Morelli to call me. It was more that I wondered why he didn’t want to. What was wrong with me, anyway? Why wasn’t he making serious passes?
“Is something bugging you?” I asked Morelli. But Morelli was already gone, disappeared in the knot of cops on the third-floor landing.
Maybe I should drop a few pounds, I thought, slumping down the stairs. Maybe I should have some red highlights put in my hair.
Lula was waiting for me in the car.
“I guess that wasn’t so bad,” Lula said. “We didn’t get shot at.”
“What do you think of my hair?” I asked. “You think I should add some red highlights?”
Lula hauled back and looked at me. “Red would be bitchin’.”
I dropped Lula at the office and went home to check my messages and my bank account. There were no messages, and I had a few dollars left in checking. I was almost current on my bills. My rent was paid for the month. If I continued to mooch meals from my mother I could afford highlights. I studied myself in the mirror, fluffing my hair, imagining a radiant new color. “Go for it,” I said to myself. Especially since the alternative was to dwell on Leroy Watkins.
I locked up and drove to the mall, where I persuaded Mr. Alexander to work me into his schedule. Forty-five minutes later I was under the dryer with my hair soaked in chemical foam, wrapped in fifty-two squares of aluminum foil. Stephanie Plum, space creature. I was trying to read a magazine, but my eyes kept watering from the heat and fumes. I dabbed at my eyes and looked out through the wide-open arch door and plate-glass windows into the mall.
It was Saturday, and the mall was crowded. Passersby glanced my way. Their stares were emotionless. Empty curiosity. Mothers and children. Kids hanging out. Stuart Baggett.
Our eyes met and held for a moment. Recognition registered. Stuart mouthed my name and took off. I flipped the dryer hood back and came out of the seat like I was shot from a cannon.
We were on the lower level, sprinting toward Sears. Stuart had a good head start and hit the escalator running. He was pushing people out of his way, apologizing profusely, looking charmingly cute.
I jumped onto the escalator and elbowed my way forward, closing ground. A woman with shopping bags belligerently stood in front of me.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I need to get through.”
“I got a right to be on this escalator,” she said. “You think you own this place?”
“I’m after that kid!”
“You’re a kook, that’s what you are. Help!” she yelled. “This woman is crazy! This is a crazy woman.”
Stuart was off the escalator, moving back down the mall. I held my breath and danced in place, keeping him in view. Twenty seconds later I was off the stairs, running full tilt with the foil flapping against my head, the brown beauty parlor smock still tied at the waist.
Suddenly Stuart was gone, lost in the crowd. I slowed to a walk, scanning ahead, checking side stores. I jogged through Macy’s. Scarves, sportswear, cosmetics, shoes. I reached the exit and peered out into the parking lot. No sign of Stuart.
I caught myself in a mirror and stopped dead. I looked like Flypaper Woman meets Alcoa Aluminum. Foilhead does Quaker Bridge Mall. If I saw anyone I knew while I looked like this I’d drop dead on the spot.
I had to pass back through Macy’s to get to the mall, including a foray through cosmetics where I might encounter Joyce Barnhardt, queen of the makeover. And after Macy’s I still had to negotiate the escalator and main corridor of the mall. This was not something I wanted to do in my present condition.
I’d left my shoulder bag at the beauty parlor, so purchasing a scarf was out of the question. I could rip out the little foil squares wrapped around my hair, but I’d paid sixty dollars to have the squares put on.
I took another look in the mirror. Okay, so I was getting my hair done. What’s the big deal? I raised my chin a fraction of an inch. Belligerent. I’d seen my mother and grandmother take this stance a million times. There’s no better defense than a steely-eyed offense.
I briskly walked the length of the store and turned to the escalator. A few people stared, but most kept their eyes firmly averted.
Mr. Alexander was pacing at the entrance to the salon. He was looking up and down the mall, and he was muttering. He saw me, and he rolled his eyes.
Mr. Alexander always wore black. His long hair was slicked back in a ducktail. His feet were clad in black patent leather loafers. Gold cross earrings dangled from his ear-lobes. When he rolled his eyes he pinched his lips together.
“Where did you go?” he demanded.
“After a bail jumper,” I said. “Unfortunately, I lost him.”
Mr. Alexander tugged a foil packet off my head. “Unfortunately, you should have had your head in the rinse bowl ten minutes ago! That’s unfortunate.” He waved his hand at one of his underlings. “Miss Plum is done,” he said. “We need to rinse her immediately.” He removed another foil and rolled his eyes. “Unh,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m not responsible for this,” Mr. Alexander said.
“What? What?”
Mr. Alexander waved his hand again. “It will be fine,” he said. “A little more spectacular than we’d originally imagined.”
