Evil to the Max (15 page)

Jules slid a sorrowful gaze to Max. Her heart lurched at the tears swimming in his eyes. She patted his big shoulder. “It’s okay. Just get a bucket and some hot soapy water.” She looked at him and smiled. “At least it was blonde color.”

“Poor Jules,” Max muttered a few minutes later, watching as he cleaned up the mess.

“Jules works very hard,” Ariel said softly. “I feel sorry about the way he gets treated around here.” Standing behind the counter with Max, she gave the big guy a misty-eyed look as he pushed the mop through the gooey puddle of dye.

Earlier today, he’d entered all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, his big feet bouncing in his barge-size boots.

Four hours and a little accident later found him beaten down to a marshmallow. His shoulders, stooped after a morning full of the Three Stooges, drooped three inches closer to the floor.

“Tiffany was the nicest to him,” Ariel whispered.

Max’s antenna popped up. This was the first whiff of Tiffany she’d gotten today.

“Her goal each day was making sure none of
them
”—Ariel jerked a derisive thumb at the Three Stooges—“made him cry.”

Max’s heart rate ratcheted up. Jules leaned down to squeeze the mop out. Big hands. With calluses that were rough against the soft skin of her thighs. An eager learner.

Max shook her head to clear the vision.

“Tiffany sounds like a paragon.” But Max didn’t buy it. Tiffany’s needs bordered on maniacal—or was that psychopathic? If she’d treated Jules kindly, she had a reason. Perhaps to conquer the sweet-hearted half-wit.

Could Jules be the eyeball in the crack of the door to whom Tiffany had given an X-rated performance?

The eye belonged to a man, and pickings were slim around the salon. Jules or Miles.

Or ...

Had Tiffany locked the front door before Jake arrived? Maybe not. But why lock the back and not the front? Because forcing Jake to knock before entering was a form of control. And leaving the front door open was an exhilarating risk.

In the end, the eyeball could have belonged to anyone. A Cut Above was rife with male clientele.

Max jumped as Ariel snapped the cash drawer closed.

“I wouldn’t call Tiffany a paragon of anything. But at least she didn’t treat
Jules
like crap.”

The tone begged for a question. “And how did she treat you?”

Ariel’s features remained neutral, though the effort to keep them so was revealed in the slight tightening of her lips. “Tiffany considered other women to be lower life forms. Unless, of course, she wanted something from you.”

Max wondered what Tiffany had wanted from Ariel.

“Ariel, honey—”

The girl started as Miles Lamont laid his hands on her shoulders and spoke into her ear.

For a heavy man, Miles was light on his feet. Of course, he also wore rubber-soled loafers, probably just for this purpose. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Yeah, right
.

“What did you want, Miles?” Ariel’s shoulders loosened beneath his fingers as he gently massaged her. Her head lolled back, slightly, but not enough to be noticed by anyone who wasn’t paying close attention.

Which Max was. The man seemed to have some sort of hypnotic power. If he tried to touch
her
like that, he’d get a sharp elbow in his ribs.

He reached around Ariel to flip a page of the appointment book, and as he did so, his arm brushed the side of her breast. Ariel didn’t move. “You don’t have anyone for thirty minutes. Could you pack up dear Tiffany’s things? Keeping everything out seems so morbid.” His breath ruffled Ariel’s curls. Her nipples peaked against the thin cotton of her shirt.

Max started to sweat. It felt like double-dating at the drive-in movies and the couple in the front seat were going down on each other. Jeez, these two acted like lovers, with Pippa Louise in the office.

Miles Lamont could very well have been Tiffany’s watcher, both in the laundry room and at the Round Up.

But what did it say about Ariel?

Max’s psychic wires were more tangled than ever.

“I’ll do it, Miles,” she piped up, her voice cracking on the first word.

“Maxdarling.” He said it as if it were her full name. “Your hair is marvelous. I knew that style would look perfect on you. Amazing.” He was amazingly full of himself. He stood back to admire his handiwork, then clasped his hands together. “Yes, yes, perfect. And thank you so much for offering. You and Ariel can pack Tiffany’s things together,” he added as though he’d given them both a great prize.

Which it was. Despite the fact that she might actually have to wade through Tiffany’s things, Max had just gained a few more uninterrupted minutes to quiz Ariel.

