security guard at another hairbrush booth. “When I opened the package I’d bought, the brush wasn’t the same model this fellow showed me. I want the one I paid for,” he said in a loud voice.
Uh-oh . Marla hastened forward, dodging a surge of nail techs who stomped by discussing the latest China Glaze collection.
“Tell me again what happened last night,” she said to Georgia, hoping to spot a discrepancy in Tyler’s report.
“I’m getting sick of repeating myself.” Glancing at her, Georgia sighed. “Sorry, I know you’re trying to help. I went along to give Tyler moral support, and Chris accused us of having an affair. She thought I wanted revenge for what she did to me and Nick. I tried to convince her otherwise, but she wouldn’t listen. She kept shouting at me, and her face was so red, I thought she’d burst a blood vessel.”
“She complained of a headache earlier, remember? She might have been feeling ill by then.”
“Oh, she was ill all right. That woman had mental problems.”
Alarm shot up Marla’s spine. Did Georgia know that Chris had a history of depression before they learned about the antidepressants? Jostled by the crowd, she consulted her map to get her bearings. They should make a right at the Creative Nail corner.
“You saw how Chris ordered you around,” Georgia continued. “She didn’t respect anyone, not even Sampson. He’s our leading design artist, and yet she made him dance to her tune same as everyone else.”
Marla recalled the check he’d written to Chris. “I wonder what hold she had on him.”
“Good question.”
“Let’s keep our ears open. If you hear anything that might be important, let me know, okay?”
“I’m more likely to add to your problems. Gosh, hon, I’ve brought a load of trouble on you, haven’t I?” Georgia patted Marla’s shoulder.
Marla thought about Justine and Larry waiting back in her town house to offer more criticisms, Dalton’s probable resentment that he was left to deal with them alone, and Brianna caught in the middle. Never mind that she found herself in the midst of another murder.
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied with a wry twist to her lips. “I manage to find enough trouble on my own.”
Chapter Eight
The homicide detective appropriated an unused classroom on the second floor for his interviews. Marla wiped her sweaty palms on her smock as she approached the door and gave her name to a deputy standing guard. She should be used to this by now, but it wasn’t Vail questioning her this time.
Sergeant Masterson had a craggy face like Columbo’s and wore a rumpled blue shirt with a diagonally striped tie. He’d discarded his jacket, draping it over an empty chair. At his motion to enter, Marla strolled inside and sank into the seat he indicated. She hadn’t passed anyone in the hallway, making her wonder whom he’d interviewed last. Steeling herself, she clutched her hands in her lap while primly crossing her ankles.
After she answered the standard opening questions, he got down to business. His keen brown eyes narrowed as he fired the first salvo. “Tell me how you first met Christine Parks.” She noticed that his shoulders hunched while he waited for her reply.
“My friend Georgia introduced me to her on Friday.” She compressed her lips, having learned not to offer extra information. She waited to see where he would lead her.
“This was your first experience working with this group, correct?” he said, consulting his notes. He clicked on a ballpoint pen in his hand.
“Yes, that’s right. Georgia told me there was an opening for an assistant stylist. I thought it would be a great opportunity to try something new.”
“You’ve known Miss Rogers for how long?”
“We were college roommates. We both dropped out after our sophomore year to go to beauty school.” Her gaze slid to the floor. That wasn’t the only reason why she’d dropped out, but the tragedy that had set her on her
Uh-oh . Marla hastened forward, dodging a surge of nail techs who stomped by discussing the latest China Glaze collection.
“Tell me again what happened last night,” she said to Georgia, hoping to spot a discrepancy in Tyler’s report.
“I’m getting sick of repeating myself.” Glancing at her, Georgia sighed. “Sorry, I know you’re trying to help. I went along to give Tyler moral support, and Chris accused us of having an affair. She thought I wanted revenge for what she did to me and Nick. I tried to convince her otherwise, but she wouldn’t listen. She kept shouting at me, and her face was so red, I thought she’d burst a blood vessel.”
“She complained of a headache earlier, remember? She might have been feeling ill by then.”
“Oh, she was ill all right. That woman had mental problems.”
Alarm shot up Marla’s spine. Did Georgia know that Chris had a history of depression before they learned about the antidepressants? Jostled by the crowd, she consulted her map to get her bearings. They should make a right at the Creative Nail corner.
“You saw how Chris ordered you around,” Georgia continued. “She didn’t respect anyone, not even Sampson. He’s our leading design artist, and yet she made him dance to her tune same as everyone else.”
Marla recalled the check he’d written to Chris. “I wonder what hold she had on him.”
“Good question.”
“Let’s keep our ears open. If you hear anything that might be important, let me know, okay?”
“I’m more likely to add to your problems. Gosh, hon, I’ve brought a load of trouble on you, haven’t I?” Georgia patted Marla’s shoulder.
Marla thought about Justine and Larry waiting back in her town house to offer more criticisms, Dalton’s probable resentment that he was left to deal with them alone, and Brianna caught in the middle. Never mind that she found herself in the midst of another murder.
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied with a wry twist to her lips. “I manage to find enough trouble on my own.”
Chapter Eight
The homicide detective appropriated an unused classroom on the second floor for his interviews. Marla wiped her sweaty palms on her smock as she approached the door and gave her name to a deputy standing guard. She should be used to this by now, but it wasn’t Vail questioning her this time.
Sergeant Masterson had a craggy face like Columbo’s and wore a rumpled blue shirt with a diagonally striped tie. He’d discarded his jacket, draping it over an empty chair. At his motion to enter, Marla strolled inside and sank into the seat he indicated. She hadn’t passed anyone in the hallway, making her wonder whom he’d interviewed last. Steeling herself, she clutched her hands in her lap while primly crossing her ankles.
After she answered the standard opening questions, he got down to business. His keen brown eyes narrowed as he fired the first salvo. “Tell me how you first met Christine Parks.” She noticed that his shoulders hunched while he waited for her reply.
“My friend Georgia introduced me to her on Friday.” She compressed her lips, having learned not to offer extra information. She waited to see where he would lead her.
“This was your first experience working with this group, correct?” he said, consulting his notes. He clicked on a ballpoint pen in his hand.
“Yes, that’s right. Georgia told me there was an opening for an assistant stylist. I thought it would be a great opportunity to try something new.”
“You’ve known Miss Rogers for how long?”
“We were college roommates. We both dropped out after our sophomore year to go to beauty school.” Her gaze slid to the floor. That wasn’t the only reason why she’d dropped out, but the tragedy that had set her on her
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