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Weighty Matters (An Until The Fat Ladies Sing Mystery Book 6)

By Linda Kozar

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Weighty Matters


Chapter One

Not My Monkeys, Not My Circus


“Did you hear?” Breathless, my best friend and business partner, Sue Jan Madson, burst through the door of the Crown of Glory Beauty Salon and Boutique. She tipped her head down, hands on her knees, panting. “Lovita, d-did you hear?” Sue Jan looked up, eyes wild with excitement.
“Hear what?” I flicked off the blow dryer, my last nerve standing on end.
Now, normally, I’m supposed to handle the boutique part of the Crown of Glory Beauty Shop and Boutique, with the pretty dresses and shoes and purses and such, but when the need arises, everyone knows I step in to do blowouts, cuts, and color. Even Homecoming and Prom Do’s. And this morning, as usual, the need arose.
Sue Jan messaged that she had some sort of “errand” to do on the way to work, so I wound up doing the whole shebang for her new nitpicky client, Mrs. Barlow.
“The circus is coming to Wachita!” Sue Jan batted the air as if an invisible piñata would dispense goodies.
I sniffed, which rhymes with miffed, which I was. “Is it ‘the’ circus, or ‘a’ circus? There’s more than one circus in the world, you know.”
Sue Jan stuck her tongue out. “Don’t be all uppity with your language smarts, Lovita. ‘A’ circus is coming to town tomorrow! It’s called ‘More Deck Eye’s Circus and Slideshow, and we’re going!” She reached into her purse and pulled out a small bag of boiled peanuts, cracking a few open at lightning speed.
I was about to address her use of the word “Slideshow” instead of “Sideshow” when Sue Jan’s pesky client spoke up.
“A circus?” Mrs. Barlow, a sixtyish, salt-and-peppery-haired woman with a beak where a nose should have been, suddenly perked up. “What kind of circus would come to this town? The only kind of circus this ‘one-hearse town’ would attract is a flea circus.” She swiped her nose across her sleeve.
Taken aback by the one-hearse-town comment, I was about to say something, but Sue Jan’s face flushed crimson and I realized we were in trouble. She treated every negative comment about our town as a personal attack on her husband, Monroe Madson, the Mayor of Wachita. I could see the venom was fixing to pour out, so I tried to deflect the situation.
“Miz Barlow, whoop-tee-do, you’re all done now! In case you’re in a hurry to get somewhere, I can get you from the chair to the checkout in a flash. Wanna take a look at the back of your head real fast?” I handed her a hand mirror lickety-split, and spun her around like an astronaut-in-training.
But I saw that Sue Jan couldn’t contain her anger a second longer. “Miss Barlow, just what do you mean calling Wachita a one-hearse town? And what does that mean, anyway? How many hearses does a town have to have? My husband, the Honorable Monroe Madson, is the mayor, and I’ll have you know that Wachita is a great place to live. And he’s a great man too—thank you very much.” Hands on her hips, Sue Jan hovered over the woman.
I was so busy high-fiving Sue Jan in my mind that I almost missed the next thing she said.
“Besides that, what do you know about this town anyway? You’ve only been here a hot second.” Sue Jan brought an index finger to her temple. “Maybe you should think about what you say before you say it. Lovita and I grew up here, and Wachita means the world to us.”
Cornelia Barlow somehow narrowed her already beady eyes. “I’ve been here six miserable months so far and I’m scratching off the days like a felon in a jail cell. Back off, Crisco Kid, or I’ll snatch you bald!”
Sue Jan stood still as a statue for a second. Maybe two. Then I noticed her eyes widen from marble-size to what looked to me like ping-pong-ball circumference. Not a good sign.
I knew exactly what Sue Jan was feeling. The woman had touched a nerve in both of us—the fat nerve. Sue Jan and I had grown up and out, and always with that awful label suspended over us. Although we’d both managed to lose weight in the last couple of years, pregnancy had thrown a curve ball to our curves. I was in my eight month with my first child, feeling big as a house—and reduced at times, not in poundage, but to a crumpled dishrag of emotions. And Sue Jan’s pregnancy test was likely still resting on her bathroom sink. Which explained the bag of peanuts in her purse. Weird cravings. She’d called me yesterday, moments after telling Monroe they were expecting baby number three—unfortunately while he was on the treadmill. Poor guy dented the sheetrock on their bedroom wall.
“Crisco Kid, eh?” Sue Jan pushed up her sleeves.
Our other stylists, Jolene and Charla stopped their styling in midair, while the rest of the robed clients hushed to a still silence. Something bad was fixing to go down. But as long as Sue Jan didn’t blurt out a “custard” word, I figured we’d be okay. FYI, Sue Jan and I call cuss words, “custard words.” I’m not sure how it started, but it’s sort of our thing now.
I had to do something—anything, so I grabbed the hand mirror and brought it up to the woman’s face. “Ah, w-why don’t you take a look, Miz Barlow? What do you think?”
She scrunched her nose at the back of her head reflection. “Ugh!” Then she spun the chair the other way, face forward.
