Chapter 13

Dad arrived home midway through the ten o’clock news. I was hearing him in stereo because they were playing a recorded interview with him at the same time. I deserted the 2-D version, still spouting off the prescribed lines about “not commenting on an ongoing investigation,” and found him poking through the fridge. He pulled out an apple.

“I’d be happy to make you something. Pancakes?”

“No, just hankering for something not deep-fried or slathered in sugar.” He carried the apple to his recliner and sank back and lifted his feet.

“Home for the night, then?” I asked.

He leaned his head back and sighed, and I grabbed a throw blanket and tossed it to him.

“You are my favorite daughter.” As soon as he’d spread the blanket across his lap, Othello leaped up for a pet.

Dad held out his hand for Othello to sniff. “I’m sure it smells like doughnuts and greasy burgers,” he told the cat. “And sorry, no kitty bags.”

Othello seemed unconcerned with this as he melted into Dad’s gentle strokes. Soon I could hear his purr across the room.

“How’s the investigation coming?” I asked.

“Slow,” he said. “Liz, by any chance have you seen that old boyfriend of yours?”

“I wish you’d stop referring to him as my old boyfriend.”

“Fair enough. But have you seen him?”

I wagged my head. “I went over to his house to try and talk with him today, but he was gone. Even his sisters didn’t know where he went.”

“Do you think they’re telling the truth?” he asked.

I sat up a little straighter. I hadn’t considered that they might be hiding him. But as I mulled the question, I began a slow nod. “They seemed genuinely concerned for him. So much so, they even talked to me.”

“Learn anything?”

I shared with him all that I’d learned about Marya’s background.

“Good job, kiddo,” he said, his face beaming with approval. “Keep this up, I might have to put you on the payroll.”

“We already have a family business, remember.”

“And I hope you believe me that this time, I’m anxious to get back to it. Parts of me ache that I didn’t know I had. As soon as this investigation is over, one way or another, I’m back being the congenial retiree you know and love.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes.

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“Have you given any consideration to the idea that one of Marya’s competitors might have been angry enough to kill her? She ran such steep discounts that she drove business away from other stylists.”

He raised his eyelids, but only slightly. “You think one of the local stylists has turned into what, Jack the Clipper?”

“I’m being serious. And don’t you dare tell me to mullet over.”

“You’re such a tease.” He closed his eyes with a satisfied grin. “Are you speaking in general terms, or is there a specific stylist you think might have wanted to give Marya Young the permanent … die job?”

“A couple of women mentioned someone named Antoine. I thought I might go check him out.”

“And rob me of my favorite client?” he teased, then grew more serious. “Just don’t accuse him of anything or ask too many overtly obvious questions. But I doubt there’s anything there. Still, can you take someone with you, maybe?”

I instantly thought of Diana Oliveri, who’d been considering going back. “I think I can manage that.”

He didn’t reply. Moments later his breathing turned into a gentle snore.

I kissed him on the forehead and tucked the blanket in around his shoulders.

“I’ll take that as your parting comment,” I whispered.

*   *   *

The shop was hopping the following morning. I blamed a tour bus which dropped off its riders just a little too early for their lunch reservations, but without enough time to explore the huge five-and-dime. Our little shop swarmed with seniors.

One snowy-haired gentleman leaned over the enclosed case that held our tin soldiers. He tapped the case above one particularly bright metallic soldier. “I had a whole set of these. I used to line them up on the floor in battles for hours with my friend Timmy. We thought we were something, waging campaigns, sending in the artillery. We could almost smell the cordite in the air. I wish I could buy a set for my grandson.”

I winced. “You can still buy sets of toy soldiers, but if they’re for play I’d recommend recently manufactured ones. We only keep a few of these for collectors, and we suggest they be kept in a glass or Lucite case.”

“To protect them?”

“In part. If they’re stored in moist environments, like basements, the finishes easily dull. But more for safety. Many antique soldiers contain large amounts of lead. It’s not too much of an issue for the collector who isn’t likely to gnaw on them, but if you handled these a lot as a kid, you might want to be tested.”

“Wow.” And he backed away from the case as if the little men were about to jump out and wage an attack on him.

As he went on browsing through the rest of the store with his hands tucked behind his back, I cashed out the last of our Hayley Mills paper dolls, sold a stuffed Natasha (of Bullwinkle fame) doll to a woman actually named Natasha, and dickered over a remote controlled—via cable—Robbie the Robot, but we couldn’t compromise on a fair price, so the bargain hunter left disappointed and Robbie remained on our shelves.

