Rubbed Out by Barbara Block

I cared. I disconnected it, stumbled upstairs, and crawled into bed. Zsa Zsa jumped up and curled up on the pillow next to me. When my alarm went off at nine o’clock, I felt marginally more human. Four cups of coffee later, I was ready to function. I spent the rest of the day making phone calls from the store, trying to track down Janet Wilcox and failing.
    I started with her daughter, Stephanie, who was down in New York City. She sounded even more annoyed with me this time around.
    â€œI don’t suppose you’ve heard from your mother yet?”
    â€œNo. I haven’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m on the other line.” And she clicked off. Bet she didn’t send Janet a Mother’s Day card.
    I spoke to two of her cousins. Wilcox had been right. They just corresponded over Christmas. They’d stopped trying to get Janet to come out and visit them a long time ago.
    â€œWhat’s the point?” one of them said. “All she does is complain.”
    â€œAbout what?” I asked.
    â€œEverything,” she replied. “Absolutely everything. And then she denies she said anything. She’s a very difficult person.”
    I managed to locate three members of her book group. They didn’t know anything about Janet Wilcox either. They didn’t discuss their personal lives when they met. But they could say this about her: She was always well prepared for their discussions, unlike some people they could mention, who actually lied about reading the book. If I could imagine that. I said I could and tried Janet Wilcox’s physician and got as far with him as I had with her psychologist.
    At this point it was four o’clock in the afternoon, and I decided to go over the credit card receipts Wilcox had collected for me again. I’d done it before and nothing had popped up at me, but I was running out of options.
    It was a fairly simple task because Janet Wilcox didn’t charge that much. Most of her purchases seemed to center around her house and involved things like dishes and sheets and picture frames. She bought her clothes at Talbot’s and her shoes at Easy Spirit. Both stores that catered to conservative, suburban women of a certain age—as the French like to say.
    Occasionally Janet Wilcox splurged and bought herself a couple of boxes of chocolates and a book, but I could tell from the receipts that the books were paperbacks. Her only real luxury appeared to be getting her hair done every week at the Final Cut Beauty Salon.
    I was musing about the name being one I would never have chosen for a beauty parlor when it hit me. Sometimes women tell their hairdressers things they don’t tell anyone else. A cliché, but that didn’t make it any less true. I got out the phone book and looked up the address for the salon. It was over in Eastwood. Close enough. I told Manuel I’d be back in an hour and drove over.
    The place had that familiar permanent-wave smell. It took me back to when I used to go to the beauty parlor with my mom. I’d hated every minute of it, from the shampoo to the dryers, which burned the back of my neck. My mother always wanted me to get my hair curled. I always wanted it straight. The last time I’d gone, I’d come out looking like a poodle. That was when I was thirteen. The next time I’d gone back, I’d been twenty-six.
    The salon was tiny. A strictly two-person operation. Two sinks. Two cutting stations. A line of chairs along the far wall. A large wicker basket filled with kids’ toys. Another one filled with magazines. It was the kind of place that catered to the locals. The walls were painted lilac and hung with framed photos of Tuscany landscapes. A vase at the reception counter was filled with a bouquet of ferns and spider chrysanthemums.
    A collection of vintage Bakelite and rhinestone jewelry was neatly displayed in a glass case below the cash register. ASK ABOUT OUR PRICES, said the