Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

Both of them favored stretch pants and sleeveless blouses, but whereas Suzannah was appallingly thin, her mother was enormous. Lucille’s upper arms hung down like wineskins from her narrow shoulders, and her chest and stomach had merged into one massive ring that hovered around the tops of her thighs. I could hear her labored breathing from thirty feet back as she strolled down the promenade.

Three doors from the end, the two of them turned in to the Cut ’n’ Curl hair salon. I pretended to check out the shampoo display in the window while Lucille announced their arrival to the girl up front. They had appointments with someone named Becky, and it looked as if Lucille was heading in first. Maybe this would be my chance to get closer to the girl. The sign in front said No Appointment Necessary. I decided to take them at their word.

Lucille was already in the chair, her ample figure clad in a black barber’s drape. Suzannah was sitting in the corner, toes turned inward, perusing the pages of True Romance. I walked up to the front desk, and a girl with yellow fingernails asked me what I’d like.

“A shampoo and blow dry;” I said, trying not to look around.

The girl ran a clawed finger down the list of names in the appointment book and checked her watch.

“Francine can take you in about five minutes.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” I said and took a seat opposite a dreamy-eyed Suzannah.

I picked up a magazine and flipped through it quickly before tossing it back onto the table. Suzannah turned another page. I sighed and dug through the pile.

“Hard to find anything in here that isn’t out of date,” I said.

Suzannah looked up at me and said nothing.

“Have you got anything good?” I asked, hoping for at least a murmured response.

She shook her head.

I pointed at the cover. “Well, you see? That issue’s from last year. Can you believe it?”

The girl glanced idly at the cover and shrugged.

“I hope this Francine what’s-her-name is good. Who are you seeing today?”

The girl hesitated a moment, then opened the magazine and resumed her reading.

“Miss Cartwright? I’m ready for you now.”

A whitehaired girl I assumed was Francine was hovering a few feet away. I sighed. Wouldn’t you know? The one time I’d get fast service. I followed her back to the shampoo bowl and set my purse on the floor.

“I’d recommend a conditioner,” Francine said, digging her fingers through my hair. “Do you want one? It’s fifty cents extra.”

“Sure,” I said. “Conditioner’s fine.”

She pulled out a copy of the same black cape that Lucille was modeling and draped it around my shoulders. I leaned back in the chair and rested my neck on the sink.

“I’m trying to remember if I was that rude when I was a teenager,” I sighed.

Francine looked over at Suzannah and then back at me.

“Why? What happened?”

“I was just trying to make conversation, and she completely ignored me; didn’t say a word.”

Francine leaned over. “I don’t know about the rude part,” she said confidentially, “but the reason she didn’t speak to you is ’cause she can’t.”

“Can’t?” I tried to look appropriately shocked. “Oh dear. I didn’t know she was deaf.”

The stylist shook her head and glanced in Lucille’s direction. The woman was blabbing a mile a minute, oblivious to anything the two of us had to say.

“She’s not. She and her mom were in an accident a couple of months ago. Some rich guy smashed into their car. Ever since then, she hasn’t been able to say a word.”

“Poor thing,” I said. “I hope she’ll be all right.”

“Left her mom with a bad back, too,” Francine continued, turning on the water. “Rich people think they can get away with anything.”

I nodded and closed my eyes as the tepid water hit my scalp. So Lucille and Suzannah knew what Gordon Lively was made of...

Suzannah still hadn’t uttered a word when Francine and I parted ways. My hair looked like it had been styled with a rake. Lucille was sitting up front, absorbed in the same True Romance that I’d last seen in her daughter’s possession, and I’d run out of excuses to hang around. I headed back out to the bench in front of Musicworld.

The mall was dead, and I’d been up since five fifteen; the urge to sleep was overwhelming. I didn’t figure I’d get much action out of the Wilsons for at least another fifteen minutes. I leaned back and closed my eyes. Ah, blessed relief.

“Cath?”

My head jerked involuntarily.

He was smiling, whoever he was, and his soft brown eyes were dancing mischievously. Catching me napping seemed to have given him a real thrill. And I think my life is dull.

As if saying my name once was not enough, he repeated it.

“Cath Westerhouse?” Westerhouse is my maiden name. He grinned and pointed to his chest. “Carl Reubens. Mission Beach High School. Remember?”