Death on the Diagonal by Nero Blanc Page B

best of them, which she did in a heartbeat, then set the emergency brake, removed her own kid-gloved hands from the steering wheel, daintily retrieved her purse from the passenger seat, and swung her still-athletic and taupe-stockinged legs from the car. As she stepped out she glanced at the lettering on Maxi’s window and smiled as she always did. “ ‘Manes on Main,’ ” she mused aloud. “The name makes it sounds as though Belle should be bringing her monsters, Kit and Gabby, here for a wash and blow-dry.” It was ten minutes before three in the afternoon; her standing appointment was at three—every Saturday, week in and week out.
    But no sooner had Sara opened the door to Maxi’s Manes than Fiona Collins zoomed out, nearly colliding with the elderly lady. Without slowing her pace she giggled a decidedly unapologetic, “Sorry about that. Must be the champers I had at lunch. I can’t seem to see straight any longer.” Fiona giggled again, then flitted up the street toward the municipal parking lot on Thirteenth Street and Winthrop.
    “I trust she’s not driving,” Sara sniffed as she walked into the salon.
    Maxi—or Maxine as she seemed to call herself on alternating days—raised a caustic eyebrow. “Well, guess again, Sara.”
    “Those people,” was the imperious response, but the shop owner merely grinned a wide, amused smile and handed Sara a cotton wrapper.
    “So, what are we doing this week, Sar . . . ? Spikes? Orange and green streaks, a touch of violet to match your doll-baby blue eyes?”
    “I didn’t know the Collins girls were your customers,” was Sara’s still-haughty reply. “I would have guessed anyone other than Bruno or Claude at Chez Claude would have been beneath their stature.”
    “It’s only Lady Fiona, and this is only her second appearance. She runs through hairdressers like she runs through men, so I’m not counting my chickens before they come home to roost. But you know me . . . if she doesn’t cause any trouble or make too many demands, or sulk or pout or whine about not looking simply divine at age forty-five, then she can get an appointment. If not, she’s outta here. All I do is hair, no face-lifts, no cosmetic dentistry, no laser treatments, no peels, no waxes.” Maxine tossed her own hair—this week a soft, strawberry blond—in a customary display of streetwise toughness. “I mean, I’m thirty-seven, and I’m a big girl. How divine am I gonna look once I reach the dreaded age of forty? Not very, is my guess. Even Bruno and Claude would have their hands full.”
    “For one thing, you’re not big, Maxine; you’re tall. And for another: forty or, for that matter, forty-five or even fifty is a mere child when compared to—”
    “I know . . . I know . . . eighty-whatever.” Maxi gave a hearty laugh that matched her ample frame. “So, surprise me, Sar . . . what’ll it be this week?”
    Sara winked at the hairdresser’s reflected image in the mirror. “The usual. Shampoo and set.”
    “You’re no fun, you know that? When I get to be an old broad like you, I’m gonna cut loose. I’ll be playing with hair colors they haven’t even invented yet.”
    “Hmmmph,” Sara sniffed again, but the teasing exchange was interrupted by Fiona Collins’s return.
    “Silly me . . . I forgot my purse.” She bumped into the reclining chair where Maxine’s assistant was now preparing to shampoo Sara. “Woopsie-daisy . . .”
    Sara closed her eyes and leaned her stately head back into the sink. The activity made a strong statement, as if the likes of Fiona Collins—sober or tipsy—didn’t exist.
    “Hey, I know you . . .” Fiona mumbled. “You’re Tommy’s mom . . . or were, I guess I should say, since he’s no longer with us . . . Ooh, sorry . . . Foot-in-mouth disease, that’s me.”
    Sara stiffened, but made no reply. Nor did she open her eyes.
    “He was a fun guy, Tommy, a real party animal. I miss him a lot.”
    “So do I.” Sara’s voice was so