A Deadly Bouquet Read Online Free Page B

had sprouted.
    I traveled up Marietta Avenue, stopping often to let cement trucks go around me. The area was a beehive of activity. Scaffoldings were everywhere. Workmen called back and forth from rooftops.
    The building that housed Claire’s Hair Lair had already received its face-lift. The front was painted burgundy with gray shutters flanking the plate-glass window. Styrofoam heads topped with stylish wigs were on display, along with several bottles of enriching shampoo and cleansing rinses.
    I leaned closer and read a sign: D ON’T LET YOUR UNRULY HAIR MAKE YOU A SOURPUSS. C LAIRE WILL HAVE YOU PURRING WITH SATISFACTION IN NO TIME. For emphasis two stuffed lions had been added to the exhibit. One had matted fur, his mouth opened in a snarl. His companion sported a glossy, manageable mane.
    Chuckling, I opened the door and stepped inside, where my nose was assaulted by the smell of fresh perm solution. Fanning the air with my hand, I called, “Claire? It’s Bretta Solomon.”
    â€œJust a minute,” was the muffled reply from a curtained doorway at the back of the building.
    â€œI know I’m early,” I said, “but I decided to come by before I did another errand.”
    My answer was the sound of a toilet flushing. I peered at my surroundings and forgot my burning nose. Blue, red, green, and yellow stripes raced up and down the walls. The floor was covered with a vinyl pattern that screamed kindergarten finger painting. But it was the ceiling that grabbed my attention. I tilted my head and marveled at the sight.
    Painted directly on the tiles was a ten-foot picture of a lovely girl who might have been fifteen years old. My gaze skimmed over her face, noting the closed eyes and gentle smile. She was dressed in a robe and looked angelic surrounded by an aura of light achieved by the shading of brush strokes. Her hair was a crowning glory of flowers, painted in meticulous detail, sprouting from her head.
    I squinted at the blossoms. These weren’t flower shop varieties. The pinkish purple daisylike flower was echinacea. An evening primrose curled seductively around the girl’s left ear. The brilliant orange blossom of the butterfly weed was an exact replica of the ones that lived on the farm where I’d grown up. Rose mallow, milkweed, and elderberry were all Missouri wildflowers.
    Standing just above the other flowers was another blossom that was a cluster of eight blooms on one stem. Each was yellow-green, tinged with purple. The individual flowers had five tubular hood-shaped structures with a slender horn extending from each.
    I didn’t recognize this last flower, but I was impressed with the overall appearance of the painting. “How neat,” I said aloud. My voice echoed in the silence.
    The absolute stillness of the building finally penetrated my preoccupation with the ceiling. Impatiently, I called, “Claire, if you’re busy, I can come back later.”
    This time I received no answer. As I made my way across the floor to the curtained doorway, the soles of my shoes made tiny tick-tick sounds like I’d stepped in something sticky. I checked but saw nothing except wild swirls of color underfoot.
    â€œClaire?” I called again, pushing the curtain aside. A strong herbal odor rushed out. I moved farther into the supply room. Here there was a total absence of color. The walls were unfinished Sheetrock, the floor bare concrete. Metal shelves held bottles of shampoos and such. The bathroom was on my right. I rapped on the door, then pushed it open. The room was empty.
    I turned to my left, and my breath caught in my throat. Claire lay on her back. With a cry of surprise, I hurried to her side and carefully felt for a pulse. There was none. A pale green froth oozed from her mouth and nostrils. Near her body was an aerosol can of herbal mousse. A bit of green foam clung to the nozzle.
    At first I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. If Claire was