you know Angie very well?”
“Are you going to quote me?” Leonardo thought for a moment, weighing each word, calculating its effect. “We were close, so close. It’s hard to talk about.” He paused and didn’t seem at all embarrassed by his previous comments.
Josephine swooped by and placed her hand on Leonardo’s shoulder. “Come, cherí. I need you.” Leonardo dragged himself away from the table, tossing “It’s so tragic,” over his shoulder. Lacey watched Josephine latch on to him and lead him away.
“Thick as thieves, those two,” Stella said.
“What did he mean when he said Marcia should have been his?” Lacey asked.
“Marcia actually had an appointment with Leonardo the first time she came in,” Jamie explained. “But he was sick with Virginia Beach fever.” Jamie rolled her eyes. “He’s the one who called in sick, but he wouldn’t even speak to Angie after she gave Marcia that great makeover and got her picture in all the papers. He is so not funny.”
“Whatever,” Stella said. “Marcia’s lawyer and her mother, who is a close friend of Josephine Radford’s, told Miss Robinson not to show her face to the cameras until she tamed that mop and lost a few pounds. Josephine wanted her star Leo to take care of her. As a special favor. No one thought it would be a big deal, so he played hooky. Anyway, with Leo out I gave Marcia to Angie. The rest is in the newspapers. Leonardo never forgave Angie for getting a break.”
Jamie nodded her agreement. “Or for being more talented than him. I thought it was totally cool that Angie was recognized for what she did, because all the big celebrity stylists are men.” She made a face. “You ever notice that? That is so . . . you know?” The younger stylist leaned forward. “So, are you going to write something about the funeral, Lacey?”
“Of course she’s going to write something,” Stella said. “She just has to think about it first.” Stella tapped her manicured fingers on the table. “So what do you think, Lacey?”
“I think it’s time for me to go.” Lacey picked up her purse and stood up. Jamie took a roll and tore it into little pieces.
“You know, it’s kind of funny, but Angie’s death was just like that game we play, Stella. You know the one,” Jamie whispered. “Salon of Death.”
Stella sighed. “No, it’s not.”
“Excuse me?” Lacey perked up. “Salon of Death?”
“Yeah, it is, kind of. Of course we don’t play Salon of Suicide. Just murder.”
Lacey perched on the edge of the table and took a petit four off Stella’s plate. “Tell me about the game, Jamie.”
Stella jumped in. “It has nothing to do with anything.”
“I want to hear it, especially if it has nothing to do with anything,” Lacey insisted.
Stella shrugged. “If you think the wig heads are creepy, you’ll love this.”
Jamie picked up all the bread pieces and balled them together in her fist, then rolled the ball around in her fingers. “Sometimes it gets really boring, right? So one day we just sort of started talking and everything, about how easy it would be to kill someone in the salon. There’s lots of ways. Mostly we talked about how—actually it’s Ratboy we kill. Once in a while Josephine, or a real irritating client like Sherri Gold. But anyway, Salon of Death is our imaginary board game, like Clue. Clue has these cute little plastic murder weapons? In Salon of Death you could have cute little plastic scissors and blow-dryers and shampoo bowls and stuff.” Jamie paused for breath and took a sip of Coke.
“In Clue you guess whodunit, like, you know, Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the candlestick? In Salon of Death, we guess, How would you kill Ratboy? For example, Leo at the shampoo bowl, poisoning him with solution.”
“How would you do that?” Lacey asked.
“Hold him down and make him drink it,” Stella said. “That would be a permanent solution.”
Jamie played with a stray curl, wrapping it
“Are you going to quote me?” Leonardo thought for a moment, weighing each word, calculating its effect. “We were close, so close. It’s hard to talk about.” He paused and didn’t seem at all embarrassed by his previous comments.
Josephine swooped by and placed her hand on Leonardo’s shoulder. “Come, cherí. I need you.” Leonardo dragged himself away from the table, tossing “It’s so tragic,” over his shoulder. Lacey watched Josephine latch on to him and lead him away.
“Thick as thieves, those two,” Stella said.
“What did he mean when he said Marcia should have been his?” Lacey asked.
“Marcia actually had an appointment with Leonardo the first time she came in,” Jamie explained. “But he was sick with Virginia Beach fever.” Jamie rolled her eyes. “He’s the one who called in sick, but he wouldn’t even speak to Angie after she gave Marcia that great makeover and got her picture in all the papers. He is so not funny.”
“Whatever,” Stella said. “Marcia’s lawyer and her mother, who is a close friend of Josephine Radford’s, told Miss Robinson not to show her face to the cameras until she tamed that mop and lost a few pounds. Josephine wanted her star Leo to take care of her. As a special favor. No one thought it would be a big deal, so he played hooky. Anyway, with Leo out I gave Marcia to Angie. The rest is in the newspapers. Leonardo never forgave Angie for getting a break.”
Jamie nodded her agreement. “Or for being more talented than him. I thought it was totally cool that Angie was recognized for what she did, because all the big celebrity stylists are men.” She made a face. “You ever notice that? That is so . . . you know?” The younger stylist leaned forward. “So, are you going to write something about the funeral, Lacey?”
“Of course she’s going to write something,” Stella said. “She just has to think about it first.” Stella tapped her manicured fingers on the table. “So what do you think, Lacey?”
“I think it’s time for me to go.” Lacey picked up her purse and stood up. Jamie took a roll and tore it into little pieces.
“You know, it’s kind of funny, but Angie’s death was just like that game we play, Stella. You know the one,” Jamie whispered. “Salon of Death.”
Stella sighed. “No, it’s not.”
“Excuse me?” Lacey perked up. “Salon of Death?”
“Yeah, it is, kind of. Of course we don’t play Salon of Suicide. Just murder.”
Lacey perched on the edge of the table and took a petit four off Stella’s plate. “Tell me about the game, Jamie.”
Stella jumped in. “It has nothing to do with anything.”
“I want to hear it, especially if it has nothing to do with anything,” Lacey insisted.
Stella shrugged. “If you think the wig heads are creepy, you’ll love this.”
Jamie picked up all the bread pieces and balled them together in her fist, then rolled the ball around in her fingers. “Sometimes it gets really boring, right? So one day we just sort of started talking and everything, about how easy it would be to kill someone in the salon. There’s lots of ways. Mostly we talked about how—actually it’s Ratboy we kill. Once in a while Josephine, or a real irritating client like Sherri Gold. But anyway, Salon of Death is our imaginary board game, like Clue. Clue has these cute little plastic murder weapons? In Salon of Death you could have cute little plastic scissors and blow-dryers and shampoo bowls and stuff.” Jamie paused for breath and took a sip of Coke.
“In Clue you guess whodunit, like, you know, Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the candlestick? In Salon of Death, we guess, How would you kill Ratboy? For example, Leo at the shampoo bowl, poisoning him with solution.”
“How would you do that?” Lacey asked.
“Hold him down and make him drink it,” Stella said. “That would be a permanent solution.”
Jamie played with a stray curl, wrapping it
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