Love You to Death Read online

  “Vannos, what would I do without you?”

  I wanted to say, You’d find another hairdresser. But instead, I said, “You know where Alaine’s studio is?”

  “Just down the block, isn’t it?”

  “Right. Get some rest there, Liz. But remember, go see Lieutenant Branco first.”

  “Thank you, Vannos.” Suddenly she lunged at me and hugged me in an awkward embrace. “Oh, thank you!” she said, and then whispered in my ear, “I owe you.”

  She departed from the shop in the same wild state as when she’d entered. Nicole had overheard the entire conversation.

  “She’s only a customer, Stanley.”

  “Sometimes our services have to extend beyond the sink and the styling chair, doll.”

  Nicole replied, “And since your chair is still occupied, you might want to finish what you started there.”

  I returned to my station and finished with my customer. She was the last appointment for the day, and I was looking forward to an early cocktail with Nicole in the back room.

  We closed up the shop, then went and sat together in back. With lit cigarette in one hand and cognac snifter in the other, Nicole asked, “Now what?”

  “Believe it or not, doll, I don’t know. Suddenly my time is all mine again.”

  “What about Rafik?”

  “If I had a white horse and shining armor, I’d try to rescue him. But he’s in jail, and I’d have to slay the whole legal system to free him.” Then I gave her a hopeful look. “I don’t suppose Charles would …”

  Nicole shook her head.

  “I didn’t think so,” I said with a droop in my voice.

  “No, darling. The work for Laurett satisfied his pro bono quota.”

  “Now he can give his pro bono to you.”

  “Don’t be rude.”

  “Your new vocabulary inspired me.”

  “Chaz and I do talk, you know, in those rare quiet moments between orgasms.”

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  “Stanley, sometimes I think you relish your loneliness, and frankly it’s becoming tiresome.”

  “It’s out of my control.”

  “No, it isn’t. You expect too much. You have to learn to settle for what’s available.”

  “You should know about that.”

  “Why do you hate Chaz so much?”

  “Because he’s taking you from me.”

  Nicole sat motionless. The only movement in the room was the smoke spiraling upward from her cigarette. “Aren’t you being unreasonable?” she asked.

  “Oedipal is probably more like it,” I replied. “But it seems that ever since you met him, it’s been Chaz-this and Chaz-that. You spend every free moment with him. And now you’re even spouting legal jargon and bragging about your sex life together. You’ve got the goddam Prom Queen Syndrome.”

  “The what?”

  “That’s when a high-school deb starts dating the hunky quarterback, and suddenly she’s lost to the rest of the world, including family and friends. Incommunicado in todo.”

  “Is that how I seem?” she asked with real concern.

  “Forget it, Nikki. I’m just lonely and full of shit.”

  I gulped the last of my bourbon and got ready to leave.

  “At least Liz will be safe at Alaine’s studio. Whoever is on this killing spree probably won’t be looking for his next victim at an urban New Age beauty clinic. And meanwhile, oblivious to the mortal world, Liz will be pampered with mineral baths and hot mud therapies, full-body massages, horticultured food, European cosmetics, and high-tech spirituality.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “Doll, I’m going to resume my normal routine. I’m going back on the diet, I’m going to get in shape, and I’m going to find me a man.

  “Don’t forget to come to work tomorrow.”

  “After ecstasy, the laundry,” I replied, and left the shop.

  With the responsibility of Tobias gone from my life, maybe I really could get back into the dietary regime. No more pizza and calzone, no more chocolate-covered mallowpuff treats, no more nachos and burritos, no more excuses to avoid the veggie sticks and bran crackers. I promised myself after one last gastro-splurge this weekend, I’d be good again.

