One of Us Is Dead

ONE

JENNY

PRESENT

I’ve spent thousands of hours working on these women. I’ve primped, waxed, cut, painted, spray-tanned, powdered, and massaged them. I know almost every inch of their bodies. But I also know their demons—their deepest, darkest secrets. The things we try to bury beneath the surface so as not to show the world the doppelgänger lurking within us. So, am I surprised something like this happened? Not even in the slightest. I figured it would. It was just a matter of time. I readjust myself, crossing one leg over the other beneath the table.

Across from me sits Detective Frank Sanford, a stern-looking middle-aged man with hard facial features and broad shoulders. He’s your classic blue-collar detective. Despite the suit and tie he’s wearing, his appearance is anything but polished and put together. His red-rimmed eyes give away the fact that he works far too many hours and gets far too little sleep. We have more in common than he’ll ever know.

How do you know their deepest, darkest secrets, Jenny? I mean, are you their therapist too? I thought you were a hair stylist, Detective Sanford asks, jutting out his chiseled chin covered in stubble. His eyes tighten, staring intently at me as he pauses his note-taking and waits for an answer. We’re sitting across from each other in a well-lit interrogation room. The air is stale and cold, and I can’t tell if the room is trying to match the aura of the detective or the other way around.

I’m both, in a way. I don’t know how much time you’ve spent inside salons, Detective Sanford, but women talk. I cross my arms in front of my chest, holding his gaze. Especially when they’re sitting in a salon chair with nothing but time on their hands.

I know this man has never set foot inside a salon, and not just based on his own level of self-care. The truth is, I know more about my clients than I do my own family, especially this group of women. I see each of them multiple times a week. They have cash to burn—or at least their husbands do—and they can afford to pour resources into fighting the greatest war of their lives: the one against the effects of time on the human body.

I see, and you’re the owner of Glow Beauty Bar, correct? He gently taps his pencil on the table.

The one and only. I nod.

He picks his pencil back up and jots down a couple more notes, careful not to miss anything.

And how long have you owned the salon?

My eyes wander for a moment as I recall when I purchased it. About five years now.

And have these women been your clients the whole time? He creases his brow.

No. They didn’t become my clients until around three years ago. Glow wasn’t always the salon it is today.

He writes down a couple more notes and circles something on the paper. I catch a glimpse of the words within the circle: Glow Past?

I see. So, you’ve known these women for three years, and you’re not surprised that any of this happened? He raises his thick, dark eyebrows.

No. Don’t let them fool you, Detective. Individually, they’re genuine and they can be kind . . . but when you put them in a room together, these women are downright toxic.

TWO

JENNY

THREE WEEKS BEFORE THE MURDER

Olivia plopped her tight, skinny ass in my chair and dropped her oversized Hermes bag on the ground. Her long, lush mahogany hair brushed my face as she tossed it over her shoulder without a care. Thanks to me, it was full of the perfect number of lowlights and highlights. She was dressed in a red jumpsuit that left little to the imagination. Olivia always wore red in some variation, whether it was her whole outfit, a bold lip, or an eye-catching accessory. Red was her power color, her security blanket. And she’d never be caught dead walking in anything other than a pair of red-bottomed Louboutin’s.

As I wrapped a freshly cleaned cape around her, Olivia stared at herself in the mirror with pure and utter admiration. She turned her head from side to side observing her perfectly sculpted nose, overinjected plump lips, and high cheekbones. If a brown-haired Barbie doll were blown up to life-size, it would look just like Olivia. I could tell she was pleased with her appearance as she gave herself a slight smirk, revealing veneers so bright they could challenge a hundred-watt light bulb. I’d been her hairstylist, makeup artist, nail technician, waxer, tanner, lash artist, and so much more for years, and as time progressed, I had noticed that her lips kept getting plumper, her cheekbones higher, and her skin smoother. Like tectonic plates, her face was always shifting.

What are we doing today? I asked as I gently ran a comb through her soft hair while looking at her in the mirror. I already knew what she wanted, but Customer Service 101 dictates you always let the client tell you what they want. So I waited for her to tell me. She held up her finger at me while she typed vigorously into her phone.