The biggest sale of the morning was a set of figures labeled “The Swingers Music Set.” Despite the images on the front of the box bearing a significant resemblance to young versions of John, Paul, George, and Ringo, and the repeated phrase “Yeah, yeah, yeah” which was plastered all over the rest of it, no actual mention of “The Beatles” was found on this unlicensed item made in Hong Kong in the sixties. Wink, wink.

Before the rush, however, I’d managed to get a hold of Diana, then I’d called in two consecutive appointments for that afternoon at Antoine’s.

I also texted Lionel Kelley seven times, asking him when I could pick up the promised tape. No response.

Finally, he texted back: “With a client. Will have to postpone until tomorrow.”

That got me thinking. How many clients could a one-man PI firm have at a time? Might he be with the client who hired him to do the surveillance?

While I couldn’t stay glued to the door, I peeked out as often as business would allow, hoping to catch a glimpse of this mysterious client.

During one of these checks, Cathy arrived with a squalling Drew in the baby carrier in one arm and a garment bag in the other. “Thanks,” she mumbled, as I pushed open to door for her and took the carrier.

I wrestled Drew out of his snowsuit and tiny boots. “Going skiing, are we?” When I removed Drew’s little ski cap, his hair was matted down to his head with sweat.

“Maybe I overcompensated,” Cathy said, “but that wind cuts right through a person.”

Drew settled down quickly once all the extra layers were removed and soon was content in his swing. I told Cathy about my plans to visit Antoine.

“That’s a wonderful idea. A new hairstyle will go great with what’s in here.” She hung the garment bag on the shelf behind the counter and unzipped it. The effect was like Dorothy opening the farmhouse door in the Wizard of Oz. Everything in the shop seemed like grainy sepia compared to the vivid technicolor that was the dress.

I just stood there blinking at the silver-sequined cocktail dress that was reflecting all the light and colors in the shop.

“Too much?” she finally said.

My eyes took in the plunging neckline and the barely legal length. “Too much, and maybe too little, all at the same time. Cathy, where on earth would I wear that?” An apt question since you could probably see the glittery dress from space.

“On your date with Ian Browning tonight,” she said. “Isn’t that why you’re getting a new ’do?”

“To watch a bunch of little kids on stage in tutus?” I said. “I thought I’d go casual.”

Cathy’s eyes widened. “Not on opening night, and not when you’re going with Ian Browning. This performance is more than a podunk dance recital—the troupe has national recognition, and several dancers from it have gone on to professional ballet, and even to Broadway. They have an alumnus in Hamilton! Besides, opening night is when all the bigwigs will be there, and you’re going to be seated next to the biggest wig of all.”

I stopped to consider whether she was making a hair pun but decided she wasn’t. I took a closer look at the dress then squinted up at Cathy. “Are you sure I should get so … gussied up?” I asked, painfully remembering my parting shot to Ken’s sisters.

“Have I let you down? And since when do you say ‘gussied up’?”

“Apparently ever since I started chasing men.” I shook my head at the dress. “I hope he’s wearing sunglasses.”

On my next peek out the window, a shadowy coated figure was just leaving the PI office. He—or she—remained on the threshold chatting with Kelley long enough for me to grab my coat and tell Cathy I needed to run out for a moment.

He was a block ahead of me by the time I made it outside, and I had to walk at a pretty brisk pace to try to catch up.

With all the winter outerwear, I couldn’t make a positive ID, but from the gait and height I was pretty sure I was following a man.

I made a mental note. Dark pants. Checked coat. Blue ski cap. I’d narrowed the gap to half a block when he entered the pharmacy.

Perfect. I’d be able to go in, maybe buy some aspirin or a candy bar—or better yet, wrapping paper—and get a chance to see him up close. I slowed my pace so I wasn’t huffing when I entered the drugstore.

When I pulled open the door, the female clerk standing alone at the counter greeted me, barely audible over the upbeat holiday music. I waved back and then casually glanced down each aisle. The end caps were fully decked out for Christmas, and I passed by the replicas of the tree from A Charlie Brown Christmas and the “fragile” leg lamps from A Christmas Story. The next end cap featured personal grooming products scented like bacon. Bacon shampoo and body wash. They weren’t particularly Christmassy, but they might make a fun gag gift for Parker. There were, however, no customers in the aisle.

And the next? Empty.

I casually scanned every aisle without seeing another person.

It wasn’t until I arrived at the pharmacy at the back of the store that I noticed the checked coat hanging on a hook near where the pharmacist was filling a prescription.

The pharmacist, a man maybe in his fifties with a generous moustache, glanced up. I wasn’t sure I’d seen him before. “Can I help you?”

