver Jaguar and wondered if Vic was chauffeuring Josephine in it now. She didn’t want to wait to see. Next to the Jag was Beau’s red Camaro, cluttered with air fresheners instead of dice. She watched four men climb into a van across the street, black with smoked windows. They had attended the service and all wore black suits and sunglasses. Could that be Agent Thorn? Marcia hadn’t shown up, but apparently the special prosecutor was still on the job.
Trujillo was at her heels. “So, what’s your angle?”
She whirled on him. “I’m researching what a story-stealing snake wears to a rat’s funeral.” She took in his choice of wardrobe. “Apparently the snake wears a charcoal-gray silk-blend suit with a black linen shirt and a black-and-turquoise silk tie.” She had to admit that Trujillo looked very hot. “And snakeskin boots, perfect for a snake.”
“Glad you like them.” He was not offended. “By the way, great disguise. Very exotic.”
“If it’s so great, how on earth did you know me?”
“I’ve seen those movie-star specs before. I’m your biggest fan. Can I have your autograph?”
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