I made a couple of calls before I wrote the twelve-inch story on “Hugh McMullen: Murder Suspect.” One of the calls was to Chief Donohue.
Donohue confirmed that Hugh McMullen was a “person of interest, though not a suspect at this time.” What was this “person of interest” stuff? He declined to comment on the Smith & Wesson or the Smith & Wesson bullet found in Price’s body and he mumbled something about reporters knowing too much too soon and screwing everything up. I called in the story to Mr. Salvo with the caveat that I would add a response from Chrissy Price when I spoke to her.
I was a little early to meet with Chrissy, so I thought I’d pay a surprise “guess what? I survived the kiln” visit to Hugh McMullen at the inn.
Now, I’ve read in certain women’s magazines that to be treated like a professional, a career girl has to dress like a professional. Charcoal, black or navy suits. Sensible, expensive shoes. A tasteful scarf, perhaps. Discreet gold earrings and nail polish of a neutral color.
Then again, that depends on the profession.
I sauntered up to the counter in my beige leatherette miniskirt, my bare, smoothly shaven legs, red pumps and a black tank sweater that was so tight you could make out my internal organs. Leaning invitingly and, okay, I was putting on the slut, revealingly, over the front counter, I asked the white-suited clerk with the yellow bow tie if he could direct me to Mr. McMullen’s room.
“Oh, aren’t you adorable.” He bit the end of his pen. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re a reporter trying to pass as a quote-unquote lady of the night.”
“No, I’m, I’m . . .”
“Speechless, I know.” The clerk flapped his hand. “Honey, if you only knew how many reporters have tried that shtick. We had George Hamilton stay here last week doing dinner theater and twice the food editor of the local rag walked in wearing ‘come fun me’ shoes and . . . Well, let me just stress that this woman was the food editor. Two-hundred-fifty-pounds on spiked mules is not an appetizing sight. I’ve been served escargot that was more attractive.”
I was crestfallen. I was so certain I looked like a bona fide hooker. Where had I gone wrong?
“Buck up,” he said. “I had an unfair advantage. Mr. McMullen left the building for dinner an hour ago. I wouldn’t have let you up to his room, anyway.”
“Ahhh.”
“Now run along,” he said, “it’s still early. I’ve got many more members of the press to fend off after you.”
Down, but not out, I walked over to a map by the elevator to locate Room 500, the temporary residence of Chrissy Price. I had just found the spot when I heard someone behind me say, “Bubbles? Is that you?”
Myron Finkle, my short, curly-headed friend from the Slagville Sentinel, stood behind me holding a Diet Pepsi and looking glum.
“Hi, Myron, what are you doing here?”
“Babysitting the Price story. I’m supposed to hang around on this, a Friday night, and watch who goes in, who goes out. It totally sucks. No wonder I don’t have a social life.” He took me in from head to toe. “What are you doing?”
To tell Myron that I was on my way to an exclusive interview with Chrissy Price would have been cruel and unusual treatment of a cub reporter. “Thought I’d take a shot at McMullen,” I jerked my thumb to the clerk, “though Mr. Bald Spot wouldn’t tell me what room he’s in.”
“No problemo.” Myron took a sip of Diet Pepsi. “He’s right under the Prices. Room 400, Tower Two. I practically live there. Or, rather, the hallway outside his door. I once counted the carpet stains, I got so bored hanging around. I’ll show you where to go.”
He led me by the elbow to two elevators. “I use the second one. It’s faster.”
“So,” I said after the door closed, “how many carpet stains are there?”
“Six.” Myron raised his eyebrows. “And one’s mustard.”
The elevators opened on floor four. “This way,” Myron said, leading me through the maze of hallways. “It took me an hour to find his room. Whoever designed this place must’ve been a rat.”
“Kinda funny how he’s right under Chrissy Price.”
“Hugh wouldn’t have to stay in a hotel if he hadn’t sold the family mansion here last year. Supposedly he didn’t want it because he spent most of his time back in Pittsburgh. But I’d heard he’d been having serious financial problems. He unloaded it for less than its tax-assessed value.”
Room 400 was at the end of the hall and private. Myron rapped on the door.