“No,” I said. “I just needed …” I turned around and grabbed the first item next to my hand, which upon closer inspection turned out to be wart remover. I guess it could have been worse. “Thanks anyway,” I said, making a mental note of the name plate displayed on the glass of the counter: “Charles Barr, pharmacist.”

I paid for my wrapping paper and wart cream at the front counter then added a peanut butter Lindt truffle to my purchase.

“Okay, Mr. Charles Barr,” I said to myself on the walk back. “Why did you hire a PI, and what was so interesting to you at the barber shop?”

*   *   *

I waited in my Civic in front of Antoine’s until Diana Oliveri pulled in behind me.

I’d almost lost my nerve as I scanned the extensive list of services placarded on the front of the building. Apparently Antoine did more than cut hair. He operated a full-service spa and offered mysterious, exotic treatments such as an Indian head massage, Famape, a Vichy shower massage, and threading. Some of his offerings sounded intimidating and others downright scary. I’d have to be careful what I agreed to.

“Remind me to check my birth certificate when I get home,” I said to Diana when she joined me on the sidewalk. “Just to make sure I’m really a girl.”

“Don’t worry,” Diana said. “There’s a card explaining everything inside, and it’s okay to just get a shampoo and cut. It’s all I usually do.”

Antoine, it turned out, was a fairly slight man, maybe five seven, and straight as a board. He wore tight-fitting black pants and a short-sleeved black shirt that revealed extensive tattoos snaking up both arms. A black leather holster around his waist held his haircutting tools. He spoke without a hint of an accent, but threw out phrases in French, like mon ami and bon vivant and ça va at random intervals, which I suspected was more branding than heritage.

Then again, the only French I knew was bon appétit and deja vu. Oh, and allons-y, but I learned that last one watching Doctor Who.

“Come in,” he said. “I have to apologize. My receptionist is … out getting lunch. Who’s first?”

I pushed—I mean allowed—Diana to go first.

While he clucked and cooed and pampered her, and gave her that shampoo she’d been drooling over, I wandered his shop.

The front was dedicated to product displays and empty waiting chairs, which might soon fill up again now that his main competition was dead. Considering the cost of the storefront, plus all the fancy equipment and doodads used to accomplish whatever medieval torture went on here, he must have been hurt financially by Marya’s undercutting prices.

And despite his claim that the receptionist “stepped out for lunch,” there were no personal items at the front desk. A Styrofoam cup didn’t have a hint of lipstick on it, and I couldn’t imagine a receptionist at an upscale salon went without. The phone was set on the left side of the desk, and when I glanced at Antoine as he began working on Diana’s hair, he was holding his scissors in his left hand.

My guess was that he’d had to let his receptionist go months ago. Along with his cleaning service. The haircutting area was freshly swept. That, he’d have to do quite often. But debris lined the walls in the waiting area, and cobwebs wove in among the chair legs. And running a finger along the tops of the pricy products all lined up on the racks left traces of dust on my fingertips.

Antoine was clearly hurting.

“Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he said when he called me back. “Or is it madame?”

Okay, I knew that, too. “The first one.”

Diana grabbed my arm and held me back while Antoine cleaned his station. “Don’t risk it,” she whispered. “In the old country we used to say if a broom touches your feet, no man will come to sweep you off your feet.”

I somehow doubted too many of my problems with the opposite sex were broom-related, but I humored her and waited.

Once he finished sweeping, Antoine gestured toward his chair, and I climbed in.

“And what can we do for you today?” While he said this he gave my hair a thorough inspection.

“Just a cut today, please. A trim, really. Nothing too drastic.”

“You don’t want something a little fresher? A little more chic, perhaps, maybe for the holidays? Some special event?”

“Well, I do have a date tonight.” Famous last words.

With that, Antoine was off and running. I’ll have to admit, Diana was right about the shampoo and deep conditioning. Many more of those and my life might lose its G-rating.

I took my glasses off while he began cutting. Second mistake. I didn’t realize that he’d gone way past the trim I’d asked for until the razor came out for the back of my neck. By then it was too late, so I held my tongue while he pulled out the straightening iron and went to town.

“Voila!” he said with a flourish, and I was finally able to put on my glasses and see what he’d done.

My hair, I had to admit, perfectly framed my face, making me look like I’d dropped those twenty pounds I keep talking about. The style, a bit longer in the front and super short in the back, was probably inspired by some model or actress. I had to admit that the overall effect was pleasing enough, but the stranger in the mirror wasn’t quite me.

