“This can’t go on forever, Max.”
“It can go on as long as I want it to.”
“What if I don’t want it to?”
Her breath caught in her throat. She almost choked on it. “You’re my insane fantasy. I’m the one in control of it.”
“Are you really?” Then he disappeared altogether, even the points of light.
Max bit her lip until she tasted blood. It was the only way to keep the tears at bay. Too bad it didn’t do anything about the fear that sat like a rock in her belly.
Chapter Six
By eleven o’clock the next morning, Max had decided that Cameron was just pushing her buttons again. His parting comment hadn’t been a threat, no way.
By eleven, she was also convinced receptionists ought to make one hundred thousand dollars a year instead of a mere ten dollars an hour.
Damn, but they earned it. Listening to complaints. No, not just complaints. Diatribes. Diatribes of pampered, spoiled women who had nothing better to do than complain about services, inconveniences, or petty nuisances.
And that was just the customers.
Then there were the stylists. Nothing was right.
“You’ve screwed up my appointment.” And then, “You’ve ruined my entire day.” Finally, “This client will never be back because of you.”
Max didn’t care about the real names of the stylists who occupied the three stations on the right half of the salon. She’d retained their individual names long enough to write down appointments, but after that, all bets were off. Their nit-picks went in one ear and out the other. After an hour and a half, Max had dubbed them the Three Stooges, not only for their striking similarities to the Three, but also for their constant bickering.
Larry, Curly, and Moe, consecutively. Curly wore her blue-black hair scraped back across her scalp and fashioned into an austere bun that must have made her head ache. Larry had a perm so tightly wound that her locks seemed to pop like metal springs. And Moe, the leader of the pack, wasn’t above figuratively poking out a few eyes.
How had Tiffany survived amongst them?
Then again, if Tiffany’s professional confidence was anything like her sexual assurance, she’d have made Hamburger Helper out of Larry, Curly, and Moe.
Max’s basic problem all morning had been that the job distracted her from the business of learning more about Tiffany. The outlook wasn’t improving. Miles Lamont was conspicuously absent. The cops had been to the salon the day before, but today there hadn’t been a single mention of Tiffany Lloyd’s demise. Which was odd. Under normal circumstances—not that one could call murder normal—the place should have buzzed with equal parts disbelief, horror, and speculation.
The staff of A Cut Above, however, remained mum on the subject. Completely. And these girls did not strike her as being adverse to juicy gossip. So why wasn’t Tiffany’s name running rampant through the ranks?
She’d struck out, too, on sighting the car that had been used to transport Tiffany’s body. Max had watched as each girl played musical parking spots out on the street to avoid getting a ticket. Nothing any of them drove bore a resemblance to the vehicle she’d seen, as the wino, in her dream.
No Miles. No car. No gossip. Damn.
Muttering to herself, Max punched a series of alphanumerics into the keyboard, and the terminal went into meltdown.
“Having problems with the computer again?”
Ariel Sanchez was the only one in the shop who had offered assistance, or even a smile, since Max had started work three hours ago. Ariel’s character as well as the side of the shop she worked on segregated her from the Stooges.
“I’m still figuring out its temperamental undertones.” It was one of those inventory-control-slash-billing programs, and Max had never known a computer system yet to get the best of her.
Ariel leaned over the counter to look at the chart Max keyed in. Max had liked her immediately. She was a sweet blonde with Alice-in-Wonderland curls that belied the heritage of her last name. Ariel did not, however, wear a wedding band to explain the name discrepancy. Her complexion was all-American girl-next door, as were her white teeth and shy, easy smile. Her long, broomstick skirt peaked out beneath the black cover-up she wore. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back with a blue scrunchy, and her feet looked comfortable in open-toed flats.
After three hours on her feet, Max wished for anything but her favorite black heels.
“She’s mixed up the codes.” Ariel pointed. “See here, this is a code for the dye lot, and this is the code for the highlight itself. She had them backwards, and the computer’s freaking out.”
So was Max. It crossed her mind that Moe had done it on purpose.
Ariel rounded the end of the waist-high counter, punched a few keys, and hit the escape button. The screen cleared, and the frantic beeping subsided.