Cold Death by Mary Stone (best e reader for android TXT) 📕

first impression the Far Ridge Boy’s Academy headmistress gave to prospective students and their parents upon meeting with her was one of impeccable grooming and exquisite manners. That was my second impression too. Along with my third.

Letitia Wiggins was the type of woman who took great pains with her appearance, like she was compelled to reach some sky-high internal measurement of perfection. Not necessarily a problematic trait to possess, unless you’re the type of person who demands that same perfection from others, which she did. Namely, her students.

Ellie made a scoffing sound. So far, Letitia Wiggins would fit in really well with half the upper-class women in Charleston.

But I’m getting a little ahead of myself. Back to Headmistress Wiggins. Her shoes always gleamed from a fresh polish, and her suits and tops were crisp from the iron. She sashayed around the halls with the air of a woman who realized she was attractive. On its own, that isn’t an issue. Wiggins capitalized on her beauty, though, brandishing her looks as a weapon.

I’ve surveyed a number of former Far Ridge students over the years, and they’ve all agreed: Letitia Wiggins’s pride and joy was her red-gold hair. While I attended the Academy, I once overheard another teacher joke that she wouldn’t be surprised if Ms. Wiggins stashed a personal hairdresser at the academy to pop out and perform touch-ups throughout the day. Looking just right was clearly an item of crucial importance for the headmistress, and I believe a source of great pride and dysfunction too...

Ellie hit stop on the podcast and pushed the lettuce around on her plate, once again reminded of a few of her mom’s wealthy friends. They were the kind of women who wouldn’t be caught dead leaving the house in saggy sweatpants or without a full face of makeup. Heaven forbid they venture out into polite society without styling their hair first or be caught dead with split ends or unsightly roots. The joke about Letitia Wiggins sneaking a private hairdresser into her room wasn’t all that far-fetched.

In the social circles her family ran in, the women who fixated on their appearances to a pathological degree rarely lowered their harsh, exacting standards as they aged.

Chewing a bite of salad, Ellie typed “hair salons” into her phone’s search window. Results popped up in seconds. She dismissed a chain and a barbershop before landing on a local salon with a fancy name.

Chez La La.

The salon was located in the same little shopping village, a couple blocks up the road and less than a mile away from Letitia Wiggins’s retirement community. Ellie scrolled through the reviews. When customer after customer raved about how the results were well worth the expense, she figured she might as well pay them a visit.

She shoveled down the rest of the salad, threw enough bills on the table to cover lunch plus a large tip, and headed down the sidewalk. Shane fell in step behind her.

The winter sun warmed the air and was accompanied by a mild breeze that carried the lush, sweet scent of jasmine. Walkers, tourists, and shoppers sprinkled the sidewalks, taking advantage of the good weather. Ellie passed two middle-aged women in loungewear and diamonds who’d paused to peer at brightly dressed mannequins inside a boutique and a tanned, elderly man wearing Bermuda shorts with a Hawaiian shirt and yakking into a cell phone.

If Bethany’s disappearance wasn’t pressing down on her, Ellie could have spent hours meandering along too, soaking up the sun and poking through any boutiques that caught her eye. Instead, she hurried around the slow-moving shoppers with quick strides that marked her as an outsider.

Three blocks later, the GPS informed her that the black-and-white striped awning embellished with gold accents located a few storefronts ahead likely belonged to her destination. She drew closer and peeked at the window to confirm it. The same gilt accent color from the awning was scrawled in elaborate, cursive letters on the glass to form the salon’s name.

On the opposite side of the glass, a handful of stylists zipped around elderly women draped in black gowns, while wielding scissors and brushes and aluminum foil squares.

Ellie brushed a speck of lint off her black blazer, drew in a deep breath, and channeled Helen Kline at her most regal and imperious. Chin lifted and shoulders back, she sauntered into the salon with what she hoped was a passable imitation of her mother’s reserved confidence.

The well-groomed receptionist behind the computer podium glanced up with a smile when the bell over the door tinkled a snooty warning. “Welcome to Chez La La. Do you have an appointment?”

The woman’s face was expertly made-up, with thick, sculpted brows, cherry-red lips, and a soft glow in all the right places. A chunky gold necklace flashed beneath the collar of her white silk blouse, and large diamond studs sparkled in her ears, all of which screamed money. Ever since she’d joined the police force, Ellie had stopped paying much attention to her own clothes, but she was happy that she’d dressed with care that morning. Especially when the receptionist’s gaze itemized her outfit.

Ellie smoothed a hand down the tailored black jacket she wore, drawing the receptionist’s sharp gaze to both the expensive cut and the gold Rolex peeking out from her sleeve. The suit had been a gift from her mom. Helen had attended Fashion Week in New York and decided her daughter simply must have something from a particular up-and-coming designer. Which probably meant the outfit cost more than most people spent on rent.

Along with some tasteful gold jewelry, Ellie was glad she’d thought to pack the suit, especially since she ended up trying to convince Letitia Wiggins’s gatekeepers that she was worthy of an audience. That plan had tanked but dressing up might pay off yet.

Ellie tossed her head before leaning on the marble counter, ensuring her jacket sleeve hitched up enough to showcase the Rolex again. “Actually, I’m hoping that someone is available for a last-minute job. I’m