Page 67 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

By the time I reached Harbor Lights Salon, Ricky had apparently decided that running a busy salon wasn't enough to occupy his considerable talents. He'd found himself a new hobby, and judging by the expression on Tammy's face when I walked through the door, it was one she was already regretting.

The salon smelled of shampoo, hairspray, and the faintly sweet coffee Tammy kept tucked behind the reception desk for emergencies. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the front windows, catching on the mirrors and the polished arms of the styling chairs. A woman sat beneath a cape while Ricky worked on her hair, his attention divided between the scissors in his hand and a large sheet of paper he'd propped against the counter. I stopped beside Tammy and looked at it.

It was headed HARTWELL COVE MURDER SUSPECT RANKINGS in thick black marker. Beneath that, Ricky had drawn a series of boxes, arrows, and what appeared to be a numerical scoring system. There were names, although some had been crossed out and rewritten, and beside each one he'd added a brief description of the person's hair. I read the first entry twice, hoping I'd misunderstood it.

“Owen Sinclair,” I said. “Suspicious side part?”

“Extremely suspicious,” Ricky replied, snipping carefully around his customer's ear. “A side part is a classic attempt to look respectable while concealing a deeply troubled soul.”

His customer made a small noise that might have been a laugh. Ricky pretended not to hear it. I moved closer to the board. “And what does the hairstyle have to do with Harvey's murder?”

“Everything, Max. Hair tells you things about a person.”

“Such as?”

“Whether they use too much product. Whether they trust their barber. Whether they're trying to hide a receding hairline.” He glanced at his customer, then added, “And sometimes whether they're a murderer.”

The woman beneath the cape laughed, and Tammy folded her arms. “That's not evidence.”

“It's vibes.”

He said it with such absolute conviction that I had to press my lips together to keep from laughing. Tammy, who had clearly exhausted her supply of patience before I'd even arrived, simply stared at him.

“Vibes,” she repeated.

“An underappreciated investigative tool.”

“By actual investigators, you mean?”

“Actual investigators have access to all sorts of fancy equipment. I'm working with what I've got.”

“You have scissors, a comb, and an appointment book.”

“And years of experience observing human behavior.”

“You spent ten minutes last week trying to convince a customer that his new haircut made him look like a man who'd hidden a body.”

“He said he liked mysteries.”

“He wanted a trim.”

“People can have more than one interest, Tammy.”

I leaned against the counter and examined the board again. The rankings appeared to have been arranged according to a system only Ricky understood. Owen occupied the top position, followed by a name I couldn't read because Ricky had crossed it out so vigorously that the paper had nearly torn. Joann Minotte appeared farther down the list, with a note about a hairstyle that apparently suggested someone who knew how to keep a secret. Harvey himself had a separate box labeled DEAD, BUT STILL SUSPICIOUS, which struck me as a particularly unhelpful assessment of a murder victim.

“Why is Harvey on the list?” I asked.

“Because dead people can still have secrets.”

“That's true, but I don't think his hair is going to help you uncover them.”

“You're assuming I haven't already uncovered something.”

I looked at Tammy. She shook her head. “He hasn't.”

“I'm developing a theory.”

“You're developing a headache,” she replied. “And you're going to give me one if you keep waving that marker around near the appointment book.”