Shear Murder

Chapter 1-1

1

March, and the salty, icy wind blew hard across her face as she walked toward the locked glass door of the Hair Club beauty shop in the Bricktown Plaza. At least the metaphorical wolves from the bank had finally disappeared from the door. Sharon Carstaris had made that possible, not her own business acumen.

Trudy Wilson sighed as she brushed the stray strands of mouse-brown hair away from her face, then pulled her key ring from her jacket pocket. The burden of debt she’d been carrying was finally beginning to disappear from between her narrow shoulders.

The lights inside the shop were set on dim as she had instructed Sharon to leave them each night at closing time. The local cops patrolled the parking lot at night, and they liked to be able to see inside without getting out of their plain white cruisers—the ones with the row of red and blue lights atop a bar on the roof.

Trudy thought of Sharon Carstairs, with her pleasant smile and her flowing blonde curls. The golden cascade down her back made her look younger than her chronological age.

Sharon’s girl-next-door attitude belied her true nature. Behind that innocence, Sharon held her secrets close, locked away from prying eyes.

Trudy had hired the 40-ish blonde some six months ago, and soon realized she didn’t know much about Sharon. What Trudy did know was that her and her husband Rocky’s cash reserves were nearing the end. Bankruptcy had been hounding their every waking moment for months and would have continued if it weren’t for Sharon and her client list.

At first, Sharon seemed to be the answer to all her problems.

Sharon said she had worked for a few different shops in Newport over the past twenty years. She volunteered no specifics about her previous employers and Trudy didn’t press her. Ignorance, at times, was a useful thing. The only thing Sharon did tell Trudy was that she had moved up the Oregon coast to get away from what she called “family problems.”

Trudy, being new to the business world, felt she shouldn’t pry, so she let it go without checking work or personal references and hired the pretty blonde.

The shop consisted of six chairs, with Trudy and Sharon working two of them. The other four were unused for the moment.

Trudy had moved to Fairview from Seattle five months ago, specifically to open her own hair shop. Prior to moving, Rocky had owned a small auto parts supply company, and had been reasonably successful. He had sold the business so they could enjoy the country lifestyle here on the Oregon coast. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had a job since arriving and had become depressed and retreated into a bottle.

To compound her money troubles, small-town people take quite a time to accept new people moving into the area, and as a result, Trudy had had few customers.

The addition of the sunny, blonde-haired stylist, with her tight black leotards and loose fitting tee shirts, which did little to disguise her ample breasts, had made all the difference. Sharon was a welcome sight to the men in town. Consequently, business began to increase at a steady pace shortly after she arrived.

Sharon was quickly building a clientele. Men would stop and talk, especially when she washed the windows or energetically swept the brick sidewalk. There was Mr. Keelson, the bakery shop owner with the fringe of gray around his mostly bald head, and Mr. Williams, the postman who stopped by on his route on Tuesdays. They were among the many admirers of the buxom blonde. Mr. Johnson liked his chestnut brown hair cut short. He’d been a client since the first time he came in and Sharon made him laugh.

At the supermarket, while elbow deep in the apple bin, Trudy overheard two women extolling the virtues of the new hairdresser from Newport at the Hair Club. She knew then she’d made the right decision.

Slipping the bronze key into the lock on the door, Trudy turned it and heard the familiar click as the bolt disengaged. Pulling on the aluminum handle, she entered the shop. The air inside wasn’t really warm, but it was warmer than the air outside, and it washed over her. It felt good against her cold, pale skin as she stepped inside.

It was quiet after the door closed. The noise of the wind and the early morning traffic on the distant highway faded. The air was thick with the chemical smell of perm solution mingled with last night’s floor cleaner, filling the air of the little hair shop.

Trudy walked to the back, where the office was located. An ancient wooden coat tree sat just inside the doorway. She hung her thin navy windbreaker before hitting the bank of light switches with the flat of her hand. Rubbing her hands to chase away the cold for the umpteenth time, she wished she had the money to buy a warmer coat.

The fluorescent lights crackled as they came to life and the shop again breathed to life. The furnace was on a timer, and the fan began to purr as the furnace started to push warmer air into the six hundred and twenty-three square foot space. Rubbing her pudgy fingers together, she tried to increase her own internal temperature.

Glancing in the mirror over her station, she caught a glimpse of the middle-aged woman with brown curls falling down the sides of her full face and the rosy cheeks of her delicately applied blush. After counting her brushes and combs and checking to make sure her two electric clippers were plugged in, one for the longer cuts, the other for the finishing sideburn trims, she returned to the tiny office at the back of the shop.

Sharon had left fresh coffee in the coffeemaker’s basket, just as she did every night. Trudy smiled to herself. Good girl—no, good woman, she corrected herself.

