“Max, Max, I’m so glad you’re here.” Miles Lamont waved his hand at her from the black shroud concealing him neck to foot. Ariel Sanchez held a shaver to his pink scalp. The Three Stooges looked on en masse, their cheeks, spots of reddened anger, in no need of makeup.
Though his back was to Max, Miles watched her approach in the mirror. His flat black gaze scanned her from head to foot—or as low as the mirror would allow. Then he smiled. She didn’t know whether it was the stare or the smile that sent goosebumps shooting up her arms and made the short hairs at her nape stand on end.
The shop was devoid of customers. With the exception of Miles, whose attire she couldn’t see, the assemblage was dressed in black. Ariel wore a black blazer and gauzy black skirt that fell almost to her ankles. Larry, Curly, and Moe had decided on a black pant suit, a tailored feminine business suit, and a black dress, respectively. Their outfits were so understated, so lacking in flamboyance, that Max was sure she’d find the department store tags and bags still in the trash out back.
There could be only one reason for this scene. Tiffany’s funeral. The police must have accomplished their autopsy and tests quite quickly.
“Max.” A hint of irritation bled through the wave of Miles’s hand. “I hate to ask it.” Max was sure he wasn’t. “I assume you’ve heard about our unfortunate Tiffany.”
“Unfortunate Tiffany?” It sounded like a perfume or a shade of lipstick.
The Three Stooges tittered, then were quickly silenced with a molten look from Miles, issued via the mirror.
“She was murdered on Saturday.” As soon as the words left her lips, Ariel turned on the hair dryer to blow away the residual shavings from Lamont’s pudgy pink neck. “Tiffany” was stenciled in navy blue lettering along the nozzle. Jeez, they were using Tiffany’s station, Tiffany’s hair dryer, and Tiffany’s clippers. All to get ready for Tiffany’s funeral. It was bizarre. Or was it poetic justice?
Ariel snapped the dryer off, dropped it back into its metal holder, then pulled the drape from Miles with a flourish. Miles stood, did the male equivalent of preening, which was to turn his head right, left, dip his chin, raise it, then lean forward to make sure his nostril hairs didn’t poke out.
“Thank you, dear.” He patted Ariel on the arm, allowed his hand to settle for an interminable three seconds. The blonde with the Alice-in-Wonderland curls smiled, but she didn’t look down at those pudgy fingers against the sleeve of her black blazer.
The lingering touch made Max squirm.
Miles straightened, tugged up the high collar of his black tunic—Ariel must have flattened it for the spruce-up—and turned to Max. “Our dear Tiffany’s funeral is today.” Saint Tiffany. The man loved women to distraction. Or he had something to hide and was making up for it with flowery rhetoric.
“You’re free to come with us. You’ve certainly dressed appropriately.” His gaze swept her black attire and high-heeled shoes. “But since you never met Tiffany, I thought you’d be more comfortable minding the shop. The girls couldn’t get in touch with every client to notify them.”
Gee, what a decision. Go to a funeral, or stay at the salon and search the office. Hmm. “Of course I’ll stay here and reschedule anyone who shows up.”
Which is exactly what Miles Lamont had expected and wanted despite his polite offer. Though he could have no idea of the consequences if he was Tiffany’s killer and prone to leave clues and evidence hidden in his drawers; desk drawers, that is. That was the thing about being a psychic detective—gosh, that had a nice ring to it—people had no idea Max was more than a receptionist.
“Thank you so much, Max. We’ll be back after lunch.” Miles flicked his eyes from her lips to her hair, then held her gaze. The sensation was almost physical, hypnotic. “The afternoon will be busy, but I promise we’ll give you that new style tomorrow.”
She’d forgotten. And she wasn’t sure she wanted his hands in her hair. There was something about Miles Lamont. Something just a little off, something squirrelly. But did it have anything to do with murder?
What Max needed was a psychic vision to move this case forward. Ghostly laughter pealed from the high ceilings.
What the hell was Cameron laughing at now?
Miles reached for his charcoal gray hat. Max wondered why he’d bothered with the haircut. “Come along, girls.”
Not ladies. Girls. As though they were his charges. His chattel. Larry, Curly, and Moe preceded him through the front door of the shop and down the front walk. Ariel pulled up the rear. Miles opened the back door of his older but pristine black Lincoln Continental. The Three Stooges climbed in daintily, butt first, knees together, shoes last. Miles then dangled the car keys in front of Ariel’s face. She hesitated a moment, took them, and rounded the hood.
Max would have given anything for a close-up of Ariel’s face during that exchange. She watched the crew of A Cut Above drive away in Miles’s car.
Exactly what kind of car had her wino seen in the alley that night? Big. Dark. Beyond that, impressions were fuzzy.
But it could have been a Lincoln like the one Miles Lamont owned.