Homicide and Halo-Halo (Tita Rosie's Kitchen Mystery #2)(50)

“Ooh, another head massage?”

She laughed. “Just a quick one. To get all the gunk out of your hair. No peeking!”

I finished out the rest of the cut with my eyes squeezed shut as she snipped and shaped my hair. “All right, just a quick blow-dry and we’re done.”

The firm bristles of a diffuser scraped against my scalp as she ran the blow-dryer and I tried not to fall asleep. The calming pressure of the bristles combined with the heat from the dryer was oddly soothing.

The hum of the dryer stopped, and before I could open my eyes, I heard Elena say, “Oh, Lila, you look wonderful!”

My eyes flew open as I took in my appearance. The right side of my hair grazed my collarbone as I’d asked, but the left was above my shoulder, cut in an asymmetrical bob. Streaks of white so brilliant it was almost silver highlighted my hair, somehow striking and understated at the same time, adding depth to the dark color.

But the biggest change of all (at least to me), was that Winnie hadn’t straightened my hair. I was wearing my natural hair for the first time since . . . since my very first beauty pageant. I was five years old. My mom had straightened my hair for it and said I was “so much prettier” that she continued doing it. After she died, Tita Rosie helped me straighten it till I was old enough to wield a flat iron on my own.

All these years, it had never occurred to me to wear my hair in its natural, curly state. Why would I? People constantly complimented my long, smooth “straight” hair, so much so that having “nice” hair felt like it was part of my identity. Never mind that I’d never questioned what they meant by “nice.” My glossy curls framed my face, so different, but somehow so me. I couldn’t explain it. “Wow” was all I could say for like, five minutes, trying not to run my fingers through my hair and failing.

Elena slapped my hand. “No touching! You have no idea how to care for curly hair, do you?” I shook my head and she sighed. “Looks like you have a mix of 2C and 3A curls like me. We’ll work on your new haircare routine together.”

Adeena was too busy admiring my highlights to get into the curl-care talk. “I think you outdid yourself, Winnie. Maybe it’s time to update my look?” She ran her hands through her undercut, magenta-streaked waves and eyed the color book lying open on Winnie’s station.

Winnie winked at me. “Glad you all like it. Is that cupcake for me?”

Adeena handed it to her. “Sure is. Thanks for letting us advertise in your salon.”

“Small-business owners have to look out for each other, especially women like us. And I do love free food.” Winnie took a huge bite. “This is so good! I haven’t had sweet red bean in years. Is this a limited-edition item or a regular part of your menu?”

“Great question. I’m developing a line of cupcakes based on traditional Filipino desserts, and am trying to figure out which ones should be regulars and which are specials that rotate in. These are pretty labor-intensive, so likely a special.” Whoa, where had I pulled that from? Still, that gave me a great base to work from. Cupcakes may be passé, but Shady Palms citizens would be all over them.

She took another bite. “Then I better savor these. Can’t wait till you all officially open.”

Winnie followed us all to the front and watched me pay and leave a huge tip. “Guess I just found my new favorite customer. Come in a week from now and I’ll give you a free wash and blow-dry.”

“Wow, thanks!”

“Of course! Just remember that come judging time.” She grinned and waved us off, completely killing the good vibes she’d cultivated up to now.

I waited till we were all in the car before asking Adeena and Elena what they’d managed to dig up. Adeena showed me pictures she’d managed to take of some of the letters Mr. Weinman had sent Winnie. “They were just lying on a side table next to some magazine, so it’s not like they were private, right?”

The letters were written in a surprisingly neat script, but it took me a minute to decipher the cursive. Nothing particularly illuminating or even juicy—they weren’t love letters so much as written invitations to various cultural events in Shelbyville. Mr. Weinman didn’t seem like an arts-and-culture type of guy, so I had to assume he was proposing these places to impress Winnie. Poor guy.

“Anything else?” I asked after having Adeena send me the photos.

“A couple of the moms whose daughters were eliminated were complaining about all the changes Valerie made to the competition. Said she was power-hungry and overstepping her bounds, both with the pageant and the Thompson Family Company,” Elena said, tapping her newly polished nails on the dashboard as she thought. “Mentioned something about the mayor hating her, too.”

Adeena and Elena continued on like that, sharing all the tidbits they’d gathered, and were in the middle of reciting the millionth momtestant complaint when my phone rang. I glanced at it. “Sorry, it’s Amir. I should probably take this.”

I answered the phone, trying to keep my tone cheery and bright. “Hey, Amir! What’s up?”

“Lila, I’ve got that information you asked for.” His tone was brusque and no-nonsense, which was typical for him, but not when it came to me.

I tried not to let him know I’d noticed. “That’s great. Should I have everyone over for dinner again so you can tell us what you’ve learned?”