Killer Cuts Read online

  Killer Cuts

  Copyright © Elaine Viets, 2009

  Originally published by Signet, May 2009

  Published as an eBook in in 2018 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

  All rights reserved

  eISBN: 978-1-625673-25-1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Tiger Bright Studios

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Also by Elaine Viets

  About the Author

  To Mario Ortega, the other man in my life

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to Mario, Gracie Cuervo, James, and the other stylists and staff at the salon. I enjoyed watching artists at work. Gracie has an amazing ability to squeeze extra hours into the day for scheduling appointments.

  Many other people helped me with this book, including Detective R. C. White, Fort Lauderdale Police Department (retired), and Rick McMahan, ATF Special Agent.

  Special thanks to Valerie Cannata, Colby Cox, Jinny Gender, Karen Grace, Kay Gordy, Jack Klobnak, Bob Levine and Janet Smith. Thanks also to Carole Wantz, who could sell burnt matches. There are also some who I cannot publicly acknowledge. I appreciate their help all the same.

  Thanks once more to the librarians at the St. Louis Public Library and Broward County Library. Anyone who believes the Internet made libraries obsolete has never needed a serious search.

  Thanks to my editor, Kara Cesare, who thoughtfully critiques my manuscripts when many editors are too busy to do that. Thanks also to Lindsay Nouis, who always has time to help, to publicist Megan Swartz, and the staff at the Penguin Group. To my agent, David Hendin, who is still the best (sorry, he’s not taking any more clients) and to Patti Nunn and the staff at Breakthrough Promotions (she is taking more clients). And to my husband, Don Crinklaw, who is my friend, lover and first editor.

  Thanks also to my sister bloggers on the Lipstick Chronicles for their advice and encouragement—Nancy Martin, Michele Martinez, Harley Jane Kozak, Sarah Strohmeyer, Lisa Daily, Kathy Sweeney, and Margie.

  I’m also grateful to the many booksellers who handsell my work.

  Is the six-toed Thumbs a real cat? He belongs to librarian Anne Watts. She gave me the literary loan of her cat. Thumbs has six toes on each paw, like the famous Hemingway cats in Key West. Check out Thumbs’ photo at elaineviets.com.

  Chapter 1

  Two tiny women in their sixties stood outside the door to Miguel Angel’s salon on Las Olas. They were both about five feet tall and wore pantsuits, one pink and the other blue. Their hair was short and gray. They looked like little round twins.

  Helen Hawthorne towered over them as she opened the salon door. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Is this where Miguel Angel works?” Ms. Pink asked. She pronounced his name “Mig-well” and said Angel with a flat Midwestern accent.

  “The Miguel Angel,” said Ms. Blue.

  “Yes, he’s the owner,” Helen said.

  “Wow, you’re tall,” Ms. Pink said, looking up at Helen.

  “Six feet,” Helen said.

  “Are you a model?” Ms. Blue asked.

  “I’m only a gopher,” Helen said. “I go for drinks and magazines for the clients, fetch lunches and run errands for Miguel Angel. I’m too old to model.”

  “You don’t look old,” said Ms. Pink. “Your dark hair is pretty.”

  “Thanks,” Helen said. “Getting my hair done by Miguel Angel is the best perk of this job.”

  “We saw the People magazine article about how he changed LaDonna and gave her a new look. It saved her acting career,” Ms. Pink said.

  “‘From street to elite,’” Ms. Blue said. “We’d love to meet him. He’s a real artist.”

  “He’s here,” Helen said. “Come on in.”

  “Can we actually come inside?” Ms. Pink asked.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Because we’re fat,” Ms. Blue said. She said the F-word as if being slightly chubby was shameful.

  “We like fat,” Helen said. She didn’t add that the salon really liked fat wallets.

  The two women entered cautiously, as if they expected a supermodel with a flaming sword to banish them. They surveyed the sculpted black-and-chrome client chairs, the chic black dryers, the outrageous bouquets of flowers. Billie Holiday was crooning “Stormy Weather.”

