Permed To Death [Bad Hair Day Mystery 1] Read Online Free PDF Page A

last night, and his boat isn't in dock,” Vail said, his face impassive. “We're trying to reach him."
    "Anyone could have sneaked into my salon and doctored the creamer,” she remarked. Thank God it wasn't in the coffee. She might have drunk a cup herself if she hadn't been so busy!
    "Who else knew about her hair appointment besides your staff?"
    Marla shifted in her chair. “Her niece was attending that luncheon with her later, so she might have known. I can't guess who else Bertha told."
    Vail seemed to weigh her words.’ ‘Mind if I get a drink of water?” he said, a devious smile on his face. He rose, and the room seemed overpowered by his presence.
    Following him into the kitchen, Marla saw he wasn't really interested in a beverage. His gaze swept across her counters like a bloodhound chasing its target. He was looking for something in particular, she surmised, irritated that he'd think her simple enough to fall for his ruse.
    "I see you have an extensive cookbook collection,” he announced, striding to her bookshelf. He pointed to a volume entitled A Taste of the Tropics . “Are you into natural plant foods?"
    "Not really. I like to experiment with tropical-fruit recipes, but I used to do more gourmet cooking when I was married. I'm divorced,” she explained. Preparing meals for herself was a heck of a lot easier than fixing food for a man who demanded a hot meal every night and who refused to eat leftovers. There were a few things she missed about the matrimonial state, but cooking detail was not one of them.
    Vail gave her a friendly smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Do you like gardening?"
    "Nope, I kill anything green that gets near me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you so interested in my hobbies?"
    "Another toxic substance was added to the creamer. Monkshood is a poisonous plant. Someone made it into a powder and gave Bertha Kravitz a double whammy."
    "Oh, so you think I fixed it in my backyard? Go on, take a look. I've got a lychee tree and some citrus.” She thrust her chin forward. “Why do I get the feeling you suspect me of doing away with Mrs. Kravitz?"
    He sauntered forward until he was nearly nose to nose with her. “I'm wondering about your relationship with the deceased. A few of your staff members say that you bad-mouthed her."
    "We often discuss our customers,” she said hastily. “Some of their more annoying traits are common topics. It doesn't mean anything significant."
    " You were alone in the shop with the victim. I only have your word for what happened. According to your story, you admit fixing her coffee and handing it to her."
    Marla felt a sudden lump obstruct her throat as a nasty image came to mind: her business in ruins as she was hauled off to jail.
    "I'm telling the truth,” she stated.
    "Are you?"
    He stared at her so hard and long, she felt her blood drain to her toes. God, has he found out about the envelope ? “When can we reopen the salon?” she ventured, changing the subject.
    "We'll be finished in there sometime tomorrow, so Monday would be fine."
    "We're closed Mondays."
    "So make it Tuesday.” He paused, a crafty look entering his eyes. “By any chance, is your ex-spouse Stanley Kaufman, the attorney?"
    A chill crept up her spine. He already knew the answer, which meant he'd been checking up on her. She'd reverted to her maiden name after the divorce. What else had he learned about her background?
    "Stan and I were divorced nine years ago.” When she was twenty-five. He'd remarried and divorced again in the interval. Now he was on wife number three. “What does that have to do with anything?” she shot back.
    "You might consider calling him for legal advice."
    "Why, are you going to arrest me?"
    "No, ma'am. But you should think about protecting yourself."
    From what, pal ? Maybe he wasn't going to drag her into the station today, but tomorrow was always a distinct possibility.
    Depressed, Marla showed him to the door. Damned if she'd call Stan