“Sounds like voices,” I whispered.
“CNN,” Myron said. “It’s on all the time. I don’t know how room service gets through. He never answers his door.”
This time I tried knocking, hard. Still no answer. I checked my Timex. Shoot. It was 8:05. Chrissy Price was probably wondering where I was. Maybe she only had a few minutes to spare and I was blowing my Big Break. “Gotta go, Myron. I’m late.”
“For what?”
I thought fast. I didn’t want Myron tagging along stealing my exclusive, even if he was a nice guy. “Got to meet someone at the bar across the street. An old newspaper buddy in town for the story.” I headed down the hall.
“Wait. I’ll join you.” Myron ran up to me. “I’ve been here for twenty hours. I deserve some R&R. I’d love to meet some newspaper buddies.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” I spun around and put my hands on Myron’s shoulders. “You’ve got to stay. It’s your assignment. What if your editor found out that you’d gone to a bar and then McMullen entered the hotel, looking to chat. That’s grounds for automatic firing.”
Myron bit his lip. “I guess you’re right. I am still on probation. I just graduated from school in May.”
“So they don’t even need a reason to can you.”
“Maybe you’re just saying that because you don’t want to be seen with me.” Myron pushed up his glasses. “I’m not much of a player, you know.”
“A talented, ambitious college man like yourself? Why, I’d be honored.” I traced his baby smooth face with a baby pink nail. “And perhaps when you’re off shift we can get together. Later, at my place.” I winked and Myron went all to goo.
“Sure,” he said as I walked slowly backward down the hall.
As soon as I turned the corner, I dashed to the elevator, praying fervently that he hadn’t come to his senses.
One floor up, I followed the same maze pattern to find Chrissy Price’s penthouse suite. This time I had barely knocked before the door flew open.
“Finally!” shrieked a teenage girl with long brown hair. She grabbed my hand and yanked me into a spacious, airy hotel suite decorated in various shades of white and mauve.
“I was so dying for you to get here. I’m Sasha by the way. I don’t know if Chrissy mentioned me. I’m her daughter.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “She left a message for me at the salon.”
Sasha was already at the end of the short hallway. “We were so glad you called. I was like desperate. I set up a spot for you right here, if that’s okay.”
I followed her into a typical hotel master bedroom that had been personalized with big white and gray feathers taped above the bed and around the mirrors. Several rock and sand displays were scattered about, along with a tiny waterfall that cascaded in a plastic pool by the telephone. A tape of breezes rustling through leaves played from a small boom box on the TV and the room reeked of the many eucalyptus branches stuck here and there. It must have taken Chrissy hours to unpack and arrange this stuff.
“My mother.” Sasha rolled her eyes and twirled a shiny black rock. “She is like totally into this desert Native American stuff. Hawks and rocks, I call it. Especially after Bud’s death. I think she’s trying to find spiritual meaning or something.”
Spiritual meaning after her husband’s murder? How dare she.
Sasha, in contrast, seemed unaffected by Bud’s death as she plunked herself before a well-lighted vanity. A comb, hairbrush, and flat iron lay waiting along with several magazine photos of models that had been ripped out and displayed. She started sorting through the magazine pictures. “I assume you brought your own scissors. You guys usually do.”
“Us guys?” I threw my purse down.
“Yeah, hairdressers.” She held up a photo of Jennifer Aniston. “She’s totally Pixie Stix but her hair is killer. Think you can pull it off?”
I sat on a Navajo blanket on the bed and studied Sasha in the mirror. She was about Jane’s age, though tanner and slenderer in a sleek country club kind of way. She wore a black J. Crew sweater, Juicy Couture jeans and a silver Tiffany heart bracelet that cost about my monthly payment on the Camaro. Her straight brown hair lay neatly on her shoulders and hardly seemed in need of a trim. At least not forty-eight hours after her father had been murdered.
Unless—unless her desperation was more than vanity. Once I had a client named Emma Herman make a hair appointment the day her mother died suddenly of a heart attack. All she wanted was for me to brush her hair over and over. For one hour I brushed while she cried and reminisced. At the end of her appointment she was purged, refreshed and, it sounds crass, pretty conditioned. Hair care can be very therapeutic. There should be a clause in health insurance for it.
