around her index finger, which had a nail bitten to the quick. “There are lots of chemical things, you know, relaxers, dyes, and highlights. All totally toxic. Lots of them are flammable too. And for electrocution there’s actually a really old permanent wave machine in the warehouse. They rolled up your hair on these crazy rods that are connected to wires on this machine, and plugged you in. Like way long ago, in the Twenties or Fifties or something. She’s really spooky. We call her Medusa. There’s one just like it in the Smithsonian Museum—just like your name! Wow, I never even thought of that before!”
“It’s more inventive than just dropping the blow-dryer in the water,” Stella said. “In Salon of Death, you get points for originality.”
“What about hair spray and matches?” Lacey asked. “Like a blowtorch?”
“Exactly,” Jamie said. She was obviously a budding games designer. Or mass murderer. “Everyone has a favorite method.”
“Really? Stella, what’s yours?” Lacey snagged a potato chip off Stella’s plate, but ignored the little hot dog. Who catered this thing anyway?
Stella rolled her eyes and snapped a carrot stick.
“Oh, you’d break his bones? That’s my stylist,” Lacey said.
“Stella got grossed out by it. Now if we talk about it, she makes us fold all the towels.”
“It’s only a game, Lacey,” Stella said. “But after Angie—”
“What did Angie think about the game? Did she have a favorite method? A razor maybe?” Lacey asked.
“She wasn’t into it much. She was kind of antiviolence,” Jamie said. She lowered her voice. “Leo said he’d use a razor and slit Ratboy’s throat. ’Course, that’s pretty obvious. But when I think about Angie . . .”
All of a sudden Jamie ran out of steam. Her eyes teared up and she started sobbing. Stella handed Jamie a fresh black Stylettos napkin to wipe her eyes. She took one look at Lacey and handed her a napkin too.
There was another teary interlude with Angie’s mother. In spite of her red-rimmed eyes, Adrienne Woods was, at fifty, still a pretty woman in the Southern manner of perfection that demanded equal parts charm and good grooming. The family hung together as if fearing another violent separation. In a show of support, Adrienne was followed closely by her two nearly grown daughters, both brown-eyed blondes: seventeen-year-old Abigail, the middle child, and Allison, the youngest at fifteen. Every memory of Angela Woods brought fresh tears.
“All she ever wanted was to make people happy. She didn’t deserve this,” Adrienne sobbed.
Lacey wanted to know if Angie had been depressed recently. Adrienne said that everyone gets blue every now and then, but Angie had been nothing but smiles since landing her job at the Dupont Circle salon, and the recognition she gained from styling Marcia Robinson put her “over the moon.”
The funeral and reception left Lacey exhausted. Intimacy with so many strangers made her uncomfortable and Salon of Death gave her the creeps. She wanted to dry off all the tears that fell during all the hugs she endured. Suddenly, a pathway seemed to open up in front of her. Stella would just have to catch up. Lacey willed herself to be invisible as she raced for the door.
Chapter 5
Funny, I didn’t see him at the funeral. He was about six feet tall, broad shoulders and narrow hips, a nice pair of muscular arms. He had curly dark brown hair and, she supposed, brown eyes, if only she could get a look at his face.
Lacey was almost out the door, waving for Stella and on her way to freedom, when she glanced sideways at a mirror and caught a glimpse of this stranger. She turned on a dime. Sightings of an attractive male specimen seemed to be getting rarer.
The view from where she stood was compelling. She admired his physique for a moment, suddenly aware that other women were marking their territory around him with invisible welcome signs. The heady charge of testosterone was in
“It’s more inventive than just dropping the blow-dryer in the water,” Stella said. “In Salon of Death, you get points for originality.”
“What about hair spray and matches?” Lacey asked. “Like a blowtorch?”
“Exactly,” Jamie said. She was obviously a budding games designer. Or mass murderer. “Everyone has a favorite method.”
“Really? Stella, what’s yours?” Lacey snagged a potato chip off Stella’s plate, but ignored the little hot dog. Who catered this thing anyway?
Stella rolled her eyes and snapped a carrot stick.
“Oh, you’d break his bones? That’s my stylist,” Lacey said.
“Stella got grossed out by it. Now if we talk about it, she makes us fold all the towels.”
“It’s only a game, Lacey,” Stella said. “But after Angie—”
“What did Angie think about the game? Did she have a favorite method? A razor maybe?” Lacey asked.
“She wasn’t into it much. She was kind of antiviolence,” Jamie said. She lowered her voice. “Leo said he’d use a razor and slit Ratboy’s throat. ’Course, that’s pretty obvious. But when I think about Angie . . .”
All of a sudden Jamie ran out of steam. Her eyes teared up and she started sobbing. Stella handed Jamie a fresh black Stylettos napkin to wipe her eyes. She took one look at Lacey and handed her a napkin too.
There was another teary interlude with Angie’s mother. In spite of her red-rimmed eyes, Adrienne Woods was, at fifty, still a pretty woman in the Southern manner of perfection that demanded equal parts charm and good grooming. The family hung together as if fearing another violent separation. In a show of support, Adrienne was followed closely by her two nearly grown daughters, both brown-eyed blondes: seventeen-year-old Abigail, the middle child, and Allison, the youngest at fifteen. Every memory of Angela Woods brought fresh tears.
“All she ever wanted was to make people happy. She didn’t deserve this,” Adrienne sobbed.
Lacey wanted to know if Angie had been depressed recently. Adrienne said that everyone gets blue every now and then, but Angie had been nothing but smiles since landing her job at the Dupont Circle salon, and the recognition she gained from styling Marcia Robinson put her “over the moon.”
The funeral and reception left Lacey exhausted. Intimacy with so many strangers made her uncomfortable and Salon of Death gave her the creeps. She wanted to dry off all the tears that fell during all the hugs she endured. Suddenly, a pathway seemed to open up in front of her. Stella would just have to catch up. Lacey willed herself to be invisible as she raced for the door.
Chapter 5
Funny, I didn’t see him at the funeral. He was about six feet tall, broad shoulders and narrow hips, a nice pair of muscular arms. He had curly dark brown hair and, she supposed, brown eyes, if only she could get a look at his face.
Lacey was almost out the door, waving for Stella and on her way to freedom, when she glanced sideways at a mirror and caught a glimpse of this stranger. She turned on a dime. Sightings of an attractive male specimen seemed to be getting rarer.
The view from where she stood was compelling. She admired his physique for a moment, suddenly aware that other women were marking their territory around him with invisible welcome signs. The heady charge of testosterone was in
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