Alias. Amy J. Fetzer
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Even her appointment desk was the chopped-off front end of a Cadillac, complete with windshield. The walls were high gloss with four-foot-wide tear stripes in hot pink, electric blue and neon green between wide paths of black, toned down by the black-and-white checkerboard floor. Neon signs with the shop’s name hung outside and in the front window.
Darcy had put her mark on everything, from the black work aprons with the shop’s name emblazoned in hot pink to the play area for Charlie and her customers’ kids. Yet she longed for the day when she could add her real name to the proprietress sign tacked near the front door.
She passed the picture of the previous owner, Crystal Hart, smiling, knowing Crystal would approve of the new look and name. Darcy loved the salon because Crystal had taken her in, given her a job and kept her secrets. The older woman had been more interested in helping her with Charlie than doing hair and to Charlie, she’d been more of a grandmother than Darcy’s own mother. Which wasn’t hard, she thought, sectioning off a client’s wet hair for a cut. Delores Allen had her nose deep in a fifth of scotch by noon every day. Darcy shook off thoughts of her mother and started cutting.
For less than two short years, Darcy had been graced with Crystal’s wisdom and kindness. Then Crystal had been diagnosed with cancer. When her health declined, Darcy took over the business for her. Crystal’s dying wish had been for Darcy and Charlie never to have to hide behind an alias again.
Darcy was determined to get her life out of this holding pattern.
Around her, blow-dryers whined and the strong scents of tint and bleach permeated the air. Fifties music played in the shampoo area in the back of the salon while the television entertained the clients in the front.
She trimmed her client’s hair, not paying attention to anything but the cut. Charlie was corralled in his play area with another customer’s child, coloring.
Her client spoke up. “Oh, there’s that thriller movie that’s coming out. I want to see it. Ben Collier is to-die-for cute.”
Darcy barely glanced up at the TV as the entertainment segment came on. She kept trimming hair. When she glanced up again, she saw the Steele Productions Presents logo and her heart slammed in her chest.
Maurice.
There was a brief theatrical trailer for the action-spy thriller before the commentator said, “Critics are calling the high-budget film Dead Game the action thriller of the year. Ben Collier delivers a surprisingly stellar performance that some say will make him the next box-office king. The film combines a tremendous script, daredevil action and breathtaking locations. The film world is breathlessly awaiting this release because recent Pegasus-backed films involving Ben Collier and executive producer Maurice Steele haven’t had the expected box-office draw in recent years. Sources tell us that Steele cofinanced this film himself with financier Porche Fairchild.”
Darcy went still, listening. In the past, Maurice had used his business assets and connections to back a film that studios didn’t want. Most often they came crawling back to him when the film was nominated for Oscars. She had to give him credit, he could spot true talent. He liked to have enough money invested that he had control of the film, too.
But it wasn’t until the reporter again mentioned production financier Porche Fairchild that Darcy excused herself from her client and moved closer.
She turned up the volume.
“Ms. Fairchild has been on sabbatical in Europe, and while her sudden disappearance was at first suspicious, authorities say the doubt has been clarified. Yet, since October three years ago, the reclusive Ms. Fairchild has yet to come forward and show herself.”
A picture of Porche Fairchild flashed on the screen. Small, blond and sophisticated. And missing?
“In the financial world, Miss Fairchild was known for bankrolling large-scale productions, but her decision to finance this film with Steele Productions, whose last few films had flopped, became gossip for the rumor mills.” Darcy saw pictures of Maurice and Porche Fairchild shaking hands. Three years out of sight? Didn’t anyone miss this woman? The police must have investigated, Darcy thought, and proven her existence.
“Maurice Steele had no comment other than how delighted he was to work with Porche and would love to again, and that he hoped she’d make the premiere. The good news for Ben Collier is the prerelease reviews are tremendous. The widely publicized premiere is scheduled for later this month and Nightly Entertainment will be there to show you all the glitz and glamour of the event.”
“Piper? You okay?”
Darcy nearly dropped her scissors as a niggling memory flashed in her mind. She looked around. Customers and stylists were staring at her. She flashed a brittle smile and excused herself, hurrying to the back supply room.
Megan stepped in after her, closing the door.
“My God, Darcy, you’re pale.”
She waved that away. “Do you remember those plastic bags of stuff in your deep freeze?”
“Yeah, they’re still there. It’s clothes and papers, isn’t it?” Megan put her hands on her hips. “I never understood why you kept that stuff.”
“Because they’re Maurice’s clothes, his papers and a computer disk of pictures from when he beat me. It’s evidence I thought I could use someday. After all this time, I just forgot it was there.”
“So what’s got you so jittery?”
Darcy peeked out and told her client she’d be right there, then moved away from the door.
“Three years ago, Maurice was out very late one night. That was nothing big, he was always wheeling and dealing with actors and directors till dawn sometimes. But this time, when he came back, he was hugging his briefcase like a lifeline. When the maid tried to take it for him, he refused.”
“I’m still stunned you had a maid, you know. I’ve seen you scrub toilets.”
Darcy smiled, realizing she’d indeed come full circle since then. “Maurice snapped at me not to disturb him, then went to his library. Then he started drinking.”
“I don’t see your point. From what you told me, Maurice was controlling.”
“It’s not the briefcase or his attitude, but the drinking was odd. Normally he’d nurse one drink all night, because he never wanted to be drunk and lose control over himself. But what I noticed was that he wasn’t wearing the same clothes he’d left in that morning.”
“Okay, that you didn’t mention.”
“He often went to the gym with a client after work, so I didn’t think much of it until I found him passed out in the chair and the clothes in the fireplace.”
“The fireplace? He burned his clothes? Was he passed out naked?”
“No, he burned the clothes that he left wearing that morning. They must have been in his briefcase.”
“Is that what’s in my freezer?”
“Yeah. And he had scratches on his hand, too.”
“Could it have been a bar fight? Or something with an actor or whoever?”
Darcy roared back. “Maurice? He wouldn’t dare make a public display like that. He’d rather die than lose his cool or his reputation.”
Megan folded her arms and leaned back against the counter. “See, that’s the difference between Saul and Maurice. Saul wouldn’t have thought for a second about bashing me in a bar full of people.”
Darcy touched her arm, sympathetic. “Maurice would. He rarely raised his voice. He was all about threats and locks and hitting me where no one else could see it.”
“So why was he burning the clothes, do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Darcy paced in the small room, driving her fingers through her short, dark hair. “I wanted out, Meg, and I’d been planning