KAREN KENDALL
Midnight Madness
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
For Shear Geniuses Mando, Danielle,
Carmen & Donna and last but not least Faye. Thanks to all of you for sharing your stories and keeping my hair out of my eyes, over my ears and highlighted to cover the (shhh!) emerging gray. Love you guys! Karen
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Coming Next Month
1
CUTTING THE GOVERNOR’S hair is no different from cutting any other man’s—it’s just that if I slip with the scissors, the result could be on national television.
Marly Fine sat awkwardly in the stretch limo, her black nylon bag balanced on her lap. Outside the windows, LeJeune was a parking lot. The heavy Miami traffic crawled alongside the long white car; people on their way to work just like she was. Heat shimmered up off the pavement, mixing with exhaust fumes and humidity and general impatience. The combination steamed the outside of almost every automobile’s windows while the occupants hid in their air conditioning.
In a lime-green Beetle on the left, a college girl munched on a cereal bar and bobbed her head to the radio. To the right, a black Volvo eased forward, its driver a heavy-set Latino businessman reading the Herald. Behind him, a well-endowed platinum blonde in a silver Mercedes applied her brakes and half a tube of mascara at the same time.
Marly’s palms sweated and she resisted the urge to wipe them on her long cotton gypsy skirt. Examining her blue toenail polish, she wondered again if she should have changed it to pink last night.
No! She got annoyed at herself for even thinking it. I am who I am. If the Gov doesn’t like blue polish or sequined rubber flip-flops, then that’s his problem. I’m only there to cut his hair.
John Hammersmith, aka The Hammer, might be Florida’s JFK reincarnated, but that didn’t mean she had to wear a pillbox hat, pumps and a suit to meet the man.
“Temperature comfortable, miss?” asked the chauffeur, whose name was Mike. The poor guy actually wore livery—complete with cap—in this heat.
Marly started to nod, but her teeth were almost chattering. “Actually, Mike, can we warm it up a little back here?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks.” She wore double tank tops over her gypsy skirt, but they did little to keep her warm in the blasting air conditioning.
Marly hugged her bag as if it were a teddy bear and told herself she wasn’t nervous. Hadn’t Shore magazine named her as one of the top five hairstylists in the Miami area? Wasn’t she having to turn away clients now, or pass them on to Nicky, her flamboyant coworker? In fact, she could have referred The Hammer to Nicky, except that she was afraid of the consequences.
All they needed at After Hours Salon and Day Spa was a very public lawsuit against one of their employees—for groping The Hammer’s…uh, hammer. And it was an all-too-likely scenario: not only did Nicky wear tight orange spandex, but he waxed eloquent on the horrors of underwear and the beauties of copping a good feel.
She and Mike exchanged chitchat as the limo purred along in the sweltering heat, bringing her ever closer to the hair follicles of Florida’s forty-fourth fearless leader. A man whose politics made her cringe, and who awoke deep feelings of resentment within her. He had the same slick demeanor of old Patrick Compton, the state representative from her hometown.
The Pattywhacker, they’d called him. He’d won office on promises of honor and sincerity and devotion. Funny how all those had gone out the window when he’d hooked up with the big boys in the House.
Didn’t people ever learn? Now the good citizens of Florida had fallen for this young turk with the conservative agenda and soulful blue power ties that matched his wide-set eyes. The guy had charm in spades, plenty of hair and the big white teeth necessary for the perfect photo op. He’d promised to restore order, morality and conscience to Florida—as if the last two could be legislated.
Marly’s mouth twisted and she leaned her head back, resting it against the fat braid of dark hair that hung to midspine. The plush leather seat hugged her body, and she wished suddenly that her dad was here beside her, taking a ride in a fancy limo. She’d have to tell him all about it when she visited.
The temperature inside the car had just warmed when they pulled up under the curved portico of the Mandarin Oriental hotel, where the chauffeur got out and opened her door. Marly slid over on the seat, gave him her hand and stuck first one foot and then the other out the door and onto the pavement. Her silver toe ring flashed in the sun, as did all the sequins sewn onto her rubber flip-flops.
Mike murmured something to a bellman, who produced a cell phone and led her inside while he hit a number on speed dial. He nodded at her. “Miss Turlington, the governor’s assistant, will be down for you momentarily.”
Marly nodded, slung her bag over her left shoulder and put a hand up to her braid, just to make sure her hair wasn’t working its way out of its confines. She licked her suddenly dry lips and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
She moved her attention to a massive floral arrangement in the center of a table in the lobby, discovering upon close inspection that the flowers were rubber and plastic. She’d begun wondering how, exactly, a factory created these things and how many cancer-causing fumes the workers inhaled during the process, when a no-nonsense older woman in a gray suit approached her from the elevators.
Maria Turlington introduced herself with a gaze as cool and dry as the hand she proffered, and fixated for half a second longer than was polite on Marly’s blue toenails. “If you’ll follow me, Miss Fine, the governor will see you now.”
Ms. Turlington reminded Marly strongly of someone, and as she got into the elevator behind her she tried to think of who it was. Her hair was short and graying, and she had a figure like a broomstick. The gray suit was relieved only by single pearls in her ears and an old-fashioned circle pin on her lapel. She looked as if she lived on tea and cucumber sandwiches or something as equally bland and proper. And the woman’s shoes were positively hideous. Though they were good quality leather, they were squat penny loafers elevated only about an inch by a chunky square heel, and Ms. Turlington wore them with suntan-colored panty hose.
Marly decided that anyone who still wore suntan-colored panty hose could suck on her blue toenails.
The elevator stopped at the top of the building and the two of them exited, passing a couple of plain clothed bodyguards. One of them took a look into Marly’s bag before letting them into the governor’s