A Fashionable Murder by Valerie Wolzien

hair dryers were switched off and people stopped what they had been doing and turned to stare. But it took just seconds for professionalism to reassert itself. Women who had been delivering coffee, tea, and tiny pastries to the customers dropped what they were doing, grabbed mops and brooms, and had the floor clean in minutes. The woman who had greeted Josie and Betty upon their arrival appeared on the scene to make sure no one had been hurt and ended up assuring Josie that there was no need to apologize. This type of thing, she claimed, happened all the time. Josie doubted it, but she appreciated the attempt to put her at ease. She was still apologizing profusely to everyone nearby when Mia, assuring her all was well, led her to the shampoo sinks on one side of the room.
    Betty was already there, seated in a reclining chair, her long legs propped up on a wide comfy footstool, a smile on her face as her scalp was massaged. Josie moved beside her, managing to bump into her friend’s arm on her way to her seat. “Sorry.”
    Betty opened one eye. “What happened? What was all that noise?”
    “I knocked over the bowls of bleach—”
    “Coloring. Not bleach,” Mia corrected. “We’re not using bleach on your hair.”
    “Whatever it was, it all hit the floor, thanks to my clumsiness.”
    “No, no! It was not your fault!” Mia protested. “This place is too full, too cramped. People are always knocking things over. Lean back.”
    Josie did as she was told and felt warm water run over her hair as Mia pulled the foil squares out and dropped them into the sink.
    “You’ll never guess what I heard!” Betty hissed above the sound of running water.
    “You’ll never guess what I heard!” Josie hissed back. “Would you believe that someone was talking about someone named Sam?”
    “Sam? There must be thousands of men named Sam in this city,” Betty reminded her. “I heard something about Pamela Peel. The woman getting her hair washed behind me—”
    “Are you two speaking of Pamela?” An elegant silver-haired woman peered through gold-rimmed glasses at them.
    “Well, yes, we were,” Betty admitted. “You see, my friend here—”
    “Oh, you are friends of dear Pamela.”
    “Not really. We are . . .” Josie paused, trying to describe their relationship with the dead woman. “She decorated a friend of mine’s apartment . . .”
    “You are clients of Pamela. Well, so many people are, aren’t they?”
    “That’s what we’ve heard,” Betty replied. “How do you know her?”
    “I’m her aunt. Well, her unofficial, unrelated aunt. We’ve been friends forever and she’s always introduced me as her aunt.”
    “Have you heard about . . . from Pamela recently?” Josie asked, as her head was released from the basin, her hair wrapped in a thick towel, and she was allowed to sit up.
    “No, dear Pamela is sometimes just a bit naughty. She doesn’t spend enough time with her family, I’m afraid. She’s horribly, horribly busy, of course. What with her work and her social commitments. You can read all about it in this week’s New York magazine, you know.”
    Josie glanced over at Betty. It was obvious that this woman had no idea her beloved niece was dead. “Well, we really didn’t know her,” Betty said hastily.
    “Perhaps you will have that opportunity in the future. Do you attend Junior League events? Or perhaps you’re involved in the Lighthouse for the Blind annual benefit sale?”
    “No. You see, I have a new baby,” Betty added.
    “And your nanny takes weekends off. How unfortunate. These young women have no idea what hard work is. When I was a child, my nanny was never ever allowed to interfere in the life of the family. When my parents wanted to go out, they went, always knowing that there was a reliable person at home to take care of my sister and me.”
    “As you say, things aren’t exactly like that these days,” Betty agreed.
    Josie wondered if this woman had been raised on a