Diana came up behind me and gaped at my hair in the mirror. “Ooh-la-la.”

“C’est magnifique, eh?” Antoine said, pivoting the chair so I could see the rest of it, what there was of it.

Antoine leaned in until I saw his face next to mine in the mirror. “Only for the date, we wear contacts, yes?” He pulled off my glasses. “And maybe we do the makeup, too. Fix the eyebrows a little?”

This wasn’t really a question, and I squinted at his list of services to see how much the makeover would set me back financially as Antoine gathered his supplies.

“You sure you have time?” I hedged.

He pointed to the empty waiting room. “Slow afternoon. You caught me at a good time.”

“I imagine things will pick up now,” I ventured. “Considering what happened.”

“I usually get a run just before the holidays.”

“I meant with Marya Young,” I said.

Antoine waved off my comment as if Marya meant nothing to him. “Apples and oranges. Marya cut hair cheap. I can’t say I didn’t lose clients. But good riddance. The competition made me branch out to a full-service spa.”

“But now perhaps a few of them will trickle back.”

“And if they do, they pay a bit more, eh?” He froze. “Who cut your hair? Was that … sheepdog look … Marya’s work?”

“Oh, no. My … relative cut it for me. Just does a little on the side.”

He forced my head back to the mirror. “You want to look like a sheepdog, you go to a relative who cuts hair on the side. You want to look like a sleek, beautiful woman? You come to Antoine. N’est-ce pas?”

I somehow croaked out an agreement but had to stop while he started working on my lips.

“Pout,” he said, squeezing my cheeks so that my lips puckered. “And hold it there.” He leaned back. “Pouting suits you. You should do it more often.”

“Not sure my father would agree,” I said. “Getting back to Marya …”

He put his hands on his hips. “Must we go there?”

“No,” I said but went there anyway. “I just wondered how she made a living charging so little.”

“At first, I thought it was bait and switch. Give discounts to new clients and then once they’re there, charge them more. But the discounts just continued. She must have been making peanuts.”

“Her husband seemed to think she had quite a bit of money coming in.”

“That may be so,” Antoine said, smiling at his work in the mirror, just before whisking off the cloth that protected my clothing. “But she didn’t get it by cutting hair.”

*   *   *

I somehow made it through the rest of the afternoon without touching my face and hair. I avoided eating or drinking anything lest I mar my lipstick, although the high-grade stuff he used seemed like I might still be trying to scrub it off a week later. I did take a few selfies, just in case I wanted to replicate what he did later. I even did one pouting, just to see if it suited me.

I waited by the back door for Ian to arrive. I already figured Cathy would be aghast if I wore my old coat, and I’d be freezing waiting outside in the short dress and heels. Especially now with the bare neck.

I wasn’t sure what kind of car to expect. Ian Browning was loaded. Would he pick me up in a private limo? Or maybe a sleek sports car.

When the Toyota Prius pulled in behind the shop, I almost ignored it. Not until Ian climbed out of the driver’s seat did I push open the back door.

“Your chariot awaits,” he said.

“I didn’t know that was you,” I admitted.

“This okay?” he said. “My father seems content to squander his money on one of those high-falluting gas guzzlers, but this one is my choice.”

“No, it’s fine with …” I stopped when I realized I was getting a head-to-toe inspection. A blush would have been welcome, considering the chill in the air.

“Did you do something different?” He gestured to his own head.

“Tried a new hair stylist.”

“I approve.” He pulled open the car door.

The conversation on the way to the restaurant felt stilted. I noticed that he avoided the self-park and chose the valet service, tipping them well. He straightened his tie. “They have to eat, too.”

While Cathy might have chosen a show-stopping dress, she hadn’t considered one aspect: how much it would ride up my legs when I sat down. At the restaurant, I could at least cover my lap with a napkin. Sitting front row in a theater full of children? I wished I’d brought a bigger purse.

“So,” he said, after the waiter had taken our orders and menus. “This is the date that might not be a date, depending on whether or not we hit it off.”

“I think that was the agreement.”

“Then let’s not waste any time.” He leaned forward, resting his cheek against his palm. “Where have you been all my life? Right here, above the toyshop?”

I wondered if his question was a veiled Sabrina reference, but I left it alone. Instead, I told him about growing up as the daughter of the town’s chief of police.

At the next lull, I thought about hitting him up for grant money, but that felt rushed. “So what is it that you do exactly?” I asked. “I mean I know about the foundation. And I know you’re doing some work on Jack’s place.”

“Jack Wallace is one of my oldest friends.”

