sigh but didn’t look up. Somehow, I sensed the sigh was directed at me instead of Crandall.
Crandall couldn’t have been more surprised by my attack if I’d kicked him in the groin. He blinked and looked for an instant like he might cry. A teary redneck Cher fan. I was disgusted to find regret welling up in my throat. It derailed my feminist lecture. “Look,” I said to Crandall. “Ricardo gave me my first job out of high school, let me have flexible hours to finish college. Then he lent me seed money to get my salon business started, which I’ve since paid back, with interest that he didn’t ask for. He is—was—what I call a friend. I don’t give a damn what you call it.”
Crandall had recovered rather quickly and, ignoring my sentimentality, zeroed in. “Why the hell would he bankroll the competition?”
“You don’t understand.” I shook my head, then explained. “Ricardo didn’t have competition.”
“What d’ya mean? There’s a barbershop on every corner. A haircut’s a haircut.”
“That’s not true.” I glanced at Scythe, whose attention intensified a few degrees.
“Ay-yi.” Crandall dismissed me with one paddycake-shaped, hairy hand. “You’re just saying that because you’re a barber.”
“No, I’m saying it because I know the business, and I knew Ricardo. Our hair is very important to us. A study done by a Yale University professor not long ago backs that up—within the first three seconds of meeting someone, we develop a first impression entirely from that person’s hair.”
“Nuh-uh,” Crandall argued as he looked in the mirror at his own Marine-issue style—dishwater-brown hair clipper-cut on the sides with number ½ blade complete with flattop.
I continued, “That’s what the study said, and I believe it. Think of how differently you might approach a witness who has a bleached mohawk versus one who has a natural brunet bouffant. People will go through a lot to stick with a stylist. I know women who flew in from around the state just to get their hair done every six weeks at one of Ricardo’s salons. A lot of us have that kind of customer loyalty. But Ricardo went a step further. Going to Ricardo’s was more than a trip to the beauty salon; it was a social event, and ultimately a bragging right.”
That silenced the room for a moment. Then Crandall snapped a bubble in his mouth. His eyes were lit up like he’d hit the jackpot. I didn’t know I’d been that convincing. “So, sounds like you have plenty of reason to be jealous of him. Your beauty shop’s not doing as hot, huh?”
I fought the urge to give a lesson in the difference between jealousy and envy to this lughead who thought anybody with a pair of scissors could style hair. Instead, I answered the question. “My salon is doing just fine, thank you. I admired Ricardo’s business acumen, but I wasn’t envious of it.”
Scythe, who’d been following the conversation without comment, now asked, “What did Ricardo say to you over the phone?”
“It was jumbled and didn’t make much sense. His voice sounded weak, but I thought it was because…”
Scythe’s eyebrows rose, way too slowly to be considered appropriate. He knew it, too. “Because?” he finally prompted.
“Because I thought he was with a date.”
“You heard someone else’s voice?”
“No, I guess I just assumed it, from his reputation and the breathlessness of his tone.”
“You have an active imagination.”
If you only knew, I thought. A light in his eyes sparked as if he did know.
“So, he never confirmed he’d seen anyone that night, not even the client he was expecting?”
“No, he said something about danger, about pudding, and about me taking care of what was his.”
“What did he mean about danger? Was he specific? Are you two into some dealings together?”
“I don’t know. No and no.”
Scythe stared at me a beat longer, then turned to Crandall.
“Make a note to check with the doc about pudding
Crandall couldn’t have been more surprised by my attack if I’d kicked him in the groin. He blinked and looked for an instant like he might cry. A teary redneck Cher fan. I was disgusted to find regret welling up in my throat. It derailed my feminist lecture. “Look,” I said to Crandall. “Ricardo gave me my first job out of high school, let me have flexible hours to finish college. Then he lent me seed money to get my salon business started, which I’ve since paid back, with interest that he didn’t ask for. He is—was—what I call a friend. I don’t give a damn what you call it.”
Crandall had recovered rather quickly and, ignoring my sentimentality, zeroed in. “Why the hell would he bankroll the competition?”
“You don’t understand.” I shook my head, then explained. “Ricardo didn’t have competition.”
“What d’ya mean? There’s a barbershop on every corner. A haircut’s a haircut.”
“That’s not true.” I glanced at Scythe, whose attention intensified a few degrees.
“Ay-yi.” Crandall dismissed me with one paddycake-shaped, hairy hand. “You’re just saying that because you’re a barber.”
“No, I’m saying it because I know the business, and I knew Ricardo. Our hair is very important to us. A study done by a Yale University professor not long ago backs that up—within the first three seconds of meeting someone, we develop a first impression entirely from that person’s hair.”
“Nuh-uh,” Crandall argued as he looked in the mirror at his own Marine-issue style—dishwater-brown hair clipper-cut on the sides with number ½ blade complete with flattop.
I continued, “That’s what the study said, and I believe it. Think of how differently you might approach a witness who has a bleached mohawk versus one who has a natural brunet bouffant. People will go through a lot to stick with a stylist. I know women who flew in from around the state just to get their hair done every six weeks at one of Ricardo’s salons. A lot of us have that kind of customer loyalty. But Ricardo went a step further. Going to Ricardo’s was more than a trip to the beauty salon; it was a social event, and ultimately a bragging right.”
That silenced the room for a moment. Then Crandall snapped a bubble in his mouth. His eyes were lit up like he’d hit the jackpot. I didn’t know I’d been that convincing. “So, sounds like you have plenty of reason to be jealous of him. Your beauty shop’s not doing as hot, huh?”
I fought the urge to give a lesson in the difference between jealousy and envy to this lughead who thought anybody with a pair of scissors could style hair. Instead, I answered the question. “My salon is doing just fine, thank you. I admired Ricardo’s business acumen, but I wasn’t envious of it.”
Scythe, who’d been following the conversation without comment, now asked, “What did Ricardo say to you over the phone?”
“It was jumbled and didn’t make much sense. His voice sounded weak, but I thought it was because…”
Scythe’s eyebrows rose, way too slowly to be considered appropriate. He knew it, too. “Because?” he finally prompted.
“Because I thought he was with a date.”
“You heard someone else’s voice?”
“No, I guess I just assumed it, from his reputation and the breathlessness of his tone.”
“You have an active imagination.”
If you only knew, I thought. A light in his eyes sparked as if he did know.
“So, he never confirmed he’d seen anyone that night, not even the client he was expecting?”
“No, he said something about danger, about pudding, and about me taking care of what was his.”
“What did he mean about danger? Was he specific? Are you two into some dealings together?”
“I don’t know. No and no.”
Scythe stared at me a beat longer, then turned to Crandall.
“Make a note to check with the doc about pudding