I was all set to thank her, but the words caught in my throat when my brain caught up with my ears. “W-what?”
Now here’s a helpful word of advice to everyone who sits in a client chair. Never tick off your hairdresser—especially when she’s holding cutting shears. I’m ashamed to admit this, but some wicked thoughts raided through my mind before I tamped them down. Aside from that, seriously, a client could go home with a really bad haircut. The kind of haircut Stevie Wonder would give you. I’m not kidding.
The crimson in Sue Jan’s cheeks faded. Her lips curled into a smile, Her cheeks began to shimmy. Like a rickety dam, her lips burst open, loosing a rush of laughter.
“You heard me,” the woman repeated. “There’s some stray hairs over my right ear.” She pointed. The woman continued her assault. “How’d you miss those? What kind of a hairdresser are you, anyway?”
I grabbed a scissors. “Here, let me snip them.”
Now anyone can tell you this about me—I, Lovita Mae Horton Taylor, am mostly an even-tempered, sweet-natured, calm-and-collected type person. I don’t even have to wear extra deodorant from sweating the small stuff—hehe. But today was fixin’ to be different.
My hand trembled with pent-up anger, but I willed my fingers to grip the scissors and steady myself. Cornelia surveyed her face in the mirror as I held my breath and made the tiny snip.
She snorted her semi-approval. “Hmmm, that’s a mite better, but—”
“But what?” I asked.
“I ain’t getting out of this chair till you trim my nose hairs.” She brought her hands to her nose and pushed up her nostril, piggy-style. “See all them black, pointy hairs sticking out? How do you expect me to walk out of this here so-called beauty shop without snipping them off? Why, I never heard of such a thing. What kind of a joint is this?”
A collective gasp sucked the air from the room, while I gulped down the “custardly” word that popped into my mind, but kept a tight rein on what came out of my mouth. “Miz Cornelia, I don’t mean you any disrespect, even though you’ve disrespected our beloved town, questioned my skills as a hairdresser and small business owner, and are now asking for a whole different kind of barber service—but the answer is no. You can pop up your nose like a piggy and leave it there all day long if you want, but I’m not touching your snout with a ten-foot pole. And that’s that.” I exhaled.
Her mouth fixed in an “O” shape, she stood to her feet, one hand raised. “I will never, ever, ever, forever never, set foot in this place again.” She scowled and pointed at me. “You’ll be sorry!”
Promise? That’s what I wanted to say. “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, Miz Cornelia, and I’m real sorry you weren’t satisfied with the service. For future reference, you might want to try the men’s barbershop down the street for all your nose hair trimming needs. Consider this cut ’n style service today ‘on-the-house’.”
Sue Jan chimed in, with her standard marketing slogan. “And-and thanks for visiting the Crown of Glory Beauty Salon and Boutique. We tease to please.”
“On-the-house?” Cornelia scrunched her jaw. “I wasn’t planning on paying for this lousy cut anyway.” She muttered on her way to the door. “There’s much better salons in Bentley. I don’t know why I even came to this ratty ol’ place.”
Right about then, a scripture suddenly pulled up to the curb inside my head, “Love one another, as I have loved you. By this shall all men know that you are my disciples.” And I knew what had to be done, something over and above what the woman deserved. Reaching into Sue Jan’s style station drawer, I slapped the patented Trim Snoz onto my friend’s palm. “Your client, your nose hairs.”
Sue Jan closed her eyes a moment and looked up at the ceiling. Instantly, I knew she was praying. We like to joke that God is on the ceiling. In this case, one of them low-hanging ceilings with janky tiles always hanging off the brackets.
“Wait, Miz Cornelia.” Sue Jan held up the gadget, hand limp with under- enthusiasm. “I got this here battery-operated Trim Snoz thingie in my drawer. “If you, ah, have a seat, maybe I can help you with them nose hairs of yours, chop-chop.”
The woman eyed Sue Jan warily, but complied, though I’m not sure why. Cornelia sneered my way even as she slunk back into the client chair.
I watched in amazement and awe at what would be remembered as, “The pointy- black-nose-hair incident,” began to unfold. Though I knew Sue Jan was weak in the stomach, due to the first-trimester situation, she clicked the gadget on, and set about whirring the Trim Snoz into each nasty nostril, talking nonstop as she did. I guessed because of her weak stomach she was trying to psyche herself up instead of “speaking Dutch in a sack” as they say. Based on her last pregnancy, Sue Jan could get nauseous at the drop of a hat.
“It says in the flyer there’s a snake charmer, and a sword swallower, and a fire dancer, and an illustrated couple, and a real life midget man magician. There’s a yo-yo whiz too. I love yo-yos. Though I never could work one when I was a kid. Always got the thing tangled up around my legs and—”
“You looking for a job?” Cornelia sneered.
Sue Jan put down the trimmer. “What do you mean by that? You know this is my job. I’m co-owner of . . . ”