“You’ll need something to pack Tiffany’s masks in.” Miles put a plump finger to his lips. Max quaked at the thought of having to touch the empty-eyed monstrosities, but no one seemed to notice. “I know,” Miles went on, “there’s some boxes and tissue paper in the hall closet. Max, get them, would you?” He flapped a hand.

Max did as she was bid, rounding the end of the counter. That’s when she caught Miles’s hand beneath Ariel’s plaid, pleated skirt. Shielded from the other girls’ stations by a myriad of makeup and jewelry filling the display cases, Miles’s arm moved back and forth under the red skirt. The shit was copping a feel.

The man was insane. Or he liked to live dangerously. Or he knew Pippa didn’t care.

But what really set Max’s blood pounding in her ears was that Ariel didn’t stop him.

Tiffany had wanted power over men. She’d preened beneath Lamont’s attention. But Ariel? She was either a victim of sexual harassment or ... or as bad as Tiffany herself.

The idea was sickening.

Max ran for the boxes and tissue paper. When she came back, Miles had moved from behind the counter to inspect Curly’s newest creation atop the head of a middle-aged, plastic-surgeoned faux redhead.

And Ariel was no longer in a talkative mood. In fact, she barely spoke at all. Almost as if Miles had indeed put her in a trance.

Meanwhile, Max’s fingers buzzed with Tiffany’s essence. She packed a mask in tissue, careful to use the paper as insulation against touching the ceramic.

Cameron hummed nearby.
You’re pathetically obvious, Max
.
Not to mention missing out on a marvelous opportunity.

Buzz off.

“What are you guys doing?” Done with his chores for the moment, Jules had abandoned his mop and lumbered over to Tiffany’s station.

“We’re sending Tiff’s stuff to her sister,” Ariel intoned, her voice devoid of emotion.

Max’s mood perked right up. Perfect, absolutely perfect. She decided
she
would be that angel of mercy, delivering the personal effects to Nadine, offering a comforting shoulder, and a few carefully chosen words of sympathy.

Jules’s mood, on the other hand, took a nose dive. His jaw hung open, his easy smile drooped, and his eyes misted again. “She was my friend.”

“I know,” Ariel answered. “Here, you can help. Find a box for this stuff, a small one so it doesn’t get all mixed up with everything else.” She dug in the center drawer filled with tubes of makeup, hair barrettes, and various female junk.

“I’m real sorry she’s hurt.”

“She’s not just hurt, Jules, she’s ... ” Ariel stopped mid-sentence, raised her eyes, looked at Jules’s fallen face, and seemed to come out of her Miles-induced trance. “You know what dead means, don’t you, Jules?”

“Like the kitten?”

“Yeah, like the kitten.” Ariel patted the big man’s shoulder as a single tear slid down his unlined cheek.

“I didn’t mean ...”

“Jules.” Pippa’s strident voice rang out across the salon. Everyone turned. Ariel, the Three Stooges, their clients—everyone, including Jules.

“Yes, Pippa.” His demeanor morphed to that of a whipped puppy.

“I thought I told you to take these packages to the post office.”

“I was just ...” If Jules had been a dog, his tail would have been tucked between his legs, and he might have piddled on the floor out of sheer anxiety.

Chapter Fifteen

“Now.” Pippa held up her hand, pointed back to her office, the slight wattle below her chin jiggling.

Jules slinked away.

“And you.” Pippa pointed at Max. With her red power suit, mid-thigh length skirt, and black hose, she should have exuded elegance and authority, but her snappy little hat, resembling a box perched on her head, mitigated the effect.

Max looked from side to side, then back at Pippa Louise Lamont. She hated to be pointed at, especially in an imperious manner. Especially when she was in no position to fight back. For half a second, she had a conscious vision of sticking her own finger in Pippa Lamont’s face and—

Cameron laughed from somewhere over on the other side of the room, behind Pippa.
I’d take a front row seat for that
.

It was enough to clear the steam out of her ears.

She didn’t consider her capitulation as backing down. She looked at it as preservation of her current position to eavesdrop on pieces of Tiffany’s life.

Max placed the flat of her hand against her chest, widened her gaze, tipped her chin, and mouthed the word, “Me?”

