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Fifty
Madison looked at her reflection in the mirror. A cosmetician was buzzing around her chair in the salon, like a hawk swooping around its prey. The woman held a makeup brush in slender, manicured fingers and was poised to take action.
Cynthia sat in the chair next to Madison with her hair in curlers. She seemed to be having the time of her life, and the primping was just getting started. She’d always taken more kindly to the girlie stuff than Madison had.
Cynthia’s photographer, Harold, was bouncing around taking random shots of the beautifying process, and Madison would have loved to bop him on the nose. It was one thing to be caught up in the whole girlie thing and another for it to be recorded. She guessed that was the price she’d have to pay for being the maid of honor.
With that thought, guilt snaked through her. She should focus on how grateful she was to be a part of Cynthia’s big day. If Cynthia had chosen wisely, it would be her only wedding day. That was the plan, but as the saying went: man plans, and God laughs.
Madison was doing her best to keep her mind from veering to the case, but it was hard. Terry was at the station, and he was to notify her the moment he received the subpoena or got anywhere with tracking down Michael Carter.
“So...I’m thinking shades of plum for your eyes.” The cosmetician stepped back, sizing up Madison. “It will match your dress and your nails,” she added, as if looking at Madison for input.
Madison looked down at her hands—her nails already decked with polish—and tucked them under the cape the hairdresser had on her, even though she wasn’t getting a haircut.
“What do you say?” the cosmetician asked.
“Sure.” She’d trust the lady’s judgment. After all, beauty was this woman’s arena while Madison’s was solving murder. Something she was feeling like a bit of a failure at right now.
“Excellent,” the woman cooed and started applying the warpaint. “We always do makeup first, then hair.”
A useless piece of trivia Madison discarded immediately.
“Except for the bride.” Cynthia’s hairdresser spoke up as she was working her magic with Cynthia’s long, dark locks and starting to unravel the curlers.
“She’s right,” Madison’s cosmetician agreed. “I’ll be using a powdered foundation for your friend. We’ll want a natural glow, yes?” The woman turned to Cynthia.
“Please,” Cynthia said, passing a smile to Madison.
She returned the expression, though Madison didn’t really know anything much about makeup. She applied liquid foundation in the morning, but otherwise, it was out the door au naturelle including her wake-up-and-wear-it short hairstyle. On good days, she ran a comb through it.
Another hairdresser came up to Madison as the cosmetician was working on her face. The hairdresser put her fingers through Madison’s hair and ran them up the length, which was only a few inches. Disappointment soured her expression. Madison didn’t have anywhere near the locks Cynthia had.
Nothing like time at the salon to make one overly self-conscious about her appearance. For Madison, being here was the equivalent to sitting in the dentist’s chair—just as uncomfortable and pretty much as painful as a root canal without Novocain.
“It shouldn’t take any amount of time to style your hair,” the hairdresser declared.
That conclusion sparked hope. She could be out of this chair before she knew it.
Madison’s phone pinged, and she worked to get it out of her jeans pocket. It was a text message from Terry.
Third set of prints from Lynch’s car just added to the system and it ties to the Boyd murders
Madison wriggled, wanting to get up.
“Just sit still, please,” the cosmetician told her, coming at Madison’s face with a makeup brush. “You have very dry skin, especially around your nostrils.”
“I have a cold.” At least she was feeling a lot better today. Whatever was in the decongestants she was taking seemed to be working.
“Ah, well, that explains it.”
Her phone blipped again.
Are you getting this
Madison texted back a quick yes.
Her cosmetician set down the brush, dipped her finger in moisturizer, and dabbed it around Madison’s nose. Sitting here for this was torture. She shifted in her seat again.
“Still, please,” the woman repeated, a little heat to her tone.
After two hours of being primped and prodded, a stranger looked back at Madison in the mirror. There was enough makeup on her face to do her for the next several years.
“You’re beautiful, Maddy,” Cynthia told her.
She looked over at her friend, and her breath caught. The curlers had all been taken out, and her friend’s long hair fell in beautiful twisted strands.
“Lou’s going to faint when he catches sight of you.” She smiled.
A bell on the salon’s front door chimed, and Madison looked that way to see her partner coming toward her.
“Terry?” she gasped, and glanced over at Cynthia, back to Terry. “What are you doing here?”
Cynthia scowled. “Yes, Terry, what are you doing here?”
“We’ve got a location on Michael Carter.”
Madison ripped off her cape and got to her feet. “How did—”
“Oh, no, you’re not going anywhere,” Cynthia said preemptively, looking at Madison. “You can’t leave me.”
“The subpoena came back, and I heard from the credit card company,” Terry said, “I got a working phone number and tracked it down.”
“Why not just go to the address? You know what? Never mind.”
“Well, if I had, he wouldn’t have been there.”
“Where is he, then?”
“You might not believe me when I tell you, but let’s go pick him up.”
“Terry,” Cynthia barked and snapped her fingers, “you go get him. She’s busy.”
Madison regarded her friend with the softest of eyes. “I’ll make this quick. Catch the bad guy, get back in time for the wedding.” Madison formed prayer hands.
“Fine, go. I should know better than to stop you. Go catch the bad guy,” Cynthia grumbled but flashed a half-smile.
Madison kissed her friend’s cheek. “I’ll be back in plenty of time. I promise.”
“You better be, or you’ll be dead.”
Madison ran from the salon with Terry and jacked a thumb behind her. “You heard her.”
“Yeah, and I believe her.”