Chapter 13 Lottie #2
“I’m more of a spectator,” I say quickly. I might be transmundane, but I am not brave enough to see what Blanche might do to my hair. I need my curls for emotional support.
“Suit yourself.” Blanche turns her attention to a woman waving frantically from under a dryer. “You move that pin one more time, Midge Thornbury, and I’m shaving your head. And I mean it.”
I follow her glare.
There, under one of the hood dryers, sits Midge, hands folded in her lap, curls meticulously pinned to her scalp like little golden coins. Even in foil and rollers, she radiates domestic goddess energy. I can’t help but frown.
A refreshment table beside the front window groans under the weight of finger sandwiches, deviled eggs, and, of course, a positively obscene amount of banana pudding. Day-glow orange banana pudding.
It’s a sea of Midge’s banana pudding, courtesy of Midge, and apparently, everyone’s invited.
I spot at least four dishes of the stuff, all glowing that mysterious color that has been haunting my professional baker soul for years.
Carlotta elbows me. “Looks like Banana Queen brought offerings to the hair gods.”
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure she traveled here on a chariot made of vanilla wafers,” I whisper back.
As if sensing she’s being discussed, Midge lifts her gaze and meets mine. Her smile flickers, then smooths back into place. I offer a polite wave, despite the fact that I’m not feeling all that polite.
The second Midge’s perfectly curled head turns my way, a truly horrifying realization slams into me. I still have her husband! Well, her husband in rock form—sitting in a cardboard box in the middle of my living room.
Bernard Thornbury. The pebble edition.
My stomach tries to exit through my toes.
Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.
Because nothing pairs better with a murder investigation than the knowledge that I am currently harboring a box of a woman’s pulverized spouse like it’s a decorative centerpiece.
For one wild second, I almost blurt out something catastrophically ill-timed like, “Hey, Midge! Speaking of curls, I’ve got your husband’s gravel on my coffee table!” Or, “Your husband is rocking out in my living room!” Or perhaps even better yet, “Your husband really ties the room together.”
But I clamp my mouth shut so hard my molars protest.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I’m not letting a box of haunted husband-rocks derail this investigation.
Bernard can wait. Preferably until the end of time.
Midge beams at me, blissfully unaware her beloved’s geological remains are lounging next to my TV remote, and I force myself to beam right back like I’m not one panicked heartbeat away from committing a felony involving a box of rocks.
Later. I’ll deal with Bernard later.
Mom shifts Ozzy to her hip and claps her hands like a cruise director. “All right, Daughters! Now that most of us are pinned, permed, and properly shellacked, let’s get this party officially started.”
The ambient hum of gossip dims. Even the hair dryers seem to hush.
Mom makes her way to the center of the salon, where Blanche has dragged a rolling stool to serve as a makeshift podium. Mom steps onto it, managing not to topple despite the fact she’s holding my squirmy son and wearing heels that look medically inadvisable.
Oh, good grief. She’s going to drop my sweet son on his head, and I’ll never hear the end of it from Everett—or myself. I dash over and relieve her of Glam Glam duties.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome to the first-ever Daughters of Honey Hollow Pin-Curl Pageant!” Her voice carries over the din with an authority that comes from decades of wrangling children, guests, and Suze.
She beams at the crowd, her pearl earrings catching the fluorescent light. “Today, we are honoring an essential pillar of 1950s femininity—the salon chair. The place where women gathered to share news, trade recipes, rehearse alibis—”
A smattering of laughter ripples through the room.
“And, of course, perfect their crowning glory.” Mom adjusts one of her own curls with her free hand. “This afternoon’s activities are all about a little friendly competition.”
“Oh, I love friendly competition,” Carlotta murmurs. “Almost as much as I love the unfriendly kind.”
“Each of you lovely ladies,” Mom goes on, “will be judged in five categories.” She raises a manicured finger with each one she lists.
“Best Vintage Pin-Curl Set. Smoothest Wave. Most Authentic 1950s Style. Fastest Roller Set.” She pauses to let the excited squeals run their course.
“And, of course, Best Use of Bobby Pins!”
Someone in the back whoops. “That’s a dangerous category!”
“You bet it is,” Mom says. “We will have no scalp injuries on my watch. Safety first, glam second.”
“Speak for yourself,” Blanche mutters, snapping a comb in half as if it insulted her mother.
Mom gives her a look and continues. “At the end of the afternoon, we’ll parade our finished looks for photos, prizes, and eternal bragging rights at every future casserole competition.”
The room erupts into enthusiastic chatter.
I take a spot near the front desk, settling into one of the squeaky waiting chairs with Ozzy. He roots around my chest, and I figure what the heck—if a full-blown Jell-O melee didn’t stop me earlier, I can certainly feed my son in a room full of women who’ve breastfed entire generations.
I tuck a light blanket over us, and Ozzy latches on with the ferocity of a starving man at a buffet. Lainey bounces Corbin on her shoulder near the dryers, and I have a brief, surreal moment where I realize my babies are being raised in a place that smells like Aqua Net and banana pudding.
Somehow, it feels right.
