Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page A

good-looking man. Then again, most women enjoy a trip to the beauty parlor, too.’’ She waved her comb, taking in the shop’s walls, sinks, and chairs, all in a vivid purple. “You’re a little unusual in hating to have your hair done. Course, anyone with eyes could tell that by that snarl-fest you call hair. God gave you a gift, honey. Why treat it like a curse?’’
    She advanced on me, holding her comb like a bayonet. I ducked out of reach.
    “Mace is a little unusual in a lot of ways,’’ Maddie said. “But I have to be nice. I talked her into coming to give me hairdo advice. I’m sure she’d rather be out communing with the bugs and the trees in the heat at Himmarshee Park.’’
    I looked at my watch. “Speaking of the park, I have to be there in an hour to take care of my animals. Could we lay off me and get started on all those fascinating styles for your hair?’’
    Betty took another long look at my hair. Thick and black, it was filled with knots because I was pretty sure I’d forgotten to brush it that morning. Shaking her head, she went to ring up a customer, leaving us with the style books at a small table where Mama does her color-by-season charts. A little sign on the tabletop said Color Me Gorgeous .
    “She’s right, you know. I’d kill for hair like yours.’’ Maddie lifted a handful of her own locks. With the humidity, her hair hung in tight coils, like a bright-red scouring pad. “You’d only have to make a minimal effort, Mace, and you could have a glossy, sophisticated look.’’
    “I’m sure the critters in our wildlife rehab at Himmarshee Park would be wowed.’’
    I plopped the first book on the table. “Now,’’ I said, “let’s find you something that’ll knock Kenny’s socks off.’’
    Maddie, head bent, stared intently at the book. “That might take some doing,’’ she said softly.
    “What do you mean?’’
    She raised her gaze to mine. “It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Normally, my husband loves a party. And cake and ice cream? He’s in heaven. But Kenny’s lost weight recently, and he’s distracted all the time. I feel like I barely know him anymore.’’
    “Midlife crisis.’’ Betty, returning from the register, leaned in to add her opinion. She had the heard-it-all tone of a woman who’d spent her life in a beauty parlor. “It’s Kenny’s time. He’ll probably be buying a go-fast sports car next.’’
    I snorted. “Not Kenny. No way, no how. That man’s had his feet solidly on the ground since he was in short pants. He’s so straight, he sells insurance .’’
    D’Vora, once Betty’s trainee, now a licensed stylist, pursed her lips as she clipped the bangs of a teenager next to us. Was that look due to her concentrating on the cut? Or, was she making a nonverbal comment on male midlife crises?
    “What’s your take, D’Vora?’’
    She stopped snipping and started fidgeting. She brushed back a lock of her own hair; fingered the purple appliqué butterflies on her uniform top. Finally, she spoke. “Maybe Kenny is tired of being a grown-up all the time.’’
    “D’Vora, honey, look people in the eye when you’re talking to them. You look shifty if you don’t,’’ Betty said.
    The young stylist’s eyes darted toward me, but she carefully avoided looking at Maddie. I wondered for a moment if D’Vora had ever been sent to the principal’s office at Himmarshee Middle School. Maybe Maddie’s scary principal routine had given her post -traumatic stress.
    “Maybe that midlife thing hits especially hard for a man who’s always been mature and responsible,’’ D’Vora said.
    Betty fogged her customer’s ’do with hairspray. The woman let out a strangled cough. “Well, then, we won’t have to worry about that no-account skunk you live with having a midlife crisis.’’ She looked into the mirror at D’Vora, who ignored the jab.
    “I’m just sayin,’ maybe there’s a reason when men go off the rails.’’