Aretha Moon and the Dead Hairdresser: Aretha Moon Book 2 (Aretha Moon Mysteries) by Linda Ross (reading books for 7 year olds .TXT) 📗

“Bright lights.  On me.  And lots of men watching me.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking off my dress.  It’s shiny and has a zipper in the back.  I unzip it, then slip down one shoulder and look at the men.  I’m moving my hips to the music.”  Avery smiled.  “The lights are hot.”

I don’t know about you, but hearing a 300-pound man talking about taking off a dress in front of a room of other men was creeping me out.  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

“What’s your name?” Maria prompted.

Avery paused, then said, “Lola.  The men are all saying it.  ‘Come on, Lola, take it all off.’”

“Is that your real name, Lola?” Maria asked.

“Oh, no.  My mom would kill me if she knew what I was doing.  My name is Agnes.  I’m from Kansas, but I ran away to St. Louis.”

“How old are you, Agnes?”

“I’m seventeen, but don’t tell anyone.  I said I was twenty-one.”  Avery frowned.  “I’m going to   make enough money, and then I’m going to go to Hollywood and be an actress.  But I get so tired sometimes.”  He sighed heavily.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Maria said.  “Come forward in time, slowly, slowly.  Now you’re a baby again and you’re safe and relaxed.  And now you’re all grown up, Avery, and you drive a truck.  You’re very, very relaxed, and when I say Now you’re going to wake up and feel rested.  Now.”

Avery opened his eyes and looked around, smiling.  “I did it, didn’t I?  I was Lola again.”

“Yes, you certainly were,” I said.  I made a few notes and looked at Maria.  “Is this how it goes every time?”

“More or less.  Sometimes the person can’t get to the old memories, but Avery’s been very successful.”

“So this is what Lola was wearing in your memory?” I asked, indicating his current attire.

“Oh, no, I just wear this to relax in,” he said.  “Lola had a fabulous wardrobe.  I’m still working on that.”

Okaaaay. I could hear Lorenzo chortling now.  And I felt kind of bad that Avery slash Lola was going to be a laughingstock.  I took Avery’s photo, but I tried to shoot above those gold stars.

“Let me get a little more information,” I said.  I was planning on writing the story from the angle that Avery was as surprised as anyone—certainly me—to discover that he had been a stripper in a previous life.

“You might want to put down that I appear at the Inferno in St. Louis,” he said.

“The what now?”

“It’s a nightclub for female impersonators.”

“You strip there?” I asked dubiously.

“Not strip,” he said earnestly.  “I’m just part of the floor show.  The chorus line, so to speak.  A bunch of us parade around on stage while someone sings.”

“That sounds. . . entertaining.”

“We’re like a family,” he said.  “You should come sometime and see the show.”

“Is there food?”  I do have my priorities.

“Food and alcohol,” he said.  He reached into his robe pocket and came up with a business card.  The word Inferno was surrounded by red flames with the address underneath.

I thanked him and stood up to leave.

“If you ever want to find out who you were in the past,” Maria said, “I’ll be here.”

I drove back to Hannibal wondering how a trucker had decided he had been a female stripper.  I mean, it had to be a subconscious decision.  I didn’t really think that age regression stuff was possible.  Maria seemed nice enough, but I’ve written a lot of stories for The Spyglass that involve nice people who were whackadoodles.

When I got to the office, a nondescript brick building in downtown Hannibal, Lorenzo and Carl popped out of their chairs immediately, anticipatory grins on their faces.

“So what happened?” Lorenzo demanded, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall as I sat down at my computer.  “Did he strip for you?”

Carl chortled, and I shot him a murderous glare.

“He’s a very nice man,” I said primly.  “He’s just under this delusion.”

“I’ll say,” Lorenzo said.  “He thinks he’s a fricking girl with big boobs.”

“Well, he has the boobs,” I muttered under my breath.  “Now go away so I can write the horoscope.”  I made a shooing motion with my hand.

Lorenzo sighed and straightened.  “Your problem, Moon,” he said, “is you feel sorry for every pathetic weirdo you write about.”

“Yeah, that’s my problem,” I said.  I glanced sideways at Lorenzo as he and Carl exited my area.  I didn’t have a private office, but my desk and computer were in the middle of the room, clustered with other desks.  I instinctively looked at Thelma ’s desk, but it was empty.  No doubt Lorenzo had sent her to write about some other pathetic weirdo, maybe another grandmother who’d been counterfeiting money to stretch her social security.  I remember that particular story sent Lorenzo into gales of laughter.  The man wasn’t going to make any lists for sainthood.

Lorenzo was actually in a good mood lately since we were coming up on the tenth anniversary of the founding of our little tabloid.  He was even throwing a party the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

I set about doing the horoscope, thinking evil thoughts about Lorenzo.  Maybe his facial hair would twine itself around his neck and choke him.  I had frequent cause to use the word hirsute once I met Lorenzo.  The man grew hair like a true virtuoso of the follicles.  I shuddered to think what he would look like without a shirt.  Actually, for all I knew, his shirt was made out of his own hair.

That gave me an idea for the horoscope.  Lorenzo had assigned me the weekly horoscope at a time when he was desperate and apparently liked my take on it.  He wasn’t after accuracy, just something that would capture the readers’