“Sasha,” I said softly, “I think there’s been a mistake. I was under the impression your mother was returning my request for a newspaper interview.”
Sasha put down Jennifer and eyed me in the mirror. “Newspaper interview?”
“I’m a reporter.”
“But you’re also a hairdresser, right? When your message said to call you at the salon, we figured you were a hairdresser.”
“Oh I see.” Shoot. I hadn’t been called to the inn to interview Chrissy at all.
“Okay, so no brainer. Chrissy’s not even here. She’s out planning Bud’s memorial service next week in the woods or whatever it is she’s been doing every night. I’ve hardly seen her since Bud corked. Anyway, she totally hates reporters.” Sasha nodded, satisfied. “So, how about an inch off the bottom? And these bangs. I can’t take them anymore. You can straighten afterward.”
Straighten? Her hair didn’t have so much as a wave, not even a tiny ripple.
“I like it jet straight,” she said, reading my mind.
What the hell. I opened my purse and pulled out the plastic sheath that holds my $400 scissors to prepare for my good deed of the day.
“I’m awfully sorry about your father,” I said, combing out her hair.
“Oh, he’s not my father.” Sasha thumbed through a Cosmo. “My mother married him when I was like ten. I barely knew him. He would have nothing to do with me. Even refused to let me eat dinner with them.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No. He despises—I guess that’s despised—kids. Part of their prenup was that I could live under the same roof and he would pay for anything Mom wanted me to have—clothes, boarding school, a horse, Sail Caribbean—as long as Bud didn’t have to act like a parent. You didn’t bring any Miracle Whip, did you?”
“What for?”
“To put on my face.” Sasha ran her fingers over her cheeks. “I do it at home. Sounds gross but it really exfoliates your skin. Do you think I should get highlights?”
“Your hair is beautiful. My daughter Jane’s hair is like this, except, uh, bluer.”
“My mother won’t let me go blue. Though one of these days I’m going to do it. I’m very impulsive. Everyone says so.” She licked her finger and flipped rapidly past the articles to more photos while I pinned up her hair. She must mainline Starbucks, this kid.
“But then Donatello, that’s my boyfriend, threatened to dump me if I went blue or pink and you know, that was that.” She let out a long, lovelorn sigh. “I can’t wait to get back to Donatello. He’s picking me up Sunday and taking me back to school.”
I bent over and began cutting away.
“Your daughter have a boyfriend?” she asked, not really paying attention to the Cosmo. “What’s her name again?”
“Jane.” I unclipped another swatch of hair so that it fell down in one loop. “Her boyfriend’s name is G. He wants her to go grape picking in France.”
“Tight.” Sasha gave me a thumbs up in approval. “Sounds like they’re hot ’n heavy.”
I pulled out my razor. “Too hot ’n heavy. Although at her age I was married.”
“Preggers?”
“Yup.” I combed up some hair and began razoring. “One night stand at a fraternity party. Let that be a lesson to you.”
“Oh, I don’t have to worry. Donatello and I don’t have sex. At least,” she crossed her legs, “not, you know, that way. More like in a President Clinton, Monica Lewinsky way.”
Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three. Teenager testing. I dropped the strand and moved onto the next, pretending that I hadn’t heard this classic shocker. “These bangs too short?”
“Just fine.” She eyed me in the mirror to get a bead on whether I was up for another zinger. “You think your daughter is having sex?”
I removed a bobby pin from my mouth. “She tells me she’s not.”
“Then she is.”
“Hmmm.”
“Most of my friends would die rather than tell their mothers they were sleeping around. We’d much rather get on our knees.”
“Ouch.” I had touched the iron to see if it was hot and nearly burned myself. “That sounds uncomfortable.” I clamped a plait of hair in the iron and slid it through. I did not want to imagine Jane on her knees to G. Frankly, Jane was too smart and beautiful and dignified to be on her knees for any man, much less a potbellied couch potato with an addiction to chocolate frosted Pop Tarts.
“It’s safe. Can’t get pregnant and he’s happy. Plus, I get to remain a virgin. Technically.”