Olivia and I were opposites in every way. While her hair was dark and long, mine was strawberry blond, wavy, and fell right at my shoulders. Her facial features were hard and cutting. Mine were soft and rounded. Her eyes were rich like milk chocolate. Mine were a cool blue. Her face was free of any beauty marks, while mine was speckled with freckles. She set her phone in her lap, briefly looked at me, and then returned her gaze to the single most important thing in Olivia’s life: Olivia.

Roots and trim, and I’ll need a wax. Dean is coming home tonight. There was a sparkle in her eye and a bit of giddiness in her voice, like a schoolgirl talking about her first crush. Dean and Olivia Petrov had been married for over a decade, and it surprised me that they still had a flame of passion between them. Then again, toxic relationships are great for extreme highs and lows.

Well, then, we’ll have to make sure you’re absolutely perfect for him.

I’m already perfect for him, Olivia snarked.

I smiled and nodded. I had learned over the years that this was the best way to handle difficult clients, and Olivia held the title of the most difficult.

But you always make me better than perfect, she added.

Olivia had a true talent for complimenting herself before she complimented others. She was the same with kind words and insults. I coined the term kinsults thanks to her. It was like she had created a cruel language all her own. You wouldn’t even realize she was insulting you, because they were wrapped up like a present, complete with a nice bow.

The best part about my job was making women feel good about themselves. I loved the way their faces lit up after I was finished with them. Beauty glow is what I liked to call it, hence the name of my salon, Glow Beauty Bar. Olivia was one of those rare clients that always had that glow, so it wasn’t as fun making her over, but she tipped well and her beauty treatments had single-handedly paid off the mortgage on my apartment above the salon.

What do you and Dean have planned tonight? I asked.

Olivia looked up from her phone. A little of this and a little of that. She winked.

She always thought she was so cryptic, but her text messages revealed exactly what she was up to tonight. I nodded and returned to mixing up the dye.

I love your freckles, Jenny. But have you ever considered wearing a full-coverage foundation? Olivia’s eyes scanned my face.

Kinsult.

I used to, but freckles are in, I said with a smile. Women even draw them on now.

She shrugged and returned her eyes to her phone, scrolling through her highly edited Instagram photos. If you say so.

Although I loved where my business was at now, sometimes I thought it was easier in the old days. I never used to have to deal with high-maintenance clients. I opened Glow Beauty Bar five years ago. It had always been my dream to own a boutique full-service salon, but things weren’t as glamorous as I had hoped. I started off with peeling paint and a hodgepodge of used furniture and old salon equipment, and the client list consisted of errant old women that would wander in off the street. I continued to struggle until one day, about three years ago, Olivia came into my salon with a hair emergency. Apparently, her regular hairstylist had up and moved to New York City, so she tried out another salon that completely botched her dye job. I was her saving grace. She got word out to her elite friends about me, and my salon transformed from a barely-making-it-by cheap salon to a full-service beauty bar for the upper-class women of Buckhead. I added two tanning beds, a spray tan machine, a pedicure and manicure area, a waxing room, a makeup bar, a sitting area, and a wine and champagne bar. Basically, anything they wanted, I delivered. There’s a waiting list to even become a client here now, and I only accept twenty-five full-time clients. By full-time, I mean my clients agree to have a minimum of eight services a month. If they fail to do so, they’re terminated as a client, or at least relegated to the waiting list. It’s very exclusive and very expensive.

Are you adding facials anytime soon? Olivia pulled at her skin. It didn’t move. Her face never moved, thanks to her frequent Botox sessions.

I hadn’t considered it, I said.

This is exactly why you need me. Someone to think about the bigger picture. You should hire an aesthetician. Some of your clients are going to be in serious need of antiaging treatments soon, like Shannon. Olivia attempted to raise an eyebrow, but instead, her eyes half squinted.