Filling the urn with water, she poured it into the coffee machine. She flipped the switch on the side of the white plastic potholder to the on position. The glow of the red light meant it was on and working. There would be fresh coffee in ten minutes. Good thing. She really needed a cup today.

She and Rocky were scheduled to meet with Mr. Simmons at the bank today. They had to renegotiate their loan repayment schedule. The hair shop had consumed most of their resources. If only Rocky would come out of his winter slumber and get a job. Once he got a job, it would really help to ease her worries about money.

Her husband complained constantly about the attitude of the townspeople toward newcomers. “They won’t hire outsiders,” Rocky explained.

At least for now, they had some cash flow from the shop. This allowed them time to work out a plan with the bank before they sank below the red line into bankruptcy. Trudy sighed.

The bell over the front door tinkled. It had to be Sharon.

Exiting the office, Trudy found Sharon standing over her workstation, playing with a new brush, a replacement for the one she’d brought with her from Newport. Sharon claimed someone had stolen it off her station, but Trudy sensed Sharon had broken it or lost it somehow.

“Mornin’,” said Trudy in her light, musical voice.

“Uh... hi,” Sharon said, her blue-green eyes focused on the combs and brushes laid out in a neat row on the surface of her mauve-colored station. The drawer was open, which she slapped shut as soon as Trudy appeared. Her shoulder-length blonde hair, usually perfectly coiffed and combed into place, was ruffled and had a windswept look.

Sharon glanced up, and the dark circles under the woman’s eyes made Trudy cringe.

“I’d like the day off. I’m not feeling well.”

Trudy wondered why she hadn’t just called in if she needed a day off. “Of course. Do you want me to call your appointments for today?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

Sharon shook her head. Something was obviously wrong, but if Sharon wouldn’t share, there was little she could do about it.

Turning away, Sharon hurried out the front door and disappeared into the bustling mob of tourists starting their early morning shopping. Trudy watched Sharon. Her eyes were focused on the ground, causing her to almost knock over an old lady with a cane who shouted at her as she passed. Sharon didn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

Walking again to the back, her rubber-soled Nike’s squeaked across the tiled floor. She entered the small, whitewashed office and sat in the worn secretarial chair. Reaching out, she pulled her thin, black, nylon smock from the coat tree next to the desk.

The coffeemaker was almost finished. The hot, black liquid would feel good going down. At least their financial situation might finally begin to turn the corner.

Walking into the shop, she stopped to study Sharon’s station. She considered opening the drawer, then decided not to. She made a point of not invading her employee’s privacy. Trust is earned, not given, her father used to tell her when she was a girl. The new brush looked familiar, though.

Picking it up, she studied the logo. A very expensive brand, one that Sharon could never afford. Her eyes narrowed when she realized where she’d seen this before.

Rocky had bought one just like it on their last visit to the wholesale beauty supply store. She shook her head. Couldn’t be. Not with all the complaining she did about her drunk of a husband. If he and Sharon—

The bell on the front door tingled brightly, breaking her train of thought. Mrs. Evanston walked through the door, grasping her heavy aluminum walker in her gnarled hands. Covering her gray hair was a thin, pale blue scarf to hold her wispy hair in place, just as she wore it every week.

Trudy glanced at her watch. 9:05. Right on the nose, as usual.

“Hello, Mrs. Evanston.” Trudy forced a wide smile to her lips, though she didn’t feel particularly happy at the moment.

“Hello, yourself.”

Mrs. Evanston had been Trudy’s first customer shortly after she’d opened for business and had been a regular ever since. She was a wily old lady of at least eighty, who only came in on seniors’ discount day: Tuesday.

Mrs. Irma Evanston had married a wealthy eastern industrialist and that he died shortly after he retired and moved to Fairview.

Even if it weren’t true, Mrs. Evanston was a very unpleasant and difficult person to deal with. And the cheapest woman Trudy had ever met.

“Where’s Sharon?” Mrs. Evanston asked, stopping by the coat tree near the front desk long enough to remove her long, green, floor-length overcoat. Shaking the excess moisture from the coat, she pulled off a steel hangar, then used it to hang the wet coat on the rack. It would be dry before she left. Mrs. Evanston always booked an hour and a half for her roller set.

“On a day off, Trudy said, without elaborating.

Trudy glanced at the appointment book on the front desk as she passed it while helping Mrs. Evanston to the sinks where she would shampoo her hair. They would move back to Trudy’s station for her to set the curlers, then Mrs. Evaston would move to one of the dryer chairs.

Odd. There were no appointments booked for Sharon today. It was the first day in the past few weeks she didn’t have a least one perm and several haircuts on the schedule. It was almost as if Sharon had planned for a day off.

Trudy made a mental note to speak to Sharon about it tomorrow.