“Circus always needs a fat lady.” Cornelia pointed at the two of us and rolled her eyes. “Either one of you girls could moonlight under the big top.” She snickered. “Heavens to Murgatroyd! You could wear the big top!”
This time the blood rose to my cheeks. I wasn’t sure what a Murgatroyd was, but I was certain whatever came out of Cornelia Barlow’s mouth couldn’t be good.
But Charla, our youngest, and downright sensible stylist calmly put down her scissors and approached the woman. “Ma’am, we’re so glad you came here for your beauty needs. And I’m sure you’ll agree that in addition to the generous and free styling services you received today from Miz Lovita, it was real nice of Miz Sue Jan to take care of them pointy nose hairs of yours too. But right now, I think it would be a good idea for me to walk you to the door. You’d best leave before somebody Trim Snoz’s them eyebrows of yours right off. You can give them salons in Bentley your business from now on.”
But as she helped the woman through the door, Cornelia dragged her feet across the doormat like she’d just stepped on backyard dog dookie. Then she held up her index finger and opened her mouth to speak. “I done shook the dust off my feet and now I’m calling this here place, ‘Michelob!’” She pounded the door with her fist as she repeated the word, and then slammed the door behind her so hard the tiny bell on it bounced off the floor.
Sue Jan and I looked at one another. “Michelob?” Sue Jan kept repeating the word, as if saying it over and over would somehow provide the answer. “Ita, you know I’ve never even tasted alcohol in my entire life, but ain’t that some kind of beer? Why’s she talking about beer?” She scrunched up her nose. “What does beer have to do with anything?”
But the hamster wheel in my head was already spinning, and an old sermon Pastor Meeks taught us years ago came back to me. “Hold on a minute! That woman just tried to curse the Crown of Glory and call it ‘Ichabod,’ only that’s a biblical curse from Samuel, First Samuel, I think. It means the glory has left or something like that. It’s in the Old Testament and I’ve heard of it being spoken over churches that are fallen into sin, but never for a beauty salon.”
Sue Jan tittered. “Michelob! Hehe, hehe!” She slapped her knees, and slumped over laughing. “That Cornelia’s a real pill.”
Charla and Jolene and the other clients joined in the laughter. Sue Jan picked up the bell off the floor and giggled. “The expression on that woman’s face is—is like a bulldog chewing on a wasp.”
I shook my finger. “Now, now, Suey. No need for us to stoop to her level.”
“Lovita, if you mean, ‘devil-level’ you’re right, I sure don’t want to stoop down to that level.” Sue Jan had an audience, her favorite situation, and by now their sides were splitting. I averted my eyes to the display window instead, mostly to keep myself from giving in and laughing with them. That’s when a movement caught my attention. I shuffled to the window for a closer look. “Well, I’ll be.”
Sue Jan stopped to brush away laugh-tears. “W-what is it, Lovita?”
By then, the sounds had caught up with the sight I’d just seen. I yanked on the cord, pulled the blinds up all the way and cracked open the window. “The circus ain’t coming to town. It’s already here!” The sound of trombones accented my motion as both hairdressers and clients crowded round.
We practically ran over one another trying to get out the door, popping the bell off once again, before we stood on the curb with the rest of the townsfolk. The Wachita business district came to a standstill, with people lining Main Street, mouths gaping at the sight of circus trucks and trailers lumbering past. The last time this many folks were out gawking, Charla and her family had wobbled into town on wonky wheels, sputtering trailer fumes.
A couple of elephants led the parade, each ridden by women in a glittery one-piece bathing-type suit. The women waved, flashing wide red-lipped smiles at the crowd A couple of clowns in teeny-tiny clown cars circled around like ants on a July sidewalk. But when the freak trailer drove by, Sue Jan’s mouth dropped like somebody released a trap door. There, peeking out the windows of a special circus truck were a tattooed woman and man. And from what was visible, it looked like every inch of skin was inka-dinka doo’d.
Finally came the largest woman I’d ever seen, sprawled in the back seat of a vintage red Cadillac convertible which hung low on the back end. Either the car was equipped to be a low-rider, or the chassis was bowing under her weight.
The woman grinned and threw kisses like a prom queen from her shiny apple-red lips. And next to her, sitting on the backseat headrest, was a teeny man in a tux waving his itsy-bitsy hands at the crowd. When the woman waved, her arms flapped and rippled back and forth like deflated water wings.
Sue Jan elbowed me in the side. “Lovita, she’s—”
I wagged my finger at her. “Now don’t say anything you’ll regret, Suey.”
But she continued, as if she hadn’t heard a word.
“ . . . She’s the most bodacious and big-beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Suddenly, what sounded like a shot rang out. My heart in my throat, I watched as one of the Caddy tires blew and the little man in the penguin suit went flying over the hood.

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