Words With Fiends by Ali Brandon Page A

rounds of all her usual places . . . the greengrocer, the beauty parlor, a couple of other places. Heck, I even bit the bullet and got my nails done at her favorite salon,” Jake said, waving one hand to display a French manicure before reaching for her soup spoon. “But either no one knew where she was, or no one was saying.”
    â€œTalk about sacrificing all for your work,” Darla murmured, momentarily distracted by the sight of her friend’s white-tipped nails. While Jake had been known to indulge in a dramatic slash of red lipstick when a night out demanded it, Darla had never actually seen the woman sporting fingernail polish before. Then, recalling herself to the subject at hand, she added, “Do you think Mrs. Putin left the city?”
    â€œThat’s a strong possibility. I’ve got a couple more leads to follow up on tomorrow. If they don’t pan out, I’ll rent a heap and head out of town.”
    She paused to take a sip of coconut soup, and then added with a grin, “Hey, maybe I can recruit Hamlet to help. He’s pretty good at unraveling mysteries. I can stick him in a harness, give him one of Mrs. Putin’s old babushkas to sniff, and let him do the bloodhound thing around the city.”
    â€œCute,” Darla deadpanned. “You supply the harness, and I’ll run out and get him a meerschaum pipe and a magnifying glass.”
    â€œAw, c’mon, kid, I’m just trying to cheer you up.”
    â€œI guess I’d be in a cheerier mood if I knew for sure what was ailing him. I mean, when you think about it, the idea of a cat seeking atonement is pretty crazy.”
    â€œYeah, well, not as crazy as getting one of those live fish pedicures.”
    â€œWhat? You don’t mean . . .”
    Jake gave a rueful nod, and Darla stared at her in horrified amusement. She’d heard about spas that offered exotic services like a foot soak in water teeming with tiny carp whose job was to nibble away at your dead skin. Surely Jake hadn’t gone the extra mile in her investigation and had a fish pedicure, too!
    â€œYou actually let minnows chew on your feet? But I thought that kind of thing was illegal in New York City.”
    â€œTechnically, yes, but people like Mrs. Putin don’t care about that. Kind of like Cinderella’s stepsisters . . . they’ll do anything if someone says it’s the latest beauty fad.” She shrugged, her smile broadening. “If you’ve got the cash and know who to ask, let’s just say that you, too, can have baby-smooth tootsies like me.”
    â€œUgh, I’ll live with the calluses. So other than getting your feet munched on, I guess that spa was a bust, too?”
    â€œWith a capital B. Those girls who work these salons are tough cookies. Bribes, pleas, threats . . . none of that works on them. This one is going to take good old legwork to solve.”
    Darla gave her a commiserating smile. “You’ll find her. But whatever you do, don’t come back with hennaed hair tomorrow.”
    â€œNot a chance,” the older woman retorted and shook her curly black mane. “But some gal in leopard-print heels slipped me a card for a Botox party at her house. That, I might check out.”
    â€œA Botox party?” Darla echoed. “Now you’re really out of my league. What in the heck is that?”
    â€œPretty much what it sounds like. A bunch of middle-aged women, a lot of wine and cheese, and a doctor—or someone who plays a doctor on television—who drops in to inject everyone’s wrinkly foreheads with Botox.”
    â€œNo thanks,” Darla said with a shudder. “A woman at my old job invited me to a microdermabrasion party once, but I had a night class and couldn’t go. Talk about dodging a bullet. I think the esthetician was slugging down the wine with the rest of them, because my friend came to work the next