The stylists get to work in earnest. Brushes swish, dryers whoosh, curling irons sizzle. Women lean toward each other to gossip as Blanche barks orders like a drill sergeant.
“Loosen that curl, or she’ll look like a poodle!”
“No, the other side, unless you want her walking around like a crooked lampshade!”
“If I see one more limp wave, I’m sending you all back to beauty school!”
Lainey settles into a station next to the front window, letting a younger stylist named Roxy fuss with her already immaculate hair.
Keelie slips in a few minutes later, with her bright blue eyes, a brighter smile, and a yellow polka-dot dress topped off with fresh red lips.
“There she is!” she sings, dropping a kiss on my cheek.
Lainey hands Corbin over without hesitation.
Keelie scoops him up and grins. “Oh my goodness, look at these cheeks. I have regrets about leaving Little Bear with my mother-in-law.”
“Is Lyla Nell destroying the preschool?” I ask.
“Last I checked, she was negotiating for more graham crackers in exchange for not leading a mutiny.” Keelie laughs. “She told the teacher, and I quote, ‘This is my class now.’”
Carlotta swoons. “I’ve never loved the little yip yip more.”
I groan into Ozzy’s hair. “Perfect. My two-year-old is staging coups, and my grandmother’s society is turning Blanche’s salon into a war room. This can only end well.” I hope.
Mom claps again. “All right, ladies! Round one—Speed Set!”
Blanche makes a sweeping gesture and several Daughters leap out of their chairs like they’re storming Normandy, hair clips clenched between their teeth. Roxy spins Lainey’s chair toward the mirror with an excited squeal.
“In three minutes,” Mom announces, “you will put in as many curlers or pin curls as humanly possible. Points for symmetry and survival. Ready? Set… curl!”
Chaos.
Pure, pearly chaos.
Bobby pins fly like shrapnel. Brushes are wielded like weapons. Hair spray clouds form a low toxic fog over the battlefield.
Women shout out time checks, encouragement, and the occasional swear word dressed up as something wholesome.
“Sugar!”
“Fudge!”
“Son of a biscuit!”
Suze, naturally, takes the lead, moving with ruthless efficiency as she twists and pins her own hair in the mirror with one hand and directs another member’s set with the other.
Three minutes later, Mom calls time, and Blanche whirls through the stations, inspecting their work with the intensity of a bomb squad.
“You call that a part?”
“Those curls are first-degree felonies.”
“I’ve seen better sets on a poodle at the county groomer.”
The second round focuses on waves and smoothing—the “Don’t Move or You’ll Ruin Everything” portion of the event, as Mom puts it. The third round is all about accessories—scarves, flowers, decorative combs. The higher the hair, the closer to fabulous.
By the time the dryers shut off and the last bobby pin has been jammed into place, Blanche’s House of Hair looks like a 1950s pin-up convention has exploded.
Everywhere I look there are glossy waves, structured curls, scarlet lips, and fierce expressions that say yes, I did sleep in spiked rollers last night and I’d do it again.
Mom takes Corbin from Keelie, repositioning him on her hip as easily as if he weighs nothing. She gives a little hip bump to the stool-podium again and lifts the mic Blanche has produced from behind the counter.
“Daughters!” she calls. “We’re going to take a short refreshment break while Blanche and her team of hair magicians tally the scores. Help yourself to treats, chat, mingle, and please—do not lean back against anything. We do not want to see a single flattened curl.”
The salon breaks into smaller clusters around the refreshment table. I tuck myself near the end of the spread, balancing a plate with a tea sandwich and a small scoop of banana pudding because I refuse to let Midge win both in life and with my taste buds.
Carlotta materializes at my elbow with a heaping plate of deviled eggs. “You know,” she says, popping one into her mouth whole, “if Vivienne could see this right now, she’d be thrilled. Nothing says honor the dead like competitive hair and suspicious mayo.”
“I think Percy would approve,” I say.
“You bet your sweet bippy I approve,” a silky voice chimes in, and just like that, Percy materializes on top of the dryer nearest the refreshments with his spectral plumage fanned, glowing and smug, and well, invisible to everyone but me and Carlotta.
He cocks his head at the room. “Look at them. Perfect little soldiers in scarlet lipstick. Mother Vivi would be so proud. Red lipstick is rather like deviled eggs, dear—looks festive, hides a multitude of sins, and someone always regrets it by the end of the party.”
“Any chance you see our killer among the bumper bangs?” I whisper, pretending to rearrange the cookie platter.
“Patience, honey buns. Trapping a killer takes time.” He preens his luminous feathers. “Speaking of which, I see you’ve finally cornered Dolly Hatchett.”
I follow his gaze.
There, near the end of the table, Dolly stands in a sunny yellow dress that tries a little too hard to be cheerful.
Her red bouffant is coiffed to perfection, cat-eye glasses perched at the end of her nose, a plate of food in one hand and a cup of punch in the other.
She laughs at something Carlotta says, one hand fluttering to her chest in that oh my stars way that makes her seem too soft for murder.
Which probably means she’s perfectly capable of it.