Read Online Scratch the Surface by Susan Conant - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Conant
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limited herself to a dreary recitation of facts and had underemphasized her observations of the body. In mystery writing, it was an old saw that no one cared about the corpse. The same couldn’t be true of the police, could it? If so, why had there been no urgent message on her answering machine this morning, no plea for details she might have forgotten the previous evening, no request for her thoughts about means, motive, and opportunity? When she’d left for the salon, the police had been searching her yard and the surrounding area, but Valentine hadn’t been there, and those present had merely nodded to her. Novels, she reflected, were far more satisfying than was real life, especially the novels she wrote herself. If she were working from one of her own outlines, for example, she’d know why Mrs. Valentine had abandoned Prissy and the irresistible Morris and Tabitha.
“Felicity,” Naomi demanded, “are you with us this morning? Your eyes are glassing over.” Painting a foil-encased strand of Felicity’s hair with chemicals, she added, “You haven’t gone and caught something from that stray cat, have you?”
Although a concern for hygiene was, Felicity thought, an admirable trait in a hairdresser, it seemed to her that Naomi was nearly obsessed with germs. The overwhelmingly white salon could safely have served as an operating room. Naomi’s sanitary bent seemed to account for her hair, which was no more than two inches long and so devoid of color that Felicity suspected her of treating it with chlorine bleach. Fortunately, Naomi was only twenty-five and had excellent skin, so she carried off the startling effect. Felicity had never seen Naomi turn a client into a grotesque version of herself. Felicity considered her a gifted colorist and a clean one, too, of course. Naomi went through pair after pair of disposable latex gloves and always used freshly disinfected combs.
“This is no stray cat,” Felicity said indignantly. “She is very well cared for. And what could I possibly catch from her?”
“Something she got from the dead body! You said yourself she was right there with it. It gives me the willies to think about! You ought to be careful. That cat could be carrying some kind of awful disease. Was the body decomposing?” Felicity’s corpses were fresh or embalmed. She’d lately come to favor skeletons. Halloween, skeletons, candy: Bones had a happy association with food. As the author of works of light entertainment, Felicity believed in honoring the needs of her readers, some of whom devoured Prissy LaChatte over dinner or snacks. Decomposition was disgusting and therefore did not occur.
“No,” Felicity said. “He had died recently. And there is nothing wrong with the cat. On the contrary, she is obviously healthy.”
“She could be incubating something.”
“You know,” said a woman seated in the next chair, “it’s not a bad idea to take the cat to a vet.”
Felicity’s eyes had been fixed on her own fascinating image in the mirror before her. With most of her hair wrapped in pieces of foil and standing out from her head, she looked to herself like a freakish lion. She reluctantly turned her eyes toward the woman who’d spoken, a client who was having what was known as a “one process.” Her long hair was thickly coated with black and foul-smelling stuff.
“If you don’t know where the cat came from,” the woman continued, “you might want to check for parasites. And have a vet give the cat a general going-over. What kind of cat is it?”
“Big,” said Felicity. “A big gray cat.”
“Longhaired?”
“No. Uh, normal.”
“A blue shorthair. You know, you might have a Russian Blue.”
Ashamed of the paucity of her knowledge of real cats, Felicity shrugged her shoulders. If the cat turned out to belong to some breed, she could always say that the information was vital to the murder investigation and that the police had ordered her to keep it to herself. She was
“Felicity,” Naomi demanded, “are you with us this morning? Your eyes are glassing over.” Painting a foil-encased strand of Felicity’s hair with chemicals, she added, “You haven’t gone and caught something from that stray cat, have you?”
Although a concern for hygiene was, Felicity thought, an admirable trait in a hairdresser, it seemed to her that Naomi was nearly obsessed with germs. The overwhelmingly white salon could safely have served as an operating room. Naomi’s sanitary bent seemed to account for her hair, which was no more than two inches long and so devoid of color that Felicity suspected her of treating it with chlorine bleach. Fortunately, Naomi was only twenty-five and had excellent skin, so she carried off the startling effect. Felicity had never seen Naomi turn a client into a grotesque version of herself. Felicity considered her a gifted colorist and a clean one, too, of course. Naomi went through pair after pair of disposable latex gloves and always used freshly disinfected combs.
“This is no stray cat,” Felicity said indignantly. “She is very well cared for. And what could I possibly catch from her?”
“Something she got from the dead body! You said yourself she was right there with it. It gives me the willies to think about! You ought to be careful. That cat could be carrying some kind of awful disease. Was the body decomposing?” Felicity’s corpses were fresh or embalmed. She’d lately come to favor skeletons. Halloween, skeletons, candy: Bones had a happy association with food. As the author of works of light entertainment, Felicity believed in honoring the needs of her readers, some of whom devoured Prissy LaChatte over dinner or snacks. Decomposition was disgusting and therefore did not occur.
“No,” Felicity said. “He had died recently. And there is nothing wrong with the cat. On the contrary, she is obviously healthy.”
“She could be incubating something.”
“You know,” said a woman seated in the next chair, “it’s not a bad idea to take the cat to a vet.”
Felicity’s eyes had been fixed on her own fascinating image in the mirror before her. With most of her hair wrapped in pieces of foil and standing out from her head, she looked to herself like a freakish lion. She reluctantly turned her eyes toward the woman who’d spoken, a client who was having what was known as a “one process.” Her long hair was thickly coated with black and foul-smelling stuff.
“If you don’t know where the cat came from,” the woman continued, “you might want to check for parasites. And have a vet give the cat a general going-over. What kind of cat is it?”
“Big,” said Felicity. “A big gray cat.”
“Longhaired?”
“No. Uh, normal.”
“A blue shorthair. You know, you might have a Russian Blue.”
Ashamed of the paucity of her knowledge of real cats, Felicity shrugged her shoulders. If the cat turned out to belong to some breed, she could always say that the information was vital to the murder investigation and that the police had ordered her to keep it to herself. She was
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