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

attention.  And I guess I could do that.  I was always particularly hard on Aquarius, because my ex-husband, He Who Shall Be Spit Upon, was born (or hatched under some rock) under the sign of Aquarius.  I inflicted new miseries on Aquarius every week.  Most Aquarians would be dead now if all of my predictions came true.  This week it was going to be hair loss.  And maybe a good dose of scabies as well.   I almost felt sorry for my Aquarian ex, Boyd Moon, but that feeling went away when I thought of how he had shown me the door, then replaced me with Vernita Cassidy, now Vernita Moon.  No, Aquarius, mere hair loss and scabies is too good for you.  Let’s throw in some salmonella.  And maybe the turkey wishbone sticking in one’s throat at Thanksgiving.  No, that was probably overkill.

I wrote up the first paragraph of Avery’s story on my computer and uploaded the most flattering picture of the ones I took.  Flattering wasn’t actually the right word, but it would have to do.  I typed up my notes so I could finish the story on Monday.  Then I headed home to my little house on the bluffs of the Mississippi River and my poodle Nancy, a dog of indeterminate age and weak bladder.

I fell asleep after a meal of pizza, diet soda and Russell Stover candy, heavy on the Russell part, and I had the last untroubled sleep I would have in a long time.

CHAPTER TWO

 

I would have loved to sleep late Saturday, but my sister Eileen called me Friday night and asked if I would take her two daughters to get haircuts in the morning.  Eileen had one of her migraines, and she was going to take a pill to sleep.

Tiffany is sixteen and just got her driver’s license, but Eileen was worried that without adult supervision she would get a wild buzz cut or something else inappropriate.  I’m not exactly the responsible party to send on this mission since my own hair doesn’t speak well for me.  Actually, it’s a decent cut, but I have no talent for styling my hair.  And my hairdresser is a dog groomer.  He started out as a hairdresser, and his wife did the dog grooming, but it turned out that they made more money with the dogs.  As a favor to me, he still cuts my hair.  I take my dog Nancy in with me, and he does Nancy first, then me.  She gets a biscuit when she’s done.  I get a lecture about conditioner and blow dryers, which literally goes over my head.

Hair Affair was located on a side street near the old hospital, surrounded by brick houses and across the street from a bait and tackle shop.  The top floor of the house looked to be empty, and the shop itself was located on the first floor.  There was a park bench sitting outside, presumably for bored husbands who brought their wives to their appointments.  If husbands ever did that.

It was dark inside the building when we pulled up in my PT Cruiser.  No one was around except a young guy with close-cropped hair and a large gap between his front teeth.  He was standing near the bench with his hands in his jacket pockets.  When our car stopped he turned and walked away.  The girls had picked on my car the entire way. “Aunt Ree, why can’t you get a real car?” This was Tiffany. “Like a Mini Cooper.  Wouldn’t that be neat?  And you’d let me drive it, wouldn’t you?”

“I could drive it too,” Desi insisted. “But just in the driveway until I get my license.”

I was beginning to see the source of my sister Eileen’s migraines.

“Actually, I was planning on letting Nancy drive it,” I said casually.

“Your dog?”  Tiffany’s indignation stretched the word into three syllables.

“She’s just kidding, aren’t you, Aunt Ree?” Desi asked, sounding hesitant.

“If you say so.”  I looked at the car clock and realized we were about ten minutes early for the appointment.  I preferred to wait inside and look at gossip magazines rather than listen to the girls try to convince me to buy a new car.  “Come on,” I said.  I got out of the car and headed for the door.

I heard a car door close, and an auburn-haired woman scurried from a Kia parked two cars in front of us.  She was so small she looked to be about a size zero.  Another door closed, and a thin woman with chin-length blond hair strode from the car behind us, a black Audi.  I was hoping one of the two was Kara, the hairdresser, but neither matched Tiffany’s enthusiastic description. Black spiky hair with a purple streak and lots of piercings. I could see why Eileen wanted the girls chaperoned.

There was an old-fashioned doorknob, some kind of weathered metal that wobbled but turned when I grabbed it.

I saw the body as soon as the door opened.  She was lying face up on the floor by the second of two swivel chairs in front of identical mirrors.  There was enough light from the window that I could see the blood as well.  It was dark and coagulated, and it was splattered around her head and upper torso.  At least what was left of her head and torso.  She had been beaten to a pulp.  There was shattered bone and bits of brain where once there had been a face. Around what was left of her face was short, spiked black hair with a streak of purple.

Tiffany and Desi were pushing me from behind.  “Come on, Aunt Ree.  Stop blocking the door.”

“Go to the car,” I told them, turning around quickly.  “Right now.”  Something in my voice must have warned them, because the pushing stopped.  I was making an effort not to throw up.

“I’m so sorry,” the tiny woman said