  The salon’s softly lit mirrors were designed to flatter. The floor sparkled as if sprinkled with diamond dust.

  “Oh, my,” Ms. Pink said.

  “It’s beautiful,” Ms. Blue said.

  “Everyone here is beautiful,” Ms. Pink said.

  Black-clad stylists were working on two models in the sculpted chairs. Paolo was doing the blonde’s color: Her head was crowned with tinfoil for highlights. Richard was adding extensions to the glossy hair of a brunette. You could have built condos on their jutting cheekbones.

  Ms. Blue ran her hands over the leather scrapbooks on the salon’s rosewood center table.

  “Those are Miguel Angel’s credits,” Helen said.

  Ms. Pink opened one book. “Look at that. Miguel Angel has been in Vogue, W, Glamour, Vanity Fair and People. He did the MTV awards show. He’s worked with so many celebrities.”

  “May we have his autograph to take back to Pittsburgh?” Ms. Pink asked. “Our friends won’t believe we actually had the nerve to walk in here.”

  “Let me see if he’s busy,” Helen said. “Would you like some water or tea?”

  “Oh, no, we can’t afford to stay,” Ms. Blue said. “We just wanted to say hello. Everyone talks about his work. He’s famous.”

  “And handsome,” Ms. Pink said. “Even if he won’t be interested in us.”

  They giggled. Helen wondered if they knew Miguel was gay, or if they were talking about their cute, frumpy figures.

  “What would it cost us to get our hair done here?” Ms. Blue asked.

  “Three hundred for a color and cut,” Helen said. The price tripped off her tongue as if everyone paid that much for hair care.

  “Oh, dear,” Ms. Blue said. “I don’t think I can manage that. I’m still paying off my Saturn.”

  “Besides, we don’t have much hair to work with,” Ms. Pink said.

  “Never underestimate Miguel Angel,” Helen said. “Let me ask if he’s seeing visitors.”

  Miguel Angel worked in his own alcove at the back of the salon. He was blowdrying the tawny-haired Kim Hammond, this season’s top model. Miguel looked dangerous in his trademark black leather pants and black shirt with the collar turned up.
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  He wore his two enormous blowdryers in black leather holsters, like six-guns. Why not? The man produced killer hair.

  “Two nice women from Pittsburgh want to meet you,” Helen said. “They admire your work. They want your autograph.”

  “That’s sweet,” Miguel Angel said. He was an international celebrity stylist, in a class with the hunky Oribe, and Frédéric Fekkai. Cuban-born Miguel Angel specialized in making aging beauties look glamorous. Actresses swore his touch could revive their flagging careers, and flew into his Fort Lauderdale salon from around the country. Ordinary women paid big bucks for his remakes.

  Miguel asked Kim, “Do you mind if the ladies come back to meet me?”

  “Really, Miguel. Are you giving tours now?” the model said in a bored voice.

  “It’s good for business,” Miguel Angel said.

  “But Pittsburgh?” Kim said with a sneer.

  “There’s money everywhere in America,” he said.

  “Then bring them back,” Kim said. “Give the little people a thrill.”

  What a snob, Helen thought. In a few years, she’ll be begging Miguel Angel for a new look.

  Helen gave Ms. Pink and Ms. Blue the good news. “Is Angel his last name?” Ms. Pink asked.

  “No, it’s part of his first name,” Helen said. “Cubans, especially the men, are partial to double names. They prefer combos like Marco Antonio, Juan Carlos and Miguel Angel.”

  “Sort of like my Southern cousins,” Ms. Blue said. “I have a Billy Bob and a Larry Joe.”

  “Yes,” Helen said. “Let’s go back and meet him before his next appointment.”

  Helen took off across the salon with her long, loping stride. The two women struggled to keep up. “Stop! I mean, slower, please,” Ms. Pink said. “Our legs aren’t as long as yours.”

