Killer Hair by Ellen Byerrum Page A

usual.
    “Did Marcia Robinson show up at the funeral?” Lacey shook her head. “Too bad. Maybe it’s not true that murderers go to the funerals of their victims.”
    Stella was horrified. “You think Marcia killed Angie?”
    “My number-one suspect.”
    “You are so wrong. Why would she kill Angie? She owed Angie for that miraculous makeover.”
    “Who knows what terrible secrets about the Senate Small Business Committee Marcia may have spread? And to whom?”
    “Brooke has a point,” Lacey interjected as Stella’s cleavage puffed up alarmingly. “Marcia is the subject of a congressional investigation.”
    “You agree with her? You think Marcia offed Angie?”
    “I didn’t say that. I said she has a point.”
    “And Marcia had pornographic clips of some of the most unlikely people,” Brooke said. “Nobody even knows the whole list or how many. Maybe your Angela Woods was among them.”
    Stella was finally stunned speechless. But she had nerves of steel. Her genius was that she could outwait anyone, just like a cat, and she was waiting for Brooke to leave. A silence descended on the table that Brooke finally broke. Glancing at her watch, she said to Lacey, “Look, I have to take a deposition this afternoon, so I should be going. Call me later. Be careful. There are serious nuts out there.” She looked at Stella. “I’d watch what Lacey tells you, Stella. It could be dangerous.” She was kidding, but Stella didn’t think it was funny. Brooke exited the Mud Hut, her blond braid bouncing as she jogged down the street.
    “She could use a haircut,” Stella said.
    “What, are you offering?”
    “No, I’d give her to Leo.” Stella wore an evil grin. “Okay, now that Snooty Two Shoes is gone, we can talk about your investigation. And Angie was no porno pinup. Trust me. She was pure, in a nice way.”
    Lacey had decided to write something about the young stylist and her tragic death. More troubling was Stella’s insistence that she also play gumshoe. As glamorous as it sounded and even with the interesting wardrobe challenges that it might present, the idea was absurd. She was a reporter. In any event, it would mean running down inevitable blind alleys and risking Vic’s derision. Vic again. Her mind kept drifting back to him. I have no idea how I feel about Vic, she realized. People did not pop in and out of Lacey’s life. When they were out, they stayed out.
    “I’ll write a column, Stella, but what have I got to say? That the corpse had a really bad hair day? That a dead hair day means murder?”
    Lacey retrieved two Advils from her bag to quell the pounding in her head. It wasn’t fair. She’d had only a couple of beers last night. She hadn’t slept well. She was alternately angry at Vic for being high-handed, showing up on her doorstep and merely assuming she would be home alone on a Friday night; and confused, remembering that long-ago New Year’s Eve kiss.
    “Okay, Stella, let’s suppose we play detective. I just want to know one thing. What happened to her hair?”
    “The hair? What hair?”
    “Angie’s. What happened to the hair?”
    “The hair?” A smoky Southern voice with a distinctive cadence interrupted them. “The hair is gone. Long gone. It was long, wasn’t it?”
    Impressive purple talons scooted a shockingly pink flyer in front of Lacey. She could read PSYCHIC over the large imposing Eye of Horus. It seemed to be her logo.
    “Hey, y’all. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I read cards, palms, faces, whatever y’all got. I’m Marie Largesse. Just opened up a little shop around the corner. The Little Shop of Horus. We sell crystals, oils, books on meditation. Tarot.”
    “Clever name,” Lacey said. “What did you say about hair?”
    “Hair? Oh, it just popped out. I don’t know. I’ve lost it now. Maybe I meant hers,” she said, smiling at Stella. “Gone, right?”
    The large woman had sailed into the coffee shop as if she were the Queen Mary, creating