Hazzard . What we have here is a 6’7” troll, tiny by troll reasoning; whose parents cruelly named him Frances. Maybe the unlit cigar continuously clenched between his teeth is some sort of compensation. It’s released to fingers the size of ring bologna when he’s about to make a point. The unlucky recipient of that point is subjected to a couple of inches of masticated, soggy goodness waved in their face. Just thinking about being on the receiving end of one of those conversations makes my stomach curdle.
There is nothing for that cigar–chomping good ol’ boy to gain by securing my safety. So, I can safely say putting my fate in his hands would not be the wisest course of action.
The Meadows isn’t wholly an En community, so it’s only natural we have a few Uns on the force as well. There is a steady stream of trainees trying out their authority before moving on. Two of these newbies—guess I can’t call them that anymore, they’ve been here almost as long as I have—decided to stay. A bumbling second–in–command and the naïve follower always begging for approval. Neither inspires more—probably less—confidence about my safety than their self–serving boss. Face it, when it comes to police protection, I’m screwed.
“But it was the NTF who brought me in, just because of the victims that were clients and those stupid shears. They didn’t know about the bag of missing hair.”
“Missing bag of hair?”
I explain how we bag and tag the remnants of all services performed in the salon and how I dispose of them. A glance at Nyssa and Rey reminds me, I didn’t tell them. From the shock and anger on their faces it occurs to me, they can be taken off the suspect list.
“And the shears?”
“They’re mine, the pair I received in beauty school. I don’t use them anymore. They’re too dull to cut with. I just keep them for sentimental value.”
“Did you tell the detectives they are yours?”
“No!”
“Any idea how they came to be in their possession?”
“They had to have been taken before the break–in.”
A chorus of ‘break–in?’ fills the room.
“Someone broke in yesterday. Change that, they let themselves into the salon with a key.”
“Did you report this to the authorities?”
I shake my head. “No, all they took were pages from the appointment book.”
“And, very possibly, your shears.”
I shake my head. “They had to be taken before that to coincide with the last victim.”
The increasing lines around Jacobs’s eyes and the hard downward turn of his mouth a sure signal of displeasure. The urge to stand with chin tucked, hands clasped behind my back, scuffing my toes across the ground while punctuating every one–word sentence with ‘sir’ makes me squirm. I never noticed how hard the break room chairs are.
“Is there anything else you need to tell me? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything you know.”
Self-preservation trickles into my weary little brain and lights a fire under that part of me worried about saving my own skin. Last thing I want is to cast the light of suspicion on Jenny, but considering the evidence I don’t see how I can get around it.
Rey and Nyssa seemed genuinely surprised at both the missing hair and the break–in. There’s no way Dara could have done the B&E, not in the daylight. That leaves Jenny as the only other person with a key, not to mention I found her rummaging around in the bags. That she’s not here and can’t be reached doesn’t help the situation.
Fear mingled with shame dots my skin. Taking a deep breath, I spill how I’d gone to the salon after picking up supplies, intending to stock the shelves while the remnants burned. How I’d found Jenny in the storage room and after she left I counted and recounted the bags. From the look in his eyes, I don’t have to explain the importance of the missing hair. I then move on to the break–in and how I’d found the pages from the appointment book
There is nothing for that cigar–chomping good ol’ boy to gain by securing my safety. So, I can safely say putting my fate in his hands would not be the wisest course of action.
The Meadows isn’t wholly an En community, so it’s only natural we have a few Uns on the force as well. There is a steady stream of trainees trying out their authority before moving on. Two of these newbies—guess I can’t call them that anymore, they’ve been here almost as long as I have—decided to stay. A bumbling second–in–command and the naïve follower always begging for approval. Neither inspires more—probably less—confidence about my safety than their self–serving boss. Face it, when it comes to police protection, I’m screwed.
“But it was the NTF who brought me in, just because of the victims that were clients and those stupid shears. They didn’t know about the bag of missing hair.”
“Missing bag of hair?”
I explain how we bag and tag the remnants of all services performed in the salon and how I dispose of them. A glance at Nyssa and Rey reminds me, I didn’t tell them. From the shock and anger on their faces it occurs to me, they can be taken off the suspect list.
“And the shears?”
“They’re mine, the pair I received in beauty school. I don’t use them anymore. They’re too dull to cut with. I just keep them for sentimental value.”
“Did you tell the detectives they are yours?”
“No!”
“Any idea how they came to be in their possession?”
“They had to have been taken before the break–in.”
A chorus of ‘break–in?’ fills the room.
“Someone broke in yesterday. Change that, they let themselves into the salon with a key.”
“Did you report this to the authorities?”
I shake my head. “No, all they took were pages from the appointment book.”
“And, very possibly, your shears.”
I shake my head. “They had to be taken before that to coincide with the last victim.”
The increasing lines around Jacobs’s eyes and the hard downward turn of his mouth a sure signal of displeasure. The urge to stand with chin tucked, hands clasped behind my back, scuffing my toes across the ground while punctuating every one–word sentence with ‘sir’ makes me squirm. I never noticed how hard the break room chairs are.
“Is there anything else you need to tell me? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything you know.”
Self-preservation trickles into my weary little brain and lights a fire under that part of me worried about saving my own skin. Last thing I want is to cast the light of suspicion on Jenny, but considering the evidence I don’t see how I can get around it.
Rey and Nyssa seemed genuinely surprised at both the missing hair and the break–in. There’s no way Dara could have done the B&E, not in the daylight. That leaves Jenny as the only other person with a key, not to mention I found her rummaging around in the bags. That she’s not here and can’t be reached doesn’t help the situation.
Fear mingled with shame dots my skin. Taking a deep breath, I spill how I’d gone to the salon after picking up supplies, intending to stock the shelves while the remnants burned. How I’d found Jenny in the storage room and after she left I counted and recounted the bags. From the look in his eyes, I don’t have to explain the importance of the missing hair. I then move on to the break–in and how I’d found the pages from the appointment book
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