“Mine, too,” I said, leaving out the past romantic interest.

Ian squinted. “He’s been hiding you from me, I think.” He laughed. “But basically, I work for my father. It seems he’s amassed a pretty penny and needed someone to manage it for him, eventually. So Mom and Dad spawned one heir, raised him with the best tutors and private schools, and sent him off to Harvard Business School. Am I boring you yet?”

I shook my head.

“So my job, at least right now, is to assume control of his various assets, drop by drop, to make sure I can ‘manage them appropriately.’ To my father’s way of thinking, that means doing everything exactly the way he would—and bringing even more filthy lucre into the family coffers, of course.”

“But you run a charitable foundation,” I said. “That has to be costing you money.”

He ran his finger along the blunt edge of his knife. “You call it charity. My father calls it a tax write-off. And he only put me in charge of that because he was tired of dealing with the begging.”

“I see.”

“By the look on your face, I don’t think you do,” he said. “I enjoy the foundation work. It makes some of the other pointless things I do more palatable. In fact, I’d like to do more of it.” He leaned in with his elbows against the table. “The conglomerate my father built is a bit stale. Stuck back in the last millennium. Doing what they’ve always done. Business today needs a different feel. Less impersonal. More socially responsible. Millennials want companies to have hearts and faces and ideals.”

“And you’d like to be the heart and face of the company?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Someone has to. It’ll all be mine someday, so why not?”

“So the charitable foundation …”

“Puts a more human face on the Browning name,” he said. “Look, like anyone in business, my father has made a few enemies. He’s beaten competitors out of contracts, had disputes with former employees. When you start giving back to the community in a meaningful way, focus shifts from that negative past to the positive things you’re doing now. And people get helped. It’s a win-win.”

I nodded, unsure what to say. I suspected “meaningful ways” meant with lots of fanfare and cameras, and that just wasn’t how I was taught to help people.

“My turn,” he said. “Is working with toys what you want to do the rest of your life?”

The question took me a little by surprise. “I’m not sure,” I finally said. “Don’t get me wrong. I do like toys. But the thing that makes my job special is working with family. Toys were my dad’s hobby a long time before we opened the shop, and I like to see him when he’s working on them. He’s relaxed and carefree. Maybe a little bit boyish.” I thought of the times I’d spent working with Cathy and Miles, and even Amanda and Kohl. And the game nights when we shared our shop with the community. “Yes,” I said. “I think I do.”

He took a sip of his water then stared at the glass. I doubted I gave him the answer he was looking for. Our food came, interrupting his reverie.

After a few bites, I carefully blotted my lips. “Can I ask you about our project?”

“No.”

“No? I thought you said—”

“I said you could pitch me your project if we didn’t hit it off. On the contrary, I’m enjoying getting to know you. And I never do business on a first date.”

“Not even attend a charitable function?” I teased.

“Okay, you got me. I’m a hypocrite. But only because I was in a rush to see you, and I had two tickets. Tell you what. You can pitch your project to me on our second date. Fair?”

I agreed, and small talk ensued. And by “small talk,” I mean that Ian told me more about what he might accomplish when every Browning business was under his expert management, and I nodded politely.

When we reached the theater, Ian pulled down the mirror and adjusted his hair and tie before getting out of the car. It didn’t take long to see why, as media cameras were soon focused on him. I tried to get out of the way, but he had a firm grip on my arm. So I flashed a smile, tried not to look too uncomfortable, and hoped that some kindly photo editor somewhere would crop me out entirely.

The Nutcracker, on the other hand, proved delightful. Just as Cathy had predicted, the dancers in the performance were talented and well rehearsed. I was happy to note that the glossy printed program, which bore the Browning Foundation name in several prominent places, was large enough to set on my lap, so I didn’t end up indecently exposing the minors as I sat in the front row.

When we parked in the alley next to the dumpster, Ian turned to me. “Invite me up for coffee?”

I looked up at the upper floors and noted the light on. “I’d better not. Dad’s home, and he’s, well, armed.”

“Armed?”

I chuckled. “It’s funny now, but so tragic in high school. I’d come home from dates, and there he’d be, standing right in the window that looked out over our front porch.”

“Lots of parents are like that.”

“Cleaning their guns?”

“No coffee then.” He climbed out of the car and opened my car door.

When we stood by the back door he looked up, noted that there was no clear line of sight from upstairs, due to the awning and the growing icicles, then he pressed me up against the door and kissed me.

Two thoughts struck me. One, he’d done this before, and often. And two, the metal door was cold.

“I’ll text you.” He winked.

“Goodnight, Ian.”