  The next day life resumed its so-called normal pace. I saw clients, I made them beautiful, they thanked me, and I earned some money. There was no Rafik provoking and pursuing me, no Tobias requiring attention and expecting entertainment, no Laurett hoping for release, no Branco saying no-no-no. I even went out with some friends that night. The superb Peter Arden was in town, on tour from San Francisco, along with his personal Steinway, making a guest appearance at the Copley Plaza. All five nights were sold out, but I have clients in high places, so getting a table near the keyboard was a cinch. One brilliant moment in his program was a deconstructed version of Strauss’s famous waltz, “Voices of Spring.” The maestro Arden would attempt the little flourish that begins each phrase of the waltz, but he’d purposely trip over his own fingers, then lapse into a completely different number for a few bars. Then it was back to the beginning flourish for another try, only to fumble again, each time more elaborately than before. The musical joke had the audience in mirthful convulsions, especially later in the evening, when the little flourish would appear without warning in the middle of a Gershwin ballad or a Cole Porter tune. It was a night of pleasure and glamour, with martinis and starched collars and cufflinks and romantic music—all part of that certain, steady, assured kind of life that most people strive to attain—a normal life.

  But within twenty-four hours, I became restive and bored. Recurrent thoughts of Rafik both depressed and agitated me. I yearned for him, but I couldn’t bear to go see him. He was probably having wild sex with the inmates anyway.

  By Sunday night I was nearly catatonic with indecision and doubt. That’s when Liz Carlini called me at home and begged me for a special appointment early Monday morning. It was my usual day off, but she insisted that it was an emergency. She even promised to “make it worth my while.” I reluctantly agreed. At least I’d be in motion and making some money.

  18

  GOOD-BYE, MR. CHOCOLATE CHIPS

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, before the shop was open for regular business, Liz Carlini arrived direct from her brief retreat at Alaine’s studio. She was escorted by a hulk of solid but shapeless muscle that she introduced as her bodyguard. No name, just bodyguard. With opaque brown eyes and a tiny head stuck onto a thick neck that was broader even than his ears, he probably answered to Moose.

  Liz, however, looked radiant, especially for a recent widow. It made me wonder if perhaps I shouldn’t try coming up with the lordly sums that Alaine charged for the royal treatment at his studios. Yet despite the ultra-exclusive services Alaine offered, Liz wanted me to style her hair. I was flattered to be the “touch of home” in her life.

  “For Prentiss’s memorial service,” she said softly, as I led her to the changing room.

  “When is it?” I asked.

  “Today, this afternoon.”

  “So soon?”

  “I made the arrangements late Friday afternoon, right after I spoke with you here.”

  “But aren’t the police still holding his body?”

  “It doesn’t matter. There won’t be a burial, even later. Prentiss chose cremation, so rather than let it all drag on until then, I want to settle everything as soon as possible.”

  A perverse thought: Were Danny and Prentiss lying near each other in the morgue?

  I said, “Sometimes it’s better to let the mourning expend itself, rather than hurry it or repress it.”

  Liz sighed morosely. “Not for me. I can’t bear it. It’s a nightmare, and I want to end it now. Then I’m going away for a while, and try and sort things out.”

  “Take your bodyguard along,” I warned.

  “It’s all been arranged,” she said knowingly.

  Since we were alone in the shop, I shampooed her myself, a ra
re privilege usually reserved for special customers or special occasions. For Liz Carlini, the sudden deaths of her husband and her business partner certainly qualified as a special, if bleak, occasion.

  She asked, “Have you seen Rafik?”

  “Not for a few days,” I replied as I worked up a moussy lather in her hair. I wondered why she was asking me about him. “Did you know that the police are holding him for the two killings?” I said.

  “He couldn’t have done it, Vannos.”

  “I agree,” I replied, but I recalled the potential violence that always seemed to dance around him, kind of like Branco’s aura too. “How well do you know him, Liz?”

  “Danny’s the one who knew him best, obviously. When I needed a driver, Danny brought him in and I hired him. It’s too bad they wouldn’t commit to each other. They made a nice couple. Rafik would probably like you too.”

  I smiled shyly. “We already got to first base.”

  My remark caused a familiar old voice to shriek inside my head, nearly piercing my eardrums from within. “Furdst bayze?” it screamed. It was my Aunt Letta, grilling me as usual in Grand Inquisition style. “Stanislav Krecik, he iss claimink you.”