I gave her a small smile and directed my focus back to her hair. Olivia thought she was the sole owner of Glow. Unfortunately, she was an angel investor, but I hoped that within three years I’d buy her share out. She was far too demanding. I was grateful she had saved the salon, but in a way, she had used it to propel her social status. This place had become my clients’ personal hangout, their home away from their mansions. Olivia and her friends treated it like their own living room, hosting book clubs, wine nights, hangouts for gossip, and committee meetings.

Her phone vibrated, and she picked it back up, typing vigorously. I read texts here and there as I began applying the dye to her roots. If my clients weren’t talking to me, they were making calls or texting. Always fearful of missing out on the next hot piece of gossip. It was hard not to pay attention, not to put things together, not to figure out what was happening among these women.

So, where has Dean been? I asked.

The second-best part of my job was chatting with my clients. They told me everything—sometimes not intentionally, but they did. Their hopes, dreams, failures, worries, problems, insecurities . . . everything. I really enjoyed getting to know them. I liked feeling like I was a part of their lives, even if I wasn’t. It made work feel less like work and more like I was just hanging out every day. I was good at asking questions, and I was great at listening. I hated any attention on me, so it was a good match, because my clients loved to talk, especially about themselves.

Oh . . . ummm . . . actually, I’m not sure, she said. He’s like a stray dog sometimes. Can’t keep track of him, she added with a laugh.

Olivia and Dean were two of the most influential and powerful people in Buckhead, so for them, it was all about keeping up appearances. Even though I had known her for three years, I didn’t have a clue what Dean did for a living, and I don’t think she did either. As long as she kept getting her allowance, I don’t think she cared. Rumor had it that he was into some sort of shady smuggling business, but if you asked him, he’d tell you it’s supply chain.

"Speaking of stray dogs, are there any in your life?" She smiled.

I continued to paint her roots with the rich dye, which smelled like ammonia. It wasn’t a smell most people liked, but I did. It was comforting.

No, none for me. This salon is my life. I glanced around, taking it all in.

Five years from its inception, Glow is now clean and modern with hardwood floors throughout, exceptional track lighting, and the newest and most expensive salon equipment. There are black velvet floor-to-ceiling curtains separating the reception area from the rest of the salon. No one gets past those curtains unless you’re a client or an employee. Nonclients speak of this place like it’s the throne room at Buckingham Palace.

Oh, sweetie. You can’t make a building your whole life, she said with a chuckle. And that says a lot, coming from me. I’d sell my soul for a Crocodile Birkin. Oh, you probably don’t even know what that is, which is for the best. You have simpler things to focus on.

Kinsult.

I gave a tight-lipped smile and began trimming her ends. She had just had a trim last week, so it was quite unnecessary, but she was the one with the Black AmEx. Her phone buzzed again, and I glanced down, seeing it was a text from someone named Bryce’s Midlife Crisis.

Sorry, Jenny. I completely forgot I have to grab lunch with the ladies today. How long is this going to take? She bounced her foot quickly.

Thirty minutes for the hair, but waxing will take another thirty.

Well, we’ll have to skip the wax for now. Gotta make nice with the new wife. Her voice was laced with sarcasm.

New wife?

Crystal Madison, new wife of Bryce—and if you ask me, a major upgrade from Shannon. She smirked.

Yeah, I heard Bryce left Shannon for a younger woman. They just married, right?

Bryce was a US congressman, and he served on a committee for trade. There were rumors swirling of infidelity two months before his reelection campaign ended. He barely got reelected. Right after he was voted back in, he left Shannon and married Crystal, spinning the whole thing with the press as though he was stuck in a loveless marriage and finally found true love. I assumed he planned it out nicely to give himself enough time to repair his image before the next election.

Have you met Crystal yet? She shot me a quick glance in the mirror.

Nope, haven’t had the pleasure. I shook my head.

You probably won’t, she’s real country, she said putting a little twang in it. Olivia always tried to hide the slow drawl of her thick Georgia accent under some odd combination veneer of Upper West Side Manhattan meets Midwestern news anchor, but once in a while her country would come out, to her great dismay.

Not into the glitz and glam of Buckhead? I brushed out the ends of Olivia’s hair and checked the time on the dye.