“And that’s important?” I moved on to another swath of hair. This was all going to be ruined when she slept, anyway.
“I’ll say it’s important.” Sasha nodded. “Abstinence is very big these days. We all signed abstinence pledges back in ninth grade.” Giggle.
When I was done with her, Sasha looked much the same as when I had arrived, except a few split ends were missing and her hair hung like sheet metal. She seemed not at all interested in the cut she had so desperately desired a half hour before.
“If you want, I can find out for you about Jane. I’m an excellent detective.” Her eyes glistened. Finally, some drama to break the monotony of sitting in a hotel room while her mother gallivanted about. “You wanna give me Jane’s number?”
Might not be a bad idea for Jane and Sasha to get together. Of course, Sasha would drive Jane up a wall, but my motherly instincts told me Sasha wasn’t as blasé about Bud’s death or her mother’s absence as she’d like me to believe. She needed a peer to talk with. A normal teenager with Kool-Aid colored hair and cartilage piercings and a que sera sera attitude about higher education. I wrote down the number and address of the Main Mane and picked up some of the hair.
“Don’t worry, maid service will get it in the morning,” she said. “I never pick up anything. Never have. Never will.”
The phone rang and Sasha rushed to get it. “Donatello? Oh, hi, Mom,” she said with exaggerated disappointment.
I cleaned the vanity and threw the ends in the trash while Sasha answered her mother with clipped yeses and nos.
“That was my Mom,” she said, hanging up. “She won’t be in tonight so I guess that’s ixnay on the intervieway.”
Great. An entire evening wasted. I could have been in bed where my aching body longed to be. Instead I’d cut a rich kid’s hair for free and was made to look like a chump. I gathered my purse and was considering leaving a sharp message for Chrissy Price when I thought better of it. She’d lost her husband this week. This was no time for lectures.
“Maybe I’ll call your daughter tomorrow,” Sasha said at the door. “I can’t take another day in this hotel. I’ve seen the same Sex and the City episode five times.”
In the elevator, I took off my shoes and rubbed my aching feet. When I got back to Roxanne’s I was gonna make me one of those mouthwatering meat-loaf sandwiches on Wonder Bread dripping with mayonnaise and ketchup. Get me a can of Diet Pepsi, a bag of chips and a perfect position in the Barcalounger to watch some brain-numbing television. Most important, I was gonna put my feet up.
“Ah, Miss Yablonsky?” The desk clerk flagged me down as I walked through the lobby. “There’s a message for you.”
Cripes. Probably Hugh McMullen. Back from dinner and anxious to get hold of Stinky. The clerk slid the message over to me. It said simply Meet me in room 315. I’ve got what you want.
“Who’s in room 315?” I asked.
The clerk shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Man or a woman?”
“Man. You’ll just have to take your chances, dear.” The clerk returned to flipping through a Rolodex.
“What am I, James Bond?” I asked, waving the message. “I don’t want to go up to a strange man’s hotel room.”
The clerk glanced up from his filing. “And here I thought you wanted to become a hooker.”
The door to room 315 was slightly ajar when I arrived. I knocked twice and clutched my purse. I’d knock one more time and then leave. With the third knock the door opened wider to a pitch black room. Forget it. No story, no scoop was worth this.
I turned on my heels and was grabbed from behind, a hand over my mouth. The door was kicked shut and my attacker held me firm. Nuh-uh. No way was I going to be attacked. Not before getting the first decent night’s sleep in two days.
I brought up my heel and back kicked him in the nuts. There was an expulsion of air. Oof. As he buckled, his grip loosened enough for me to elbow him hard, yes, in the ribs. Twice for good measure. That self-defense lesson at the YWCA had paid for itself and then some.
He let go and his back hit the wall. I swung my purse and hit the shadow of his head as hard as I could. The purse opened, spilling my wallet and car keys and cosmetics everyplace. I reached inside and pulled out the can of Final Net at the bottom, then gave him a good long spray in the face.
“Take that, you scum.”
“Stop it!” he said, gasping. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I ran my hand over the wall and found the light switch. Stiletto was leaning against the wall, clutching his sides. His hair glistened with fresh shellac. Definitely Mel Gibson in the What Women Want stage.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know it was you.” Then I got ticked. “What was that with the hand over my mouth, anyway? And the darkness?”
