Bad Hair 8 - Day Perish By Pedicure (13 page)

“Do you know of any assisted-living facilities in Pembroke Pines?” she began without preamble once they were alone. “Christine Parks, Luxor’s former director, may have visited her mother at an old-age residence there before the show started.”

Anita gave her a keen gaze. “I have my list at home from when I researched those places for Aunt Polly. If you tell me the woman’s name, I’ll find out where she’s located.”

“Okay, thanks.” Crossing her feet, Marla leaned against the counter. “I told you I’d been to a
shvitz
. It wasn’t what I expected. Instead of wizened old men, there were muscled hunks and girls in bikinis using the place like a day spa.”

Anita walked over to the coffeepot and helped herself to a cup. “It’s supposed to be healthy for you, but I’ve never been,” she said, adding cream and sugar to her drink. “My mother went to the
mikvah
in her day.”

“What’s that?” Marla said, vaguely remembering the term from her heritage.

Anita’s eyebrows shot up. They were dark, unlike her soft white hair. “Women go to the
mikvah
as part of the marriage ritual. I’ll see if there’s one in the area in case you’d like to go before your wedding. Which is when,
bubula
? I have to shop for my dress.”

Marla grimaced. Why was everyone asking about her wedding date today? Did she have an announcement pasted across her forehead? “Never mind about that. I don’t understand how a
mikvah
is different from a
shvitz
. If it’s for women only, then why wouldn’t Heather have chosen to meet me there?”

“Probably because you wouldn’t qualify to get in on short notice. The
mikvah
is used most often by Orthodox married women after their periods. It purifies them so they can resume sexual relations with their husbands. Even if you wore a fake wedding band, you’d still have to follow procedures.”

Marla straightened her shoulders. “I’ve playacted before.”

“You pretended to be a nurse’s aide to get a job with Miriam Pearl’s family in order to snoop out their secrets. Going to the
mikvah
is much more personal.” Anita gave her a knowing smirk.

“How so?”

“You must have seven clean days prior to coming to the
mikvah
. There is a certain way to tell.” Anita blushed, making Marla more curious.

“Go on.”

“You start counting the days once your period ends. Religious women use little white cloths and, er, insert it to make sure there aren’t any stains. They do this each morning and each afternoon before it gets dark.”

“Eww,” Marla said, cringing at the thought. ‘Then what?”

“You prepare for your appointment at the
mikvah
. This is what I’ve heard, mind you, from a friend who used to go on a regular basis. She said that on the last evening, you take a bath at home for thirty minutes and wash your hair with shampoo, no conditioner. You have to remove all nail polish and clean the dirt under your nails. You brush and floss your teeth, and can eat no further snacks. You can’t wear any jewelry or makeup and are even supposed to clean the holes in your ears, nose, and naval area.”

That wouldn’t be popular with people who have belly button rings.” Marla couldn’t conceive of who’d want to undergo this ritual. “So once you’re all clean, what happens?”

Anita sipped her coffee. “You go to the
mikvah
, where you’re led to a bathroom. Inside, you take a brief shower, comb out your hair, and put on the robe provided. An attendant brings you to a private room where she examines your nails to make sure you’ve complied. Then you go into the chlorinated pool, submerge yourself, come up and say a prayer, go underwater twice more, then get dressed.”

“Sort of like a baptism, huh?” Religious customs had more in common than people realized.

“The whole thing takes about fifteen minutes and is supposed to remove spiritual impurities.”

Marla’s lips twisted. “I should’ve done it after my divorce from Stan. I could have used a spiritual cleansing to scrape him off my skin, but I think I can live without this experience.”

“Suit yourself.” Anita shrugged. “It’s been a tradition for three thousand years. My mother described it as an emotional journey that brought her closer to God.”

“Heather is closer to God, but not through the
mikvah
”

Anita pointed a finger. “She may have been going to the
shvritz
every week, like people go to a gym. The
shvitz
, unlike the
mikvah
, is a public place to relax, sweat, nosh on snacks, and shmooze with people. Probably she figured no one would follow her there.”

“Well, she figured wrong.”

Hearing raised voices, Marla emerged into the salon to see Sampson in a snit with Ron.

“What’s the problem?” She hastened to intercede. The two hair-design artists faced each other on either side of a chair in which sat a model, finger-combing her long golden hair.

Ron maintained eye contact with the master trainer. “Chris scheduled me to do the instructional video for our new color-diffusion process.”

