Chaos.
Pure, pearly chaos.
Bobby pins fly like shrapnel. Brushes are wielded like weapons. Hair spray clouds form a low toxic fog over the battlefield.
Women shout out time checks, encouragement, and the occasional swear word dressed up as something wholesome.
“Sugar!”
“Fudge!”
“Son of a biscuit!”
Suze, naturally, takes the lead, moving with ruthless efficiency as she twists and pins her own hair in the mirror with one hand and directs another member’s set with the other.
Three minutes later, Mom calls time, and Blanche whirls through the stations, inspecting their work with the intensity of a bomb squad.
“You call that a part?”
“Those curls are first-degree felonies.”
“I’ve seen better sets on a poodle at the county groomer.”
The second round focuses on waves and smoothing—the “Don’t Move or You’ll Ruin Everything” portion of the event, as Mom puts it. The third round is all about accessories—scarves, flowers, decorative combs. The higher the hair, the closer to fabulous.
By the time the dryers shut off and the last bobby pin has been jammed into place, Blanche’s House of Hair looks like a 1950s pin-up convention has exploded. Everywhere I look there are glossy waves, structured curls, scarlet lips, and fierce expressions that say yes, I did sleep in spiked rollers last night and I’d do it again.
Mom takes Corbin from Keelie, repositioning him on her hip as easily as if he weighs nothing. She gives a little hip bump to thestool-podium again and lifts the mic Blanche has produced from behind the counter.
“Daughters!” she calls. “We’re going to take a short refreshment break while Blanche and her team of hair magicians tally the scores. Help yourself to treats, chat, mingle, and please—do not lean back against anything. We do not want to see a single flattened curl.”
The salon breaks into smaller clusters around the refreshment table. I tuck myself near the end of the spread, balancing a plate with a tea sandwich and a small scoop of banana pudding because I refuse to let Midge win both in life and with my taste buds.
Carlotta materializes at my elbow with a heaping plate of deviled eggs. “You know,” she says, popping one into her mouth whole, “if Vivienne could see this right now, she’d be thrilled. Nothing sayshonor the deadlike competitive hair and suspicious mayo.”
“I think Percy would approve,” I say.
“You bet your sweet bippy I approve,” a silky voice chimes in, and just like that, Percy materializes on top of the dryer nearest the refreshments with his spectral plumage fanned, glowing and smug, and well, invisible to everyone but me and Carlotta.
He cocks his head at the room. “Look at them. Perfect little soldiers in scarlet lipstick. Mother Vivi would be so proud. Red lipstick is rather like deviled eggs, dear—looks festive, hides a multitude of sins, and someone always regrets it by the end of the party.”
“Any chance you see our killer among the bumper bangs?” I whisper, pretending to rearrange the cookie platter.
“Patience, honey buns. Trapping a killer takes time.” He preens his luminous feathers. “Speaking of which, I see you’ve finally cornered Dolly Hatchett.”
I follow his gaze.
There, near the end of the table, Dollystands in a sunny yellow dress that tries a little too hard to be cheerful. Her red bouffant is coiffed to perfection, cat-eye glasses perched at the end of her nose, a plate of food in one hand and a cup of punch in the other. She laughs at something Carlotta says, one hand fluttering to her chest in that oh my stars way that makes her seem too soft for murder.
Which probably means she’s perfectly capable of it.
LOTTIE
Dolly Hatchett laughs at something one of the other Daughters says—all in a sunny yellow dress and with her red bouffant bouncing with each giggle—and for a second, I almost forget she’s currently sitting at the top of my suspect list.
She looks so cheerful. So wholesome. So completely not like someone who threatened to bash Vivienne’s skull in with a cast-iron skillet.
Almost forget, I said. Not quite.
