At about 10:30 a.m., Ginger walked down to Scissy’s Beauty Shop. Sissy Gossett had earned the nickname ‘Scissy’ in beauty school, twenty-seven years ago. People were amazed at how fast she could work a pair of scissors. She zigged and zagged and hovered above your head like a hummingbird. You didn’t dare move an inch while her scissors were in motion.

When Scissy finished with you, your hair was a work of art. And no two looked the same. Women quickly learned not to ask for their hair to be styled like so-and-so’s. That was an insult. Each head was intended to be a unique masterpiece.

Ginger wasn’t surprised to see Scissy idling in her stylist chair, flipping through a magazine she’d probably already read a dozen times. Business was slow on Mondays. Most women came in toward the end of the week so their hair would look its best for Sunday morning services.

The other salons in town were closed on Mondays. But Scissy got too lonely at home while her husband was at work. She had no hobbies, no other interests. So, she opened her place on Mondays, just hoping somebody would come in. She gave her other stylists the day off.

She smiled broadly when Ginger walked through the door. “Hey, Ginger, come on in.”

“Hi, Scissy.”

“You didn’t have an appointment today, did you?” She jumped up and scurried to the desk to check her appointment book.

“No. I’m scheduled for Friday afternoon—as usual.”

“I thought so. Well, what can I do for you? Need some more of that new conditioner?”

“No, I’ve still got plenty. Thanks. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Oh, okay. Have a seat.” If there was anything Scissy was more accomplished at than styling hair, it was talking—or more precisely, gossiping. She hopped back up in her stylist chair. “Shoot.”

“What do you know about Cash Crawley?”

“The Donut King?”

“Yeah. Have you heard anything new lately?”

“Only that he’s started selling muffins. But I understand they’re nothing to write home about.”

Unbelievable, thought Ginger. Cash had just started selling the muffins that morning. “How did you hear about it?”

“I had a customer early this morning who told me she tried one. He’s only got one kind apparently. She said it wasn’t bad. It was just kinda bland.”

“I see.”

“You think Cash is trying to compete with you?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, I don’t think he’d stand much of a chance, Ginger. Nobody can top your coffee cakes.”

Ginger smiled. “Thanks.”

“The only business Cash usually tries to compete with is his brother’s.”

“Really? I’ve never thought of them as being in competition with each other. All Cash sells is donuts. Bull’s place has grown into a full-service restaurant. I wouldn’t think there would be much fighting over customers except at breakfast.”

“Yeah, but for the Crawley boys, everything is a competition. Remember what a great football player Bull was in high school? He was huge even back then—thanks to the steroids.”

“Really? He took steroids back in high school?”

“Oh, yes. Everybody figured he’d get a full-ride scholarship to wherever he wanted to go. But then he broke his ankle in the state game. He never fully recovered from it. Never even went to college.”

“Yeah, I remember that. It was a shame.”

“Then little brother, Cash, came along five or six years later and became the star quarterback. He seemed unstoppable. Until one night after a big game when Bull took him to a club over in Shreveport to celebrate. They got drunk and started fighting. One of Cash’s fingers got broken—on his throwing hand. It healed, but he never threw the football quite as well after that. Cash never forgave his brother for it.”

“So, they’re still fighting it out—in the business world.”

“That’s right. But so far Bull is winning.”

“I would think so.”

“But did you hear about Cash dumping a box of mice into Bull’s restaurant.”

“What? No.”

“I’m not surprised. Bull did everything he could to keep it quiet. Even I haven’t told anybody.”

“Until now.”

“Well, yeah. But I know you’ll keep it a secret.”

“So, what happened?”

“One of the cooks spotted several mice in the kitchen during the lunch rush, so he ran into the dining room to get Bull. When he pulled him aside and told him about the mice, Bull began to usher his customers out of the restaurant.”

“He told them about the mice?”

“Oh, no. He said he suspected a gas leak. He apologized and told them their next meal was free—including dessert.”

“Wow. That was close.”

“Yeah. If anybody had seen a mouse run across the floor, Bull would have been out of business.”

“How did he figure out it was Cash?”

“He doesn’t know for sure. But he can’t imagine who else would do that to him.”

“That’s so unethical.”

“Yeah, but it’s no big shock to me. Neither one of them have any scruples.”

Scissy had confirmed Ginger’s suspicions. Cash was indeed the kind of man who would have paid Navy to steal her recipe book.

But would Cash then kill Navy—just to cover up the theft?

**********

Danny walked into the kitchen. “Have you seen Lacey?”

Addie pointed to the back door.

He went outside and saw Lacey with her back and one foot against the wall, taking a drag from her Virginia Slim.

“Those things will kill you,” he said as he put a Marlboro between his lips.

She continued to look straight ahead. “Not as fast as a gun.”

He took out his lighter, flipped it open, and lit his cigarette. “Look, I’m sorry. I was stupid. I shouldn’t have had the gun in the apartment.” He put the lighter back in his pocket and took a long drag.

She turned to him. “You shouldn’t have had a gun—period.”

“I know.”

Lacey punched him in the arm. “Stupid.”

He hesitated to ask. “What did you do with it?”

“What does it matter? You don’t need a gun.”

“Yeah, but you can’t just throw it away. Where is it?”

“I’ve got it in a safe place. Don’t worry about it.”

Maybe she had it on her—perhaps it was strapped inside her thigh. Or maybe he’d seen too many B movies. He scanned her body, from head to toe, and got distracted on the way down. Danny never got tired of staring at her long, sexy legs.

She didn’t seem to notice he was ogling her. “I think I convinced Ginger that I had nothing to do with Navy’s death. Hopefully she’ll convince the police.”

“Good. What about the panties? They really are yours, aren’t they?”

Lacey threw her cigarette down in disgust and snuffed it out with a violent twist of her shoe. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

He grabbed her by the arm. “I want to know.”

She just stared at him.

“I deserve to know.”

“Okay, yes—they’re mine,” she said.

“I knew it.”

“I put them in his car to make Kayla jealous. It was a stupid thing to do.”

“So, you still have a thing for him.”

“Not anymore.”

“Not anymore.” He said calmly. Then he yelled, “You mean since he’s dead?”

“I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t love you. I was just confused about my feelings.”

Danny was so angry he didn’t know what to say. He was about to blurt out something he’d probably regret.

“But I know you’ll forgive me—just like I’ll forgive you…for the gun.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Do you want me to forgive you?”

“Yes, but—”

“—no ‘buts.’ Do you want me to forgive you or not?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have to forgive me.”

“Fine. I forgive you.”

“Good.” She gave him a peck on the cheek, took his hand, and led him back inside.

Danny wondered if he would get paid for the job. His secret employer had provided the gun. His instructions were to hide in the bushes along the back parking lot of the nursing home on Saturday morning and wait for Navy to arrive with the coffee cakes. When Navy stepped out of his car, Danny was to shoot and kill him.

But Danny didn’t like the idea of using a gun. And what did it matter now? His employer had gotten the result he wanted. Navy was dead.

Danny should get paid.