  Helen slowed. Mss. Pink and Blue stopped when they saw Miguel Angel brushing Kim’s long mane.

  “Look at her hair,” Ms. Pink said, in an awed voice. “It’s like a silk curtain.”

  “You do such beautiful work,” Ms. Blue said, handing Miguel Angel an old-fashioned autograph book. “Would you sign this?”

  “I’d be delighted.” When Helen had first started working at the shop last month, she’d expected Miguel Angel to sneer like Kim, but he was surprisingly kind.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like a young Elvis?” Ms. Pink said, handing him a sheet of hotel stationery.

  “Thank you,” he said as he signed it.

  Ana Luisa, the salon receptionist, came back. “Excuse me, Miguel Angel. Honey is here for her final appointment before the wedding.”

  “We’d better leave,” Ms. Pink and Ms. Blue said. “Thank you,” they chorused, then toddled toward the door, trailing girlish giggles.

  “Just a warning,” Miguel Angel whispered to Helen. “Honey is six months pregnant. She may say something. Act like you already know she’s having a baby.”

  “Miguel, I wouldn’t say anything rude. This isn’t 1950.”

  “I know, but Honey used to be a nurse and she is very frank. You don’t have a poker face. Your eyebrow went up when I said she was pregnant.”

  “I was just surprised,” Helen said. “You never gossip about your clients. I’ve been trying to get the dirt on LaDonna since I started here, and all you’ll say is she’s nice.”

  “There is no dirt on LaDonna,” Miguel Angel said. “I leave the gossip to my clients. Be careful what you say around Honey.”

  “Why?” Helen asked.

  “Her fiancé is Kingman ‘King’ Oden. He writes the Stardust gossip blog and hosts the TV show Stardust at Night.”

  “Yuck. He’s King Odious, right?” Helen asked.

  “That’s his nickname, but we never use it in this salon.”

  “But he is nasty,” she said. “The man makes fun of older celebrities who put on weight and young ones who are too skinny. He enjoys revealing who is in rehab. Didn’t he out a couple of women actresses as lesbians?”

  “That’s him,” Miguel Angel said. “King is mean. Lots of people hate him. But even more read his blog and watch his show. Two weeks ago, someone gave King a photo of Bianca Phillips without her makeup, and he posted it on his blog. Poor Bianca looked a hundred years old. She nearly lost a movie deal because of King.”

  “Did Honey take the Bianca photo here?”

  “I don’t know,” Miguel Angel said. “But if there’s a rumor King got that photo at my salon, it could ruin my business. Go help her.”

  Helen handed Honey Miguel Angel’s signature black silk robe embroidered with his name. Honey took the robe and a hanger into the changing room. She was a honey blonde, like her name, with a pale oval face and small, delicate features. Her heels were high and skinny, and her legs were long and encased in designer denim. She was wearing a gauzy top. Now that Helen knew Honey was pregnant, she thought she saw the outline of what King and his ilk called a baby bump.

  Honey carried a large, flat white box. She presented it to Miguel Angel as if it held the crown jewels. “That’s my bridal veil. It’s silk illusion. That’s very soft tulle.”

  Miguel had done enough weddings to recognize illusion of all types. He opened the box and gently lifted out the veil. “It’s long,” he said.

  “It’s a ninety-inch circle veil with silk-edged stitching.” Honey handed him a smaller white box. “This is my tiara. It’s crystal stars, in King’s honor—for Stardust, you know. We’re also getting Swarovski crystal stars for the dinner guests’ place settings. We got a good deal on them—only seventy dollars a star.”

  “How many guests?” Helen asked.

  “Two hundred,” Honey said.

  Helen did the math. Honey was spending fourteen thousand dollars on wedding favors. She’d already spent nearly every cent of her savings to be one of Miguel’s Angels. He’d transformed her from a practical nurse with thick-soled shoes into the spike-heeled consort of King Oden.