Buckhead is a wealthy uptown district of Atlanta. It doesn’t sound all that nice with a hard name like Buckhead, but to give you an idea, the average home costs well over $800,000. It’s known as the Beverly Hills of the East.

Not at all. Don’t get me wrong. She’s beautiful, a real Jessica Simpson look-alike. But I don’t think she’ll be a regular of yours. Too all-natural and fresh-faced for my taste, and she’s young, like twenty-five. Olivia rolled her eyes. Olivia didn’t like young, because she wasn’t anymore. She would never be one of those women that aged gracefully. She would fight it tooth and nail.

Much younger than Bryce, I noted.

Oh, yes. Shannon was probably most mad about that. You know, her husband trading her in for a younger woman. But Bryce is all about trade, Olivia said pointedly with a chuckle.

I bet that hasn’t been easy for her. How’s she holding up? I gestured Olivia to a sink. She sat down and leaned her head back as I gently rinsed out her hair.

Don’t know. Don’t care, she said flippantly.

Well, you two are friends, I said a little louder to speak over the sound of the water and because I was also shocked to hear Olivia hadn’t checked up on Shannon after everything she had been through.

"Correction: were friends. I have to distance myself from that. Shannon is a sinking ship in this town. Sure, she has alimony, but Bryce has all the influence and power."

My eyes grew wide as I processed what she had said. Olivia and Shannon had been close, and to learn they weren’t any longer because her husband left her was a shock. At that moment, I knew something wasn’t right. The balance in the group wasn’t the same. It was like when all the wind stops and the sky turns bright, right before the storm explodes.

I hadn’t seen Shannon this month yet, and she was close to getting terminated as a client. She had seven days to come in for eight treatments, and I had intended to give her a little wiggle room, but it was clear Olivia wanted her out. I made a mental note to call Shannon that afternoon to remind her.

That’s a shame to hear. I feel bad for her, I said.

Don’t! Shannon was never that nice a person anyway. She was awful to me, and I had to practically force her to become a client of yours. She thought this place was beneath her . . . Olivia twisted up her nose.

A slight frown spread across my face as I patted Olivia’s hair dry with a towel.

Oh. Don’t let it bother you too much. Shannon’s just a bitch every day. Olivia waved her hand dismissively.

I’m not bothered by it. She’s been through a lot. I walked Olivia back to the hair station.

Well, she’s a has-been, and it won’t look good for business to have her here. She’s just a reminder of how far the mighty can fall. It’s sad, really. Olivia pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her thousands of selfies while I blow-dried her hair.

I had loyalty to all my clients, even the worst of them. I never minded listening to the drama between the women. I understood that people needed to vent and not everyone got along all the time, but I never wanted to be pulled into the middle of it. I’d listen, but I refused to participate. However, that’s the thing about drama: participation isn’t always required.

Olivia typed up a text to a group named Buckhead Women’s Foundation. I read the words as her bony fingers pecked at the keys. Things were about to get bad.

The front door chimed just as I finished fluffing Olivia’s hair with my fingers. It was perfect. The volume and shine made it look like she just walked out of a shampoo commercial.

Go on back, Mary, the salon’s receptionist, said from the front.

Olivia stood up and admired herself once more in the mirror, puckering her lips and ensuring every strand of hair was in place.

Karen Richardson emerged from behind the curtains. She had a shoulder-length bob of red hair that looked like the glowing warmth of fresh coals on the bottom of a campfire. She was a loyal client, a luxury real estate lawyer, and a close friend of Olivia’s—well, as close as one can get in Buckhead. She was thin and wispy, without an ounce of fat on her. With her concave cheeks, flat wide jaw, and large toothy smile, she looked more like a runway model than a mother or a Realtor.

Karen directed her attention to Olivia. Did you just call an emergency committee meeting?

Olivia turned and faced Karen, her hair whooshing over her shoulder dramatically. Yes. Don’t worry, it won’t take long.

And why is it at the café instead of here?

I figured it’d be easier since we’re meeting Bryce’s midlife crisis afterward for lunch. Olivia gave a small smile.