“Didn’t you see the candles?” He pointed over to the living room at the rear of the suite. It was filled with candles and fresh flowers. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket next to two crystal flutes.
“But how did you find out I was here?”
“I called Salvo. He told me about your meeting with Hugh McMullen in the chapel and how he was worried that he had upset you by pointing out that stupid photo in the New York Times Style section.” Stiletto coughed and straightened. “I decided it was time I paid you extra attention before you ran off with some brawny coal miner. Though I’m not sure I should try to surprise you anymore.”
Stiletto’s trademark white oxford shirt was unbuttoned. I slid my arms around his neck. He smelled the way I liked him. Ivory soap and freshly ironed cotton.
“I love your surprises,” I whispered. “I’m knocked off my feet.”
“Too late now,” he grumbled, “you’ve ruined it.”
“Oh, have I?” I kissed him right below the ear.
“Lower.”
I kissed him on the neck, by his pulsing carotid.
“Keep going.”
And on his collarbone, parting his shirt to run my lips down his sternum to his navel.
“That’s okay,” he said, closing his eyes in anticipation, “you don’t have to stop.”
“I think before that I deserve some champagne, don’t you?”
“At least.” And he brought me to him, wrapping me in his arms so that his bare chest was hard against mine. “Regarding the New York Times Style section, don’t listen to Tony Salvo, okay?”
“I never listen to editors. You taught me that. Editors are finks.”
He cupped my chin and kissed me long and slow. “Editors are the human equivalent of vampires,” he murmured. “They will suck out every good story idea and every creative approach to getting a good story until you’re nothing but a hack.”
“I like the sucking part, but what does this have to do with us?”
Stiletto led me over to the couch and candles and flowers. He sat me down and unwrapped a ten-year-old bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne. “Newspaper editors also expect the worst out of life. They crave it. They want buildings to burn and people to get shot. Makes their jobs a lot easier. After twenty years of hoping for the worst, they expect the same about people in love. It’s habit.”
I watched as Stiletto expertly tipped the champagne into the glass. How many women had sat next to him with their glasses ready, his shirt open, and their mutual expectations high?
“Bubbles for Bubbles,” Stiletto said, clinking his glass against mine.
The champagne went down cold and delicious. I hadn’t really eaten anything since Mona’s Wonder Gobbler with Slime and knew that I had to watch it. I could get tipsy.
“But, you know, Mr. Salvo does have a point,” I said, placing my glass far away from me on the coffee table.
“I have a point,” Stiletto said, grinning like a schoolboy. “Would you like to see it?”
“I’m sure plenty of other women have.”
“Ouch.” Stiletto sat back. “What’s gotten into you? First you beat me up physically and then you batter me about verbally? What did I do wrong?”
Ran off with Esmeralda Greene for one thing. I kept mum about that, though. Some men, men like Stiletto, do not respond well to what might be misinterpreted as jealousy. It either makes them mad or goes to their heads or both.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t help it that every woman in Slagville from the old ladies sweeping their sidewalks to the clients in Roxanne’s salon drool after you.”
“Bubbles. In case you haven’t noticed,” Stiletto slid his arm along the back of the couch behind me, “men drool after you, too. Do you know what it’s like to walk down a street with Bubbles Yablonsky? I’ve witnessed near car crashes because men behind the wheel cannot keep their eyes on the road when you strut by.”
I leaned forward and took another teensy weensy bit of that champagne. “Go on.”
Stiletto smiled and stroked my chin. “That goes for me, too. It’s all I can do to keep my hands off you when you’re around. We’re in a coal mine after surviving an explosion and I think, ‘I’ve got to kiss her.’ ”
And he did just that, pushing me back on the couch as he did so. “You were lying on the cot when I got out of the mine and the first thought that ran across my mind was, ‘Maybe I can lock the doors and get her alone.’ ”
He bent closer. His blue eyes were no longer twinkling, but piercing. The crow’s feet were deep with age and experience, but every part of him felt strong and hard under my hands. And I mean every part.