  “We’d better get started,” Miguel said. “The wedding is Saturday, and we still haven’t decided on a hairstyle.”

  “I’d like to try my hair up this time, in a French twist,” Honey said. “Sort of Grace Kelly-ish. King will like that. Very classy.”

  “Phoebe,” Miguel Angel commanded his assistant, “wash Honey’s hair.”

  “But I washed it this morning,” Honey said.

  “It will look better after my treatment,” he said.

  Many customers thought they’d save time or money by washing their own hair. But they didn’t get out all the soap, and their hair looked flat and lifeless when it was styled.

  “I use something special that will brighten the color,” Miguel said. “You don’t need your roots done yet.”

  Phoebe tucked a towel around Honey’s neckline and washed her hair. The two women chatted like old friends. Phoebe usually didn’t get along well with the women customers, but she knew how to flatter and flirt with the older men.

  The hair washing, from soaping to a mini scalp massage, took almost ten minutes. When a wet-haired Honey was installed in Miguel Angel’s chair, Helen asked, “May I bring you a drink? How about a magazine?”

  “Just water,” Honey said.

  Helen went back to the prep room and poured ice and cold water into a crystal glass, added a thin lemon slice, then wrapped the glass with a paper napkin so the bride’s delicate fingers wouldn’t be chilled.

  When she returned, Miguel Angel was blowing Honey’s hair dry. In half an hour, he had it up on her head in a golden twist.

  “Now the veil,” he said. “Stand up.”

  Honey stood. Miguel carefully draped the veil over her hair, pinned it in place, and added the tiara. The crystals caught the light and gave Honey an angelic halo.

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  “This is how I want to look,” Honey said. “Now will you brush out my hair? I want King to be surprised on Saturday.”

  Miguel Angel unpinned the veil, and Helen carefully folded it and packed it aw
ay. The tiara went back in its smaller box. When Miguel finished brushing out Honey’s shoulder-length hair, the bride-to-be gave Ana Luisa her credit card, added a substantial tip for Miguel Angel, handed Helen five bucks and gave Phoebe a thick wad of money.

  But still she didn’t leave. “I’m worried about Saturday,” Honey said. “All of King’s celebrity friends will be there. What if something goes wrong?”

  “What can go wrong?” Miguel Angel said. “We’re supposed to have beautiful weather, and you’re a beautiful bride.”

  “What if I lose the baby?” Honey asked. “He wants a son more than he wants me.”

  “That’s not true,” Miguel Angel soothed. “He loved you before you were pregnant.”

  “But he’s only marrying me because I said I’d abort the kid unless he walked me down the aisle without a prenup. I had Daddy Dearest by the short and curlies. The deal was, no son if I had to sign a prenup.”

  Helen quickly turned away, afraid Honey would see the shock on her face.

  “I really wanted a girl,” Honey said. “But King said it had to be a boy or else. He wanted proof. I had to show him the baby’s ultrasound.”

  “King will adore the mother of his only son,” Miguel Angel said. “Do you love him?”

  “Of course,” Honey said. “King’s first marriage was a mistake. He’d knocked up Posie, and they had to hurry and get married by a judge at city hall. Posie was so desperate she signed the worst prenup agreement ever. But we’re doing this marriage right. King wants a traditional white wedding with all his friends there and a real honeymoon. He loves me. He tells me so all the time. And I love him to death. I mean, till death parts us.”

  “You’re just having a case of bridal nerves,” Miguel Angel said. “The weather will be beautiful, and so will you. What could go wrong?”

  “I guess we’ll find out on Saturday,” the bride said, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  Chapter 2

  The round bed was made for orgies. Surrounded by four white Roman columns, it had a mound of what looked like whipped cream in the center.

  Honey, the bride who would spend tonight in that bed, lovingly stroked the creamy pile of taffeta on the white spread.