over his thin shoulders, obviously left over from high school, a pair of baggy khaki pants, a blue work shirt, and a tie emblazoned with Bugs Bunny. A cowlick that would not be tamed stuck out at the back of his head.
“He doesn’t have any jobs to dangle as bait. But he’s persistent. Just smack him on the head and he’ll go away,” Stella said.
“Like father, like son?”
“Little rat like big rat.”
“Stella, did Boyd dangle a manager’s position for Angela?”
Stella dropped her voice. “I don’t know. But he’s opening another Stylettos in Virginia Beach. I hear there’s a lot of interest.” Stella stopped talking and started munching carrot sticks as Beau sidled up.
The young Radford introduced himself and held Lacey’s hand a little too long. He wasn’t so bad when he smiled, Lacey realized. A good orthodontist had ensured that when he grinned Beau had the impish look of a mischievous boy, not a rat.
“Is Smithsonian your real name?” he asked.
“Yes. No relation to the museum.” Lacey noticed that Stella had grabbed her plate and headed back toward the buffet table, leaving her alone with this junior Lothario. You’ll pay for this, Stella.
“I read your column,” Beau purred.
“I’ll bet you do.” He lies like a rug.
“I’ll be reading it now, I promise.”
“Good. There’ll be a pop quiz.”
“By the way, you’ve got great hair, Lacey. Bedroom hair. All tousled like that.”
“Maybe I should comb it.” Lacey noticed that people in the hair business had no compunction whatever against commenting on your dark roots, split ends, bad cuts, perm damage or, apparently, bedroom hair. Turning the subject away from herself, Lacey asked about Angie.
“I knew she worked with Stella. I just got home on spring break.” Beau explained that he wasn’t going back to school, as he and the business school in Iowa had had a falling out.
“What did you do?”
“This and that. A little weed. You interested? I know a place.”
“No, thanks, really. I’m trying to quit.” That was a joke, you little rat.
He drew up a chair next to Lacey. “It’s something the folks don’t know yet,” he confided to her. “So about what Stella said. Are you really going to look into Angie’s death? I thought the cops said it was suicide.”
Lacey shrugged and shook her head slightly. “Stella,” she said, implying that, of course, Stella was nuts.
“Stella,” he agreed. “Perhaps we could discuss Stella over dinner sometime.” He was pushy, she had to give him that. But she was ready with her automatic excuse.
“Sorry, I’m seeing someone.” In my dreams, that is. Beau excused himself and slunk off in search of the woman who would be his Mrs. Robinson.
Lacey picked up her untouched plate to find the trash, but as if on cue Boyd Radford popped over to flatter her and put in a bid for a few inches of newsprint about how great his salons were. He also told her she should write a profile about—who else?—Boyd Radford.
“We have a great story to tell, Lacey.”
She wondered what that could be. Maybe, “Rich Weasel Gets in Your Hair—and Your Pants!”
“Call me. I’ll take you to lunch, “Boyd said. “We’ll talk about that article on me.”
Aren’t I the prom queen. Everyone wants to buy me lunch and dinner. Boyd spent too much time pressing a business card into her hand and trying to stare into her eyes, turning on all that imagined charm. People who insisted they would make great copy really irritated Lacey.
“By the way, you’re not paying any attention to what Stella says about Angela Woods?”
“Stella’s my stylist. We share all kinds of secrets.” Lacey smiled.
“I didn’t know Stella had any secrets,” Boyd said.
“How well did you know Angie?”
“As well as any stylist who works for me.”
“Did you think she was depressed lately?”
“How would I know? It was tragic about the girl, but nothing more. Just a terrible personal tragedy.
“He doesn’t have any jobs to dangle as bait. But he’s persistent. Just smack him on the head and he’ll go away,” Stella said.
“Like father, like son?”
“Little rat like big rat.”
“Stella, did Boyd dangle a manager’s position for Angela?”
Stella dropped her voice. “I don’t know. But he’s opening another Stylettos in Virginia Beach. I hear there’s a lot of interest.” Stella stopped talking and started munching carrot sticks as Beau sidled up.
The young Radford introduced himself and held Lacey’s hand a little too long. He wasn’t so bad when he smiled, Lacey realized. A good orthodontist had ensured that when he grinned Beau had the impish look of a mischievous boy, not a rat.
“Is Smithsonian your real name?” he asked.
“Yes. No relation to the museum.” Lacey noticed that Stella had grabbed her plate and headed back toward the buffet table, leaving her alone with this junior Lothario. You’ll pay for this, Stella.
“I read your column,” Beau purred.
“I’ll bet you do.” He lies like a rug.
“I’ll be reading it now, I promise.”
“Good. There’ll be a pop quiz.”
“By the way, you’ve got great hair, Lacey. Bedroom hair. All tousled like that.”
“Maybe I should comb it.” Lacey noticed that people in the hair business had no compunction whatever against commenting on your dark roots, split ends, bad cuts, perm damage or, apparently, bedroom hair. Turning the subject away from herself, Lacey asked about Angie.
“I knew she worked with Stella. I just got home on spring break.” Beau explained that he wasn’t going back to school, as he and the business school in Iowa had had a falling out.
“What did you do?”
“This and that. A little weed. You interested? I know a place.”
“No, thanks, really. I’m trying to quit.” That was a joke, you little rat.
He drew up a chair next to Lacey. “It’s something the folks don’t know yet,” he confided to her. “So about what Stella said. Are you really going to look into Angie’s death? I thought the cops said it was suicide.”
Lacey shrugged and shook her head slightly. “Stella,” she said, implying that, of course, Stella was nuts.
“Stella,” he agreed. “Perhaps we could discuss Stella over dinner sometime.” He was pushy, she had to give him that. But she was ready with her automatic excuse.
“Sorry, I’m seeing someone.” In my dreams, that is. Beau excused himself and slunk off in search of the woman who would be his Mrs. Robinson.
Lacey picked up her untouched plate to find the trash, but as if on cue Boyd Radford popped over to flatter her and put in a bid for a few inches of newsprint about how great his salons were. He also told her she should write a profile about—who else?—Boyd Radford.
“We have a great story to tell, Lacey.”
She wondered what that could be. Maybe, “Rich Weasel Gets in Your Hair—and Your Pants!”
“Call me. I’ll take you to lunch, “Boyd said. “We’ll talk about that article on me.”
Aren’t I the prom queen. Everyone wants to buy me lunch and dinner. Boyd spent too much time pressing a business card into her hand and trying to stare into her eyes, turning on all that imagined charm. People who insisted they would make great copy really irritated Lacey.
“By the way, you’re not paying any attention to what Stella says about Angela Woods?”
“Stella’s my stylist. We share all kinds of secrets.” Lacey smiled.
“I didn’t know Stella had any secrets,” Boyd said.
“How well did you know Angie?”
“As well as any stylist who works for me.”
“Did you think she was depressed lately?”
“How would I know? It was tragic about the girl, but nothing more. Just a terrible personal tragedy.
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