Pippa rolled her eyes. “Of course, you. There’s a box of computer mailing labels in the car. Get those, and while you’re at it, move the car. Miles parked it in the two-hour zone.”

Miles’s car. Max forgot all about Pippa’s pissy attitude. She was going to drive Miles’s car. She could touch it, feel what psychic emanations came from it.

Thought you didn’t like the visions?

She didn’t. But it was as if heaven had dropped these prizes in her lap. First an excuse to meet Tiffany’s sister—if she got the opportunity to take Tiffany’s boxes over, which she’d sure as hell make sure she did. Now a reason to run with whatever she might learn in the black Lincoln. And she was damn well going to take it.

She flitted across the floor and grabbed the keys dangling from Pippa’s fingers, then smiled. “Sure, Pippa.”

Of course, Pippa. Whatever you say, Pippa. And we’ll see what you do when I slam your husband into jail for first degree murder, Pippa.

The idea of Miles as murderer had become quite appealing.

Spock-like, Pippa raised one penciled eyebrow. “Mailers are your responsibility now. I’ll show you the program.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate any help you can give me.” Max meant every word of it, even as she salivated over Pippa’s payback time.

Pippa flounced from the main salon, reminiscent of Cruella De Vil in
101 Dalmatians
.

Max did not jump to do the woman’s bidding immediately. Instead she meandered back to Ariel’s side to find the boxes almost full and Tiffany’s station almost empty. However, Max wasn’t done with Ariel Sanchez yet. “Is Pippa always that ...”

“Dictatorial? Yes.” Ariel shoved a bottle of ... something into a box. She hadn’t waited for the small box Jules was supposed to get. “You think Miles runs the show, but he’s a pussycat compared to Pippa. Actually, she’s worse than usual. She didn’t like Tiffany, but maybe ...” Ariel bit the inside of her cheek. “Maybe it’s shaken her up. You better get those labels. She’ll be out here again in six minutes if you don’t.”

End of Pippa-revealing conversation. Max asked another question or two, but Ariel’s responses were monosyllabic. She tried another tact. “What was that about Jules’s kitten?”

Ariel shook her head. “A stray Jules made friends with. One day we found it out back with its neck broken. Jules was crushed.”

Oh Jesus. Max felt sick. Shades of Lenny and the puppy in
Of Mice and Men
. Could Jules, not knowing his own strength, have killed the kitten?

Could he have killed Tiffany? Not meaning to, just like in the book?

If he had, it had been an accident. God, she didn’t want Jules to be the one she was after.
Please, please, God, do not do that to me
.

Max shivered and got to the point before Pippa returned for a little hell-raising. “I can take that to Tiffany’s sister on my way home tonight. Where does she live?”

Ariel tipped her head, looking at Max. “Why would you want to do that?”

Why? Think fast, Max
. “I figured it might be too emotional for you.”

Ariel’s fingers clenched on the sides of the box she held. “You’ve got it all wrong, Max. I didn’t give a damn about Tiffany. She might have treated Jules with kid gloves, but she was a bitch. She’d screw anything that walked by, and she didn’t give a damn if he already belonged to someone else. In fact, I’m glad she’s dead.”

* * * * *

So—Tiffany had stolen Ariel’s guy. Did that make her capable of murder? Or just jealous? If she was guilty, she’d hardly admit she was glad her nemesis was dead. Unless she was very clever, had all her tracks covered, and wanted to make sure no one would catch her in a lie.

There was also a definite possibility she wanted old Miles Lamont for herself.
Ewwe.

Max didn’t have an inkling of the answers at this point. So much for psychic powers.

Miles Lamont’s black Lincoln sat like a behemoth in front of the salon. Though well over the two-hour limit, no ticket protruded from the wiper blade.

Excitement coursed through her veins. Until the moment she shut the salon door and was faced with actually touching the damn car. She walked down the front path, stopped at the sidewalk, then swallowed. She could do it. Sure she could. If she didn’t hurry up, someone inside the salon might see her standing like an idiot in front of the big vehicle.

Buck up, girl.
She clenched the keys in her hand and walked around the front bumper.

Max unlocked the door, took a deep breath, and climbed in.

Starting the engine, she pulled out of the parallel parking spot. She did not open her mind to any sensations, beyond the irritation of parking the boat in another parallel spot. There was a limit to what she could accomplish all at once.