“Christine isn’t making the decisions any longer,” Sampson retorted. “Jan said I could do the demo.” He jabbed a hairbrush in the air. Marla noticed it was one of his signature boar-bristle brushes that he imported from China. Liesl had told her how particular he was about his supplies.

“You’ve already had your share of presentations at the show.” Ron’s face reddened. “I’m just as qualified to do this film, and I’ll present the material without an ego trip. If you brag any more about your accomplishments, I’m gonna puke. Stylists need their directions to be straight and clear.”

“Is that so?” Sampson sneered. “I imagine that’s why you acted so cool when Christine refused to be your next bimbo.”

“She told me flat-out that I wasn’t her type, but I bounced right back. Unlike you, I didn’t let her intimidate me.” He bared his teeth. “Isn’t it convenient how everything works out in your favor now that she’s gone?”

Marla consulted the piece of paper in her hand while facing the double front doors to the Hibiscus Blossom assisted-living facility. Her mother had called the night before with information that Violet Parks was registered there as a resident, and Marla had cleared time from her busy Thursday schedule for a visit.

Inhaling a breath of cool winter air, she reflected on the commotion in her salon yesterday. Ron had had the chutzpah to confront Sampson and point out how conveniently Chris’s death factored into the maestro’s plans. It reminded her of the check she’d returned to Sampson, made out to the company director. Maybe Chris’s mother knew what that was all about.

Pushing open the doors, she stepped inside, wondering what to expect. A whiff of food rode along a current of heated air. She identified the mouth-watering aroma of roasted chicken and potatoes, presumably coming from an empty dining room on her left. Lunch hour must have just passed.

Approaching the reception desk straight ahead, she unbuttoned her leather jacket. This turned into a juggling act, considering the strap of her handbag chose that moment to slip off her shoulder, and she held a potted silk plant in her other hand. Adjusting her load, she grinned at the receptionist, a fiftyish blonde with teased hair who chewed gum and doodled on a notepad. The woman’s bored gaze took in Marla’s arrival with the barest acknowledgment.

“Hi, I’m Iris. Can I help youse?” She had a strong New York accent.

“I’m here to see Violet Parks on behalf of her daughter. We worked together,” Marla added, feeling the need to explain. She eyed a sign-up sheet, hoping she wouldn’t have to leave her name, then realized the list was for relatives signing residents out for temporary day trips.

The receptionist shook her head, clinking her tiered earrings. “Such a shocker. A good girl, that one, and to come to such a tragic end. She called often to check on her mom’s welfare.”

Marla recognized a good source of gossip. Glancing at the lounge on her right, she stepped forward. Most likely, those elderly folks occupying the armchairs and sofas couldn’t even hear them, let alone take an interest in their conversation. She couldn’t be certain about the bookkeeper in the back office, however. Lowering her voice, she leaned forward from the waist.

“I’d like to assist the police with their investigation. Do you have any ideas about who might have wished Christine Parks any harm?”

“The world is full of bad people, honey. You worked with the lady. Someone wanting her job? A jilted boyfriend? If you’re here to ask her mother, you won’t get far.” Iris’s expression questioned Marla’s motives.

Marla lifted the plant into the woman’s view. “Actually, I’m here to deliver this. I thought it might cheer her.”

“She’ll love those pretty pink blossoms. Go on upstairs, honey. Violet will be glad to have a visitor. The last person who saw her was Dr. Greenberg. He stopped by on Sunday.”

“Is that her personal physician? Maybe he knew Chris.”

“Dr. Greenberg is a dermatologist. I think the daughter requested his visit, because she was here the first time he came. The nurse upstairs would know. Seems to me he was more anxious to talk to Christine, but that could be because her mom ain’t in her right mind. Violet is in the Orchard, our special-needs section. You’ll be wantin’ the code to get out: seven-five-eight-three-zero.”

Marla followed her instructions to the elevator down the hall, passing an old man wearing a cardigan, pushing himself along with a walker. Wheelchair-bound residents sat about, their sagging postures matching their mood, if their bleak expressions were any indication. Unpleasant odors permeated the corridor, but at least the place was clean and brightly lit. While waiting for the lift to descend to the first floor, Marla noted a wall chart listing daily social activities and another one with menu choices.

“Hello, dearie. Come for a visit?” A woman sidled over, her face showing an excess of makeup and years. Marla’s observant gaze took in her topaz jewelry that matched a blouse she wore with a black skirt as though dressed for the theater.