“I have got to have you, Bubbles,” he said, his hand sliding over my arms. “I can’t stand it a minute longer. These aren’t just words to get you into bed. This isn’t curiosity. I’ve been through that, Bubbles. I’m done with that. This is—”
I couldn’t take it. I gripped his shoulders and brought him to me. Our tongues entwined, hot and crazy. I kicked off my shoes and wrapped my legs around his calves, sinking deep into the couch. I tore off his shirt and he pulled off mine.
“Christ, Bubbles,” was all he said before letting his head drop to my chest. His lips were maddening, purposefully caressing every spot except that one. I let out a stifled scream as his thumbs explored under my bra and ripped it off. Hooks went flying.
“Yessss,” I hissed.
“I love you,” he said.
Don’t talk, I thought. Don’t stop! The skirt. The skirt. Take . . . off . . . the skirt.
Mind reader that Stiletto has always been, his hands slid up my thighs and then stopped at the very top, his fingers playfully tormenting me. The only satisfaction was in feeling the pressure of his own unleashed desire, which appeared to support Stiletto’s frequent claims of abundance.
Let’s help that boy out. My own fingers worked the belt buckle and slid down the zipper. Naughty, naughty, Stiletto. What was it with him and no underwear? My palms slid underneath his jeans and over his smooth skin and this time it was Stiletto’s turn to moan, “Yesss.”
And that’s when the sirens came. Not portly little Slagville housewives. Real ones. Screaming right outside Stiletto’s window.
“No,” I cried, as Stiletto sat up and cocked an ear.
“Sounds major, Bubbles. Especially considering who’s staying in this hotel.”
He zipped up his jeans and opened the curtains while I adjusted my skirt and pulled on my top without the bra, which lay stretched and ripped on the floor.
Stiletto cranked open a window. I peeked over his shoulder. “Hey, there’s Myron Finkle,” I said, leaning out. Myron was running across the parking lot toward an opened car that was surrounded by two police cruisers and blindingly bright klieg lights. It was a Saab sports car and there was a person in the front seat, slumped over.
Hotel employees were gathering along the side of the lot and other guests were hanging out their windows to watch the action.
“Myron!” I shouted. “Myron, what’s going on?”
Myron stopped running. He pushed up his glasses and waved. “Hi, Bubbles. Can you see anything up there?”
“Cops around a Saab and a man in the front seat. What is it?”
“That’s Hugh McMullen. Someone told me he’s been shot.” There were gasps from the hotel employees and the other guests. “In the head.” And Myron ran off to catch up with the cops, who were taking their own slow time. An ominous signal. If McMullen had been alive, he’d be in an ambulance speeding off to the hospital. But he wasn’t alive. His corpse was merely one part of a crime scene now.
I closed my eyes and murmured a quick prayer, but all I kept thinking was Hugh McMullen dead? My mind raced, leaping from image to image. Hugh nervous at the press conference reading stiffly from a prepared statement. Hugh in the church, rumpled and mad to find Stinky.
Uh-oh, Stinky. If Hugh McMullen was dead, shot like Price, and if McMullen had been Price’s murderer, then what did that mean for Stinky?
“Come on, Bubbles.” Stiletto had his camera equipment together, was dressed and ready to go. “This is going to be another media zoo.”
I slipped into my shoes and pulled out my notebook. I stuffed my broken bra in my purse and gathered up my cosmetics from the floor. We didn’t say anything to each other except bye as I headed out the door to the parking lot.
Sometimes I hate this business. I really do. When you’re a hairdresser and you want to have sex, you just have sex. You don’t have to stop for sirens.
Sasha’s Miracle-Whip Facial (Slightly Improved)
Miracle Whip has less fat than regular mayonnaise and the vinegar in it does wonders for skin. My advice is to apply a thin layer and rub it off before a shower so you don’t smell like chicken salad all day. It really does exfoliate, though, like Sasha says, it is kind of gross.
2 tablespoons Miracle Whip
½ teaspoon ground, uncooked oatmeal
Mix Miracle Whip and oatmeal. Spread thinly on clean, dry face. Leave on for thirty minutes. Wipe off with moistened face-cloth and wash and moisturize as usual.