Threats by Amelia Gray Page B

arrangement.
    The salon waiting room was cluttered with useless delicate things. An ornate bar, ridiculously mirrored, held a full tea service, cookies and jams, a sleek black pitcher of lukewarm coffee. The tinkling beads of a miniature crystal chandelier caressed David’s forehead. The room seemed to be three feet too small from all sides, giving it the feeling of progressing in an orderly collapse toward the center. He imagined Franny’s head grazing the low ceiling. She would have to stoop to exit the room, and he thought of her emerging on the other side, smiling.
    Aileen picked up the pitcher and shook it before placing it back on its tray. “The girls should refill this,” she said. “I decorated this whole room with pieces I found from estate sales. Frances loved it.”
    David hummed a low response, and Aileen led the way to the salon area, equally appointed. Before he left the room, he placed the cup of water on the mirrored bar.
    Stylists picked their tools from painted vintage tables as clients regarded themselves in a trio of heavy gilt mirrors installed over each station. The walls and concrete floor were stained a mahogany red. David watched the clients receiving scalp massages. Their bodies were wrapped in thin black robes. They smiled fatuously under the stroking of expert fingers.
    He saw that one of these smiling women was Marie Walls, the woman who had sat at his table and completed a portion of his crossword puzzle while telling him about how he should feel. A girl was massaging her hands with a thick cream.
    â€œMarie,” David said. “How are you?”
    At the first sign of a third-party conversation, Aileen turned without further remark and made a circle of the salon floor, observing the stylists with her hands on her hips.
    â€œHang on, I can’t see you too well,” Marie said. “Come closer.”
    He approached her chair, leaned in. “Hello, David. I’m perfect at the moment. There’s nothing like a rub, you know?”
    â€œIt looks nice.”
    Marie narrowed her eyes to look at Aileen, who was plucking at a foil wrap. “Are you here for a haircut?” she asked David.
    â€œI’m getting the tour. My wife worked here.”
    â€œAnd how are you feeling?” she asked, examining her hand.
    David tried to focus on the history of his emotions. All he remembered was the feeling of standing in the other room, the chandelier’s crystals against his forehead. “Fancy,” he said.
    â€œYou should come to my office and have a talk with me sometime. I’d be willing to meet with you free of charge. That’s a rare privilege I’ve extended to you.”
    â€œThat is kind.”
    The girl moved from Marie’s hands and went to work massaging her scalp. Marie groaned. “Well,” she said, gripping the arms of the chair and closing her eyes. “We do what we can.”
    Aileen returned with a pair of scissors. “These young girls,” she said.

 
    34.
    PHOTOGRAPHS of photographs tend to take on a strange quality of their own, independent of the subject they try to capture. The glass of the photo’s frame and the glass of the camera lens together offer an extra layer between the item and the capturing device, giving the air between them a darker quality. Of course, any dust on the picture frame or intruding natural light can further degrade the image. The resulting picture represents the murky edges, facial expressions blurred and unclear. The individuals in the frame are difficult to separate from the elements of scenery.
    Detective Chico enjoyed the imperfections of the images in front of him. He had taken pictures of a few of the snapshots he found in frames on the kitchen counter while David was busy digging the threat out of its sugar bag. He didn’t want to bother the man or go to the unnecessary trouble of confiscating the pictures themselves.
    It was a quiet town, and