Deadly Blessings Read Online Free PDF

bustling
street.
    I mean, I heard of hiding your light under a
bushel basket, but this was ridiculous. I passed it twice before
the process of elimination of addresses left me no other option.
Not that it was shabby. On the contrary, it was a gem, a converted
two-story brownstone, with potted geraniums atop the wide concrete
arms of the cement stairs. The two floors above sported window
boxes efflorescent with colorful trailing petunias despite it being
October. As much as I enjoyed the color and brightness of the
flowering display, part of me longed for the cool crispness of
fall. The way things were going, however, we’d probably skip it
altogether and head right into the bite of winter.
    What had once been the garden apartment, set
below sidewalk level and protected by black wrought-iron fencing,
was now the salon. There was no sign on the street to direct
pedestrian attention downward. Maybe they got enough business that
they didn’t need people to notice them. For my own sake, I hoped
so. I was about to put my hair in their hands.
    I noticed a gate in the wrought-iron. Its
squeak made me wince. Narrow, stone encrusted steps led downward
into the garden of the apartment. Really, it was no more than a
small patch of lawn. Ten-by-ten at best.
    As I approached the picture window front of
the salon, I was struck by the image of mannequins coming suddenly
to life. The staff, all young, all attractive in a Barbie doll way,
their skin clear, their hair perfect, their bodies curvy but slim,
had been virtually immobile until they spotted me. Like one of
those old-fashioned boxes with figures inside. Put in a quarter and
watch them move.
    The image wasn’t contradicted, even as I
pulled open the glass door to ringing chimes—one of those bell-sets
they hang on the opening mechanism. I would have expected something
more state-of-the art. But it gave the place charm.
    As peroxide and hairspray smells swirled up
to meet me, I noticed that the girls’ movements were off. Like I
was hearing music in my head, and they were struggling to keep with
the beat. One had been sweeping, two others leafing through
magazines. Another behind a high counter, about to scratch her
head. Or so it seemed. They all had stopped, and now that they
moved, they looked at me. If I read their expressions right, they
were surprised, and curious. Like clinker notes clumsily hit in the
middle of a familiar song, something was not right; I couldn’t put
my finger on it.
    A young woman with chunked magenta streaks
in her long blond hair, smiled at me as I rested my elbows atop the
counter between us. “I have an appointment,” I said, giving her my
name.
    “ Yes, I have it here.”
While her English was clear, she spoke with an accent that could
have either been Polish or Czech. Her bright blue eyes looked up at
me with a quizzical look. “You are Alex?”
    I nodded, wondering if this girl had known
Milla Voight. Even though I was off the story, her murder was still
fresh in the newspapers, and I wanted to see if there was anything
I could learn. Milla had been employed here from the time she’d
arrived from Poland till the time of her death. Surely she’d made a
friend or two along the way. With any luck I’d get a little more
information about the girl whom I hadn’t had the chance to
know.
    The shop consisted of two aisles, a front
reception area where I stood, and a back place which, when I craned
my neck a bit, I could tell housed three washing sinks. The aisle
to my right was lined with dryers, the one to my left—seven
stations with those cool chairs that spin, raise, and lower with
the touch of a foot.
    There were a couple of other clients, one of
them sat at a station deep to my left. Her white hair was being set
in scratchy-looking rollers, kept in place with long pink plastic
pins that had gone out of use in the seventies.
    Even as the counter girl walked me over to
the white vinyl and chrome chairs lining the window, I knew that
this was a