“Yes, I’m here to see a friend’s mother.”

“That’s so sweet. I never see my children. They live up North, you know, and it’s hard for them to get away. But I stay active. It’s really important, if you don’t want to lose it like those folks in the Unit.” She spoke the last word on a descending note, as though it were a place to dread.

“It seems as though you have a lot of activities to attend,” Marla said in a friendly tone.

“Oh yes, I’ve even started a reading circle for those of us who can still see well enough to read.” The lady chuckled.

“That’s wonderful.” Marla felt a pang of sympathy for this woman whose children lived so distant from her. She could see in the lady’s eyes that even though she hadn’t complained, she missed her kids. How many old people were deposited in institutions like this and left to waste away in loneliness and despair? Their plight tore at her heart, yet she knew also that caring for elderly parents forced a heavy burden on the adult children who had their own families to tend. She shuddered, picturing the day when Anita’s faculties would falter. At least Marla had a brother with whom to share decisions.

The elevator door slid open, and she cantered inside, eager to complete her business and leave. Already her mood had swung from hopeful to depressed. This place with its forlorn residents got to you, she thought, pressing the button for the second floor.

The upper level repeated the first-floor pattern, with room after room opening off the corridor as in a hospital. The linoleum floor, dull gray walls, and harsh lighting were common to both types of facilities, but that was where the similarities ended. Personal belongings such as framed photos, knick-knacks, and crocheted blankets adorned people’s rooms here, Marla noticed as she strode by, peering curiously at the occupants.

She’d never really thought about it before, but assisted living was not the same as nursing-home care. Residents who lived here took care of their own personal hygiene and wore street clothes, unlike the people who needed a higher level of care. Marla recalled her mother had mentioned one upscale place that had apartments with kitchenettes. You could even keep your own car, or move into a place that had its own van to take residents shopping, to the bank, or to doctor’s appointments. Probably the cost escalated along with the services offered, but it wasn’t a bad deal for older folks who were afraid to live alone.

Those in the special-needs unit in Hibiscus Blossom, however, required extra supervision. Marla approached the rear of the second-floor hallway, where she faced a closed door with the orchard emblazoned on it in bold red paint. Swallowing, she wondered what she’d find beyond. Maybe she should have asked what “special needs” implied. Evidently, the door stayed locked, because she had to push a buzzer to gain entry. Repeating the exit code in her mind, she let herself in and faced another corridor with doors opening off each side. God forbid there should be a fire. These unfortunate souls would be trapped.

Her stomach sinking, she searched for a nurses’ station. She bypassed a gentleman dragging along and muttering to himself. He held on to a rail fixed on the wall.

“Is this my room?” a woman asked in a wheezy voice. Marla hadn’t seen her come up from behind. “I don’t know where I belong. Can you help me?” She gripped Marla’s arm. “Maybe you should call a taxi to take me home.”

“You don’t need no taxi, Hazel. Come on now, leave the lady alone.” A buxom nurse’s aide pried the woman’s fingers loose and grinned at Marla. “You lookin’ for someone, sugar?”

“Yes, thanks, can you tell me what room Violet Parks is in?”

“Two twenty-one. Violet is a doll. She always talks so sweet and lady like. Are you a relative?”

“I’m a friend of her daughter’s.”

“Oh lordie, we were so sorry to hear what happened to the poor gal. You go on and cheer her up now. Not that she’ll remember too much. You could say her condition is a blessing.”

“What condition is that?”

“Why, this here is an Alzheimer’s unit, sugar. Violet don’t remember things, but she always recognized her daughter. Such a shame.” Shaking her head, the aide guided her charge down the hallway.

Marla discovered the room a few paces down and knocked on the open door. She might as well have been knocking on her own skull for all the response it generated. Stepping hesitantly inside, she peered at the two occupants.

One woman was slumped in a chair, several feet from a television blaring a soap opera. Her roommate lay napping on top of the other bed. Both were fully clothed in colorful pants sets with their gray heads neatly combed. On the surface, it appeared their physical well-being was being looked after with diligence. But the strong smell of urine told another story. A package of disposable underwear rested atop the first woman’s nightstand along with a bottle of lotion, a box of tissues, and an eyeglass case. Each item was labeled with her name, Fiona Marsh. That meant her roommate must be Violet.

Great, the old lady was asleep.
Should I wake her?

Might as well. She’ll be glad to have company
.

