stepped on by other people seated in my row but I wasnât fast enough to avoid a pointed elbow that grazed my ear. The elbow belonged to a tall, impeccably dressed woman wearing a large hat that obscured most of her face. I could just about see one eye, noting something familiar about the shade of the irisâan unusual shade of blue. The thought barely had time to register when I found myself being pushed down the aisle by the disorderly mass. A sizable portion of the by now mob-like audience advanced toward the stage, and I was caught in the rush. Several jumped to the stage; one burly giant, thinking I was eager to join them, hoisted me up.
Several teens wearing the same type of purple bandana favored by the teenage vigilante surrounded the ex-cons and blocked their exit.
âHold it! Hold it! Weâre expecting a call from Kevinâs kidnapper.â Bottoms held up his arms again, trying to stem the tide of anger that was washing onto the stage. This time no one paid attention to the gesture. He had lost control of his audience.
A melee erupted. The female kidnapper ducked behind Norman Bottomsâs desk. One of the kids wearing a purple bandana and a scowl tried to drag the woman out.
âTake your hands off her,â I ordered, outraged.
âMind your own business, old lady, before you get hurt.â
Bottomsâs pointer was lying on the desk. I rapped the young man smartly on his knuckles. I had never used corporeal punishment in all my years of teaching but sometimes even the most civilized amongst us can be pushed too far.
The vigilante let out a howl of surprise that revealed two jagged front teeth. My arm received a nasty twist. I dropped the pointerâhis cohort had grabbed me from behind. But they hadnât gambled on my being ambidextrous and I was able to reach Bottomsâs ice-filled water pitcher and pour the contents over the young thugâs head. He backed off and I was able to retrieve the pointer. I advancedâa feminist dâArtagnanâand cornered the ruffian. A strong bass voice stopped me just as I was about to give the thug a piece of my mind.
âMiss Weidenmaier,â Lieutenant Brown said, âwould your students approve of your behavior? I certainly donât.â
A high-pitched siren of a scream pierced the pandemonium; the fighting ceased and a young woman became the focus of attention. She looked just like the hairdresser on the motion picture set, wearing the now-familiar smock, comb, hair spray and brushes protruding from her pockets. She clutched a can of diet cola.
âHeâs dead,â she cried. âHeâs dead.â
Â
I waited a short period as the crowd emptied out, then slowly followed the police to the guest dressing room. The reclining chair that held Robert Bartonâs body sat against a sink used for washing the hair of Norman Bottomsâs more glamorous guests. My former student was dead; poor Bertie Bartonâs head was submerged in water. So was a blow-dryer. The expression on his face was half sneer, half surprise.
âDid you touch anything?â Lieutenant Brown asked the hairdresser.
âOh, my Gawd. No! I took one look and ran.â The womanâs complexion under her heavy make-up was an anemic white. She still clutched the can of soda. âI was only gone a couple of minutes,â she said. âMr. Barton said he was feeling thirsty. A lot of guests get thirsty. Their mouths get dry. Nerves, you know. He asked me to get him a Diet Coke. My Gawd! This is his Coke.â She stared at the can.
âWhere was the hair-dryer when you left the room?â
âOn the cabinet next to the sink. We always keep it there.â Shaking, she shifted the soft drink from hand to hand, unable to put it down.
âWhich shelf?â I asked.
âThe top one. So it would be handy. Above the shelf with the shampoos and conditioners.â
âWas the hair-dryer plugged in?â
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