  Liz’s voice brought me back to the conscious world. “Are you going to help him, then?” she asked.

  “I don’t know how. It seems all I can offer him is my gut feeling.” And I meant that literally.

  I rinsed Liz’s hair and wrapped it in a towel, then we headed to my station, where she settled herself in the styling chair. I’d already decided to do her hair in a way that would reflect tragic grief with understated flair. While she sat, I pressed my hands onto her shoulders and massaged her gently. That kind of reassuring touch can strengthen the bond between stylist and client. The muscles in her neck and shoulder were pliable and relaxed, so the time at Alaine’s had been well spent.

  I sectioned her hair and began cutting. At one point I glanced into the reflection of her eyes in the mirror, the strange medium by which stylist and client often communicate best. “You’re doing great, Liz,” I said, intending to bolster her morale. But my very words of confidence seemed to unhinge her bravery, and she let out a loud gasp.

  “I’m so frightened!” I saw her fearful eyes looking back into mine through the mirror. “All this trouble started when I found out I was pregnant,” she said. Her words caused me to stall my scissors mid-snip, just short of cutting what we call in the trade a “hole.”

  “That should make you happy,” I said.

  “It should have.” Her eyes stared directly into the reflection of mine, and she held her head up proudly, refusing to break down. “We were both delighted, of course.”

  “What’s the trouble then?”

  “Prentiss’s will.” She shook her head, as though trying to wake up from a bad dream. Then she began to explain the facts with a chilly clarity that neither grief nor fear could cover. Liz Carlini did, after all, have an MBA.

  “Despite my dear husband’s limited vision, his board of directors had made some shrewd investments and acquisitions over the years. As a result, and almost without knowing it, Prentiss controlled a multinational fortune with Gladys Gardner Industries.” The name alone implied the dregs of smelting rather than delectable food items. Liz continued, “So there’s now a whole new level of wealth in the estate.”

  “At least there’s that,” I answered, not too sympathetically. “But I still don’t see the problem, especially now that you’ll have an heir.”

  Liz Carlini’s body responded with such intensity that her hair actually bristled. While I recombed it to relax it, she said, “I miscarried last week.” Then for the first time in all the recent horrors, she broke down and sobbed loudly. I stopped working on her hair and put my hands on her shoulders again. She explained through her tears, “It happened right after Danny’s death. I was working too hard with Le Jardin, and then his dying just drove me over the edge. I feel as though it’s my fault.”

  “It’s nobody’s fault, Liz.”

  “With all this bad luck, I feel like there’s an evil spell on me. In the old days they’d probably burn me or chop off my head.”

  “Not if they saw the artwork I’m creating with it.”

  Liz giggled softly through her tears, and it helped her stop sobbing. Without further comment, I handed her a tissue. When she regained her composure, I continued with my brilliant creation.

  “So now I’m back to square one,” she said.

  “But as Prentiss’s wife, won’t you get everything?”

  “I’m not the sole heir. That can only be a true Kingsley daughter.”

  It sounded like a brand name.

  Liz continued, “According to an ancient trust that the first Helen Kingsley set up, unless there’s a Kingsley heiress, the estate is split between one heir and the trust. Only a direct blood descendant, and a woman, can inherit the entire estate. In the past, there was never a problem.”

  “So Prentiss wasn’t the sole heir to the estate either?”

  Liz shook her head imperceptibly—imperceptible except to me, who froze my scissors at attention for a moment. She replied, “Since he was a male, Prentiss had to share the estate with the trust, which was just as well, since the trust is what helped the corporation grow.”

  “That explains why John Lough didn’t inherit from the estate—because he has no Kingsley blood in him.”

  “Right. The only way he could get at the money would be to marry a Kingsley daughter.” Her voice wavered. “Now there can never be a Kingsley daughter, ever.”

  Because Prentiss is dead, I thought.