Karen sighed and hesitated for a moment like she was trying to read Olivia.

What’s the meeting about? she said, putting a hand on her hip.

You’ll find out when you arrive.

Olivia turned toward me. Thanks so much, Jenny. You’re the best! She planted two light kisses on either side of my face, grabbed her bag from the floor, handed me a one-hundred-dollar bill as a tip, and walked out glowing, my specialty.

She’s too much sometimes. Karen shook her head and watched Olivia strut out of the salon.

But not all the time, I said with a smile. Peacekeeping was also a part of my job, and it seemed one of my biggest responsibilities going forward.

Shall we? I gestured with my hand toward the back, and we walked to the spray tan room.

Karen stripped down naked quickly. There was no awkwardness as I had spray-tanned her over a hundred times before and by now it was all routine. I knew her body better than I knew my own. Every freckle. Every scar.

Big day for you. Emergency committee meeting and lunch with the ladies.

God. Don’t remind me. Karen let out a huff of annoyance.

I grinned.

Karen smiled as I continued to spray her milky white skin a light bronze color. I’m not sure what Olivia is up to, but I’m sure it’s no good. And you’ve heard about Crystal, right?

I nodded.

I haven’t met her in person yet. But I feel like I’m betraying Shannon by being welcoming to her.

Have you talked to Shannon about it?

Yes, but not about Crystal. Shannon’s been a mess, and I didn’t even mention that I was getting lunch with her and Olivia. Karen turned to the side just as I finished spraying the front of her.

Maybe you should talk to her about it. Shannon, that is.

I should, but if she has an issue with it, there’s not a lot I can do. Karen turned and I sprayed her back. I have a business that I have to run, and I run it professionally. You understand that?

I nodded because I understood better than anyone. Karen wasn’t like the other wives. She had a young son, and she didn’t depend on her husband for money. Although, as a plastic surgeon, he brought in plenty. But Karen had built a real estate empire from the ground up, and she’d become so successful that she had an entire team behind her, so all she had to do was sweep in and close the deals.

And then obviously, we have to welcome Crystal into our circle, since she’s married to Bryce, and in this town it’s all about who you know, what you wear, how you look, and how much money and power you have. Karen sighed.

You don’t have to remind me. I laughed.

Oh stop. She patted my shoulder. You are the ‘it girl’ of this town.

Just no one knows it, I gave a crooked smile and handed her a towel.

Oh, honey, but they will.

THREE

OLIVIA

Perfect. Everyone is here. I glanced at each of the women sitting around a table in a private room of a nice café. A large smile was plastered across my face. I couldn’t help it. I had waited years for this. We were the board of the Buckhead Women’s Foundation. We were the elite because we planned the hottest events for some charity or other. Everyone wanted to be us.

Karen raised an eyebrow at me. Shannon isn’t here.

That’s right. Because this is about her, I said, lifting my chin.

Sophie, the secretary, sat to the left of me, writing down everything I said like I was Shakespeare himself. She was a nice person to have in line behind me, but she’d never be a part of my inner circle. Sure, Sophie was wealthy, but aside from that, the only thing she had to offer was note-taking. Plus, she was as bland as a box of unsalted saltine crackers. Her appearance matched her personality . . . boring.

Tina, the treasurer, flipped through her ledger. Each flip of the page blew a whiff of that musky, disgusting perfume she always wore. Even though she was rich, she smelled poor. If Tina weren’t so hard to look at, we’d certainly be close. But she had started her plastic surgery journey before it was perfected and with a surgeon that was less than skilled. As a result, it looked as though her skin would slide right off her face into her lap. My eyes could only take so much.

Tina, your skin is glowing, I complimented. I can barely notice the lack of elasticity today.

Olivia, you’re too kind, she said with a smile.

And Sophie, your outfit is so you. I could never pull that off.

Sophie looked down at her plain white tee. I’m sure you could, Olivia. Everything looks good on you.

You’re right. Shall we get started?

Tina and Sophie nodded. Karen leaned back in her chair and