Advancing to Violet’s bedside, she tapped the old lady on the shoulder. Her wrinkled face seemed peaceful in repose, but her shortened stature and curled posture reminded Marla of a shriveled flower. Is this what happened when you got old? You reverted to a helpless state, and your life’s work got lost in the flux of time? Marla had a sudden clear picture of her life force developing as a bud, blossoming into full glory, then wilting into oblivion. Did it have to happen that way?

No, thank goodness. Marla’s great-uncle Milton had been alert until the day he died at the ripe age of ninety-two. Some people retained their faculties and contributed to the world until they dropped. That possibility reassured her. But Marla’s expectations of gaining information from Violet had plummeted. She’d be lucky to get a lucid response.

“Huh? Whassat?” Violet’s eyes blinked open when Marla gently shook her shoulder.

“Mrs. Parks, my name is Marla Shore. I’m…I was a friend of your daughter’s. Christine mentioned that you lived here, and I thought I’d come visit.”

Violet’s expression brightened. “Christine? Is she here?” She craned her neck to look beyond Marla.

Oh joy. Now what
? “I came alone. Can I help you sit up? Would you like a drink of water?” The old lady’s lips were dry, but she didn’t even have a water glass on her nightstand. Hospitals put water pitchers at patients’ bedsides. Were relatives responsible for supplying every personal item in this facility? She placed her potted plant on the table.

“Thanks,” Violet said, sitting with Marla’s assistance. She narrowed her eyes. “Have we met before?”

“No, we haven’t, but your daughter told me about you,” Marla replied, figuring a little white lie wouldn’t hurt.

“You said Christine knows you?”

“That’s right. I need some information, and she suggested I ask you about it. Have you ever heard of a place called Bell Farms?” If Heather’s death was linked to Chris’s, then the company director might have offhandedly mentioned something to her mother.

“Say again?” Violet turned her head, as though she could hear better with one ear.

“Bell Farms.” Marla raised her voice so the woman could hear her over the blare of the television. She glanced at the roommate, who remained focused on the screen like a statue.

“Dunno about that. Did you tell me Christine was here? I don’t see her.” Violet reached for her walker.

Marla wheeled it closer and helped the woman dangle her legs over the edge of the bed. Her limbs were frail, her skin almost translucent. The smell of baby powder drifted in the air.

I guess you aren’t ready to acknowledge your loss. I can play that game
. “Chris couldn’t make it,” Marla said. “What do you remember about her last visit?”

“She had big plans, Christine and that doctor. Who did you say you were?”

“Marla Shore. I worked with your daughter.”

Violet’s eyes misted. “My baby…they told me…”

“I’m so sorry.”

“For what? You have nothing to be sorry about. You look fine, although you’re a bit too thin.” Violet cackled, showing gaps in her yellowed teeth.

Marla took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Can you tell me if Chris had any other friends in the area? She came to town a couple of days before the beauty show. Besides visiting you, did she see anyone else?” Likely Chris wanted a day off to soak up the sun, but it was worth a try.

“Christine met that friend of hers,” Violet said with a wink. “She was so excited about something they were doing together. Help me up. They might still be in the hallway. She wanted me to meet him. My daughter gets so fixed on these causes that it’s all she talks about. She’ll be glad to let you in on the deal.” Gripping the handlebars on her walker, Violet shoved her feet into a pair of worn slippers at her bedside.

“What deal is that?” Impatient to learn more, Marla helped the woman to her feet.

“The one with Dr. Greenberg. You know, the skin doctor.” Violet hobbled forward a few steps. “He was involved in Christine’s latest project. If you ask me, I think she hoped I’d make a donation, and that’s why she brought him to meet me. They must’ve spent an hour discussing their business and forgetting I existed. That wasn’t right, not when I hardly ever get enough time to spend with my girl.”

“You must miss her terribly.” Keeping pace with the old lady as she shuffled toward the doorway, Marla brushed past the other inhabitant, who didn’t move a muscle except to breathe. Violet didn’t have to worry about communicating with her roommate.

Violet halted suddenly. “Are you the nurse? I want to go back to bed.”

“Exercise is good for you. Come on, let’s go for a walk.” The people who worked here must have endless patience. Hoping she’d see the nurse’s aide in the corridor, Marla urged the old lady onward. “Tell me, did Chris like her job?” she said, trying another tack.

“Christine loved her work” Violet’s expression cleared as though a veil had lifted. “She brought me product samples to use, in the early days when I got out more. Wouldn’t do me much good now, with the little hair I have left. Tell her not to bring me anything next time.”