  Liz sniffed. “But John can still inherit a portion of the estate from a previous heir.”

  “Which is possible with Prentiss’s will.”

  “Exactly,” said Liz.

  No wonder that baby had meant so much. She—or he—was the meal ticket, the guaranteed reservation on the Kingsley gravy train.

  “What happens now?” I asked.

  “Half the estate remains in trust, and the other half is distributed according to Prentiss’s will.”

  “And that half goes to you.”

  “No. It goes to John and I together.”

  I stifled my grammatical reflex for something more important: a potential showdown in Bonbon City.

  “But isn’t that settled by the terms of the will?”

  “It should be, Vannos. A share of millions is fine with me, but John wants my share too. He wants everything. He never got over having a rich brother.”

  “What can he do, though? The terms of the will are set. There’s nothing he can do about it except …” I trailed off, not quite able to add the last words, “to kill you.”

  Liz replied, “It’s not too late, Vannos. With an estate this size, the will has to go into probate. The lengthy delay caused by that would give John time to … to get rid of me.” Had she read my mind? “Then he can inherit it all.”

  Probate, the very process that was supposed to prevent the bungling of a will, ironically caused more trouble than it prevented. Still, something didn’t settle quite right with me. Surely some shrewd lawyer would have spotted the loophole years ago. Then again, perhaps it was just such loopholes that allowed people to gain vast amounts of wealth from the exercising of mere technicalities—along with murder.

  “One thing is certain, though,” she said. “You’ve been a real help to me through all of this. When everything is settled, I’ll show my appreciation in a fiscal way.”

  “There’s no need for that, Liz.”

  “It’s nothing. I’ll be rich, seriously rich.”

  “In spite of that, if there’s any way I can help …”

  Within seconds she replied, “There is something.”

  “Sure,” I said, a bit surprised at her quick response. “What is it?”

  “Could you come to the memorial service this afternoon, as my escort? You’ve been such a comfort already. You really validate my feelings.”

  It soun
ded like I was good for free parking.

  I thought a moment. How far did I want to extend this arrangement? As Nicole had reminded me, Liz was only a client. But now she was also a widow who was asking for my help. Like Branco, I could rescue a hapless maiden. It would be a simple matter too, since it was my day off. Besides, whom else could she ask now? And she’d mentioned the possibility of remuneration for my assistance. I heard myself weighing this personal situation like a business contract. Was I doing a favor, or was I gaining points? Maybe I wasn’t so different from an MBA … or a cop.

  “No trouble at all,” I said after a moment. “Tell me where and when.” And she did.

  I finished my work, then helped her out of the styling chair. As she donned her winter coat, I got a chance to take in the whole picture of her: With the rosy glow courtesy of Alaine’s ministerings, and with the sad, watery eyes caused by Prentiss’s death, and with the severe, almost sexless hairstyle I’d just created, Elizabeth Anne Carlini-Kingsley looked the perfect yuppy widow in mourning.

  Her bodyguard reappeared to take her away, just as Nicole came into the shop. She nodded a polite greeting to Liz and Moose, then just as quickly bade them farewell as they left the shop.

  “Darling,” she said brightly, “isn’t it your day off?”

  “Special appointment, doll.”

  Nicole said, “I’d be careful with her, Stanley. There’s more to that woman than meets the eye.”

  “That’s your female prejudice talking. Liz told me she intends to bestow a tidy honorarium for all my help and comforting words.”

  “Stanley, you are easy prey to the guiles of attractive women.”

  “Does that include you?”

  “Thank you for the compliment.”

  The memorial service for Prentiss Kingsley took place at an Episcopal church—it might have been a cathedral, actually—in the South End. The two hundred or so people present barely filled the first few pews of the imposing nave. Apparently a larger attendance had been anticipated, since the show was taking place in the main church, complete with bells and smells, rather than in the smaller chapel. I would have expected a larger crowd too, since Prentiss Kingsley was the last blood of an old Boston line. Maybe the Brahmins were all basking in warmer climes.