Laura Lippman - Baltimore Noir

“I know that Miles is laying dead in a box full of hair. Other than that, you probably know more than I do.”

“I doubt that, Jordan. You looked like you were deep in conversation with the witness when we arrived.”

“Said witness has a name,” I replied, crossing my arms. “All Diana said was that she was going to get some hair for her boss and that’s when she found Miles. If I knew more, I’d tell you more.”

“Look, Jordy,” my sister said, reverting to my childhood nickname, “we may need your help with this one. You know all the players here and I suspect that this thing with Miles was personal. The uniforms say he still has his wallet on him so we can rule out robbery. And besides, it would be more likely that we would be dealing with a pickpocket with a crowd this size than a robber who would take the chance on knifing someone in a convention center filled with people. Plus, he was stabbed with a pair of scissors that had some type of ivory inlay on the handles. Very high-end. Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Miles?”

“I hate to speak ill of the dead, but the man could be a jerk,” I said. “He was a massive womanizer to start. And seeing as how he had poached clientele from just about every stylist in B-more, anyone here could have had a motive.”

“That’s why we need you to help us narrow down the field,” my sister said. “You are always up in everybody’s business so I’m sure you know if he’s been having problems with anyone lately.”

“First of all, I dislike the implication that I am nosy,” I sniffed. “It’s not my fault that people confide in me. I just have an air of trustworthiness that I exude.”

Ahmad stifled a laugh. I tried to give him my best dirty look, but was distracted by his gorgeousness.

“It might help if I could see the body,” I said, tapping my cheek as if I was speculating about something.

“Jordan,” my sister practically yelled, “this is not an episode of Murder, She Wrote. I am not going to have you traipsing all over a murder scene!”

“Look,” I huffed, “do you want my help or not? I promise I won’t go running through the blood and mess up your precious forensics. Maybe I’ll recognize the murder weapon or see something that might be out of the ordinary. I helped plan this whole event, in case you have forgotten!”

“Jordan might have a point,” Ahmad piped in. “She can’t do much damage if we are right there with her.”

I looked at him with a combination of gratitude for recognizing the value of my insight and irritation for his insinuation that I needed to be baby-sat.

“Let’s go,” my sister said, turning quickly and practically barreling out of the room.

Downstairs had turned into a bit of a madhouse with police swarming the area and everyone craning to see what was happening. Some young women I recognized as His and Hairs employees were crying and comforting each other near the three booths that had been set up to showcase designs from the salon. My sister flashed her badge to clear a path for us and we stepped gingerly around the dividers that had been shielding Miles’s corpse from view.

I’d seen him looking better. His face had already taken on that ashen look of the dearly departed, and a small trickle of blood appeared to be coming out of the corner of his mouth. Or it could have been a strand of hair, as he was laying on a pack of “Ridiculously Red, Number 38.” A police photographer was snapping away, periodically pushing the bottom of his Baltimore City Police Department jacket to the side to avoid the zipper as he crawled around and laid flat to get multiple angles. Miles was on his stomach, head turned to the side, his hands on either side of his head, as if he had tripped and was trying to soften his fall.

Most of the plastic packets of hair had been cleared from on top of him and I could make out the black crocheted sweater he was wearing over a T-shirt, and the handle of the scissors was sticking out through one of the holes near his left shoulder blade. Those sweaters had been the bane of the planning committee’s existence because Miles insisted that the center be kept well air-conditioned so he wouldn’t swelter. Not much of a problem, except that it was unseasonably cool outside even for a Baltimore April and many of the models were running around wearing next to nothing other than tons of hair. Maybe, I thought, one of them wigged out and killed him. The old “I-murdered-because-my-brain-froze” defense. Johnnie Cochran, may he rest in peace, could have taken that on.

“See anything out of the ordinary?” Ahmad asked.

“Well, he’s dead all right.”

“Other than that, Columbo.”

“It’s hard to tell,” I said. “Maybe if I could get a little closer look.” There was something about Miles’s sweater that seemed off. Were those holes part of the design, or had they opened up in a struggle?

“Forget about it, Jordan,” Ahmad said. “I’m surprised your sister even let you get this close.”

That’s when I realized that U was no longer with us. I stepped around the divider and caught a glimpse of her through the crowd about ten feet away talking to C.P. Murray, hairdresser and drama king extraordinaire. No one knows what the initials C.P. are short for, but my theory is that it stands for “Chile, please” because that’s what I feel like saying every time he opens his mouth. Forty-five if he was a day, but he claimed he hadn’t crested thirty yet.

He gave himself away reminiscing about the old-style hairdos he used to craft. He had cornered me more than once during the weeks before the show to chat about his glory days, clutching his little two-ounce Chihuahua, Bouf (short for bouffant). “We really must figure out a way to get national coverage of the absolutely fabulous salons we have here. Baltimore is the place to go for the latest styles and no one seems to know it. Forget New York and L.A., honey. We set the trends when it comes to black hair! Was I not the first to do the asymmetrical cut with the deep finger waves and the glittery bangs? Tell me that wasn’t fierce!”

It did no good to explain to him that we were lucky enough to get any coverage for Hair Dynasty, and I had only managed to pull that off because I convinced the photographers that they would get colorful shots of creations like the “Domestic Goddess,” which entailed a model with a hairsculptured kitchen sink on her head complete with wet and wavy hair coming out of the “faucet” to simulate running water. And unless Oprah or Halle Berry started jetting to B-more to get their hair done, I doubted that the national media was going to pay much attention to us.

Although, now they would. Death by scissors, buried in hair Miles had a shot at the cover of his beloved Weekly World News

U raised her hand and made a come-here motion, but when I started that way she shook her head vigorously and mouthed “Ahmad.” I stepped around the divider again and tapped him on the shoulder. “She who must be obeyed beckons,” I said. But I was right behind him. My sister was out of her mind if she thought I wasn’t going to listen in on what C.P. had to say. Jennifer had spotted me tailing Ahmad and she caught up with me, linking her arm with mine.

“Yes, we argued, but we always argued,” C.P. was whining as Ahmad, Jennifer, and I strode over. “Ask anyone. He was very jealous of my business.” He motioned to the large black banner on the booth which contained the name of his salon, Isn’t She Lovely, in gold letters. “But I wouldn’t have killed the man.” He shifted his dog under his arm and held him like a purse while he looked to two of his employees who were doing hair at the booth for confirmation.