Murder on the Ol' Bunions (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery) by S. Dionne Moore

hair salon, smelled like a perm. The stench was nearly intolerable. Terrible what women—black or white—did to their hair. Between perms, relaxers, heat pressing and blow dryers, it was a wonder more of us weren’t plucked bald.
    I always wanted to be one of those black women brave enough to let her hair go natural. But I doggedly maintained my regimen of relaxing it once every two months. Any more frequently than that and my hair broke off quicker than it grew. Shayna had been the one to encourage me to extend my treatment to once every six weeks. “Your hair will love you for it.”
    Last summer, Lela and I surrendered our home relaxing regimen in favor of letting Regina do the honor. Regina studied up on the processes for African-American hair and assured both Lela and I we would be safe in her hands. Both of us had been impressed with Regina’s extensive knowledge and had loved the products she used. So I kept coming back.
    As I closed the door on the bright morning sun and faced the room, I switched mental gears, and vowed to listen close to the conversations that flowed between Regina and her patrons. I breathed in the rancid odor saturating the air of Regina’s shop and raised my hand in greeting.
    “Hey there, lady!” Regina said, between snips of her scissors.
    Regina Rogane could put a hurtin ’ on most women if she had a mind to. Tall, the woman radiated good health and plenty of exercise. Chatty and upbeat, I could see where her sunshine personality would be a slow burn on the delicate skin of someone like Marion.
    “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, LaTisha . Just let me finish up,” Regina said as she enthusiastically began to tease the hair of the only other patron in the shop. One of Maple Gap’s finest—at least in her own mind. Mrs. Eugene Taser . The mayor’s wife of Maple Gap and don’t-you-forget-it.
    “Hello, LaTisha ,” Mrs. Taser began. “It’s terrible to hear of Marion’s death. I suppose you know more than anyone about the details.”
    “I know what I saw, Betsy.” I waddled my way over to the chairs and eyeballed one with arms. It looked like a torture device for anyone over a size twelve. Double that for me, honey, and you can see my concern.
    The mayor’s wife frowned at my casual use of her first name. I settled into another chair, one without arms, and smiled widely at Betsy’s chagrin. She much preferred to be addressed as “Mrs. Taser ,” which was the exact reason I called her Betsy.
    I decided to restart the conversation with pleasantries. “How’s Eugene?”
    “The mayor is doing fine.”
    Behind Betsy’s head, Regina rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
    “How’s your mother doing, Regina?”
    Regina’s eyes shifted over to me for a split second before she set aside the comb and began wrapping Mrs. Taser’s teased puffs into loose rolls. “She’s getting worse.”
    I remembered Regina’s mother with great fondness. Though a good twenty-five years my senior, Eloise Rogane had been an active member of Maple Gap and a wonderful neighbor. Alzheimer’s had too quickly taken its terrible toll.
    “It must be very hard. I know how you struggled with the decision to put her in assisted living.”
    “She requires full-time care now,” Regina said, her expression stoic. I recognized her attempt to maintain her composure. Her hands flew from one tuft of hair to another as she rolled and pinned, rolled and pinned.
    Mrs. Taser , obviously more attuned to our conversation than the magazine, piped up. “She probably won’t last much longer, dear, then you’ll be free.”
    Regina broke pace, eyes flashing at the back of the woman’s head, then up at me in silent misery. In the next instant, Regina swooped up the can of hairspray and doused Mrs. Taser’s hair from all angles—maybe a little too much in the front? Mrs. Taser gasped and choked.
    “ You trying to asphyxiate me?”
    Regina ripped off the protective cape and declared with more energy than