The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 45

Cathy patiently awaited me, and I thanked her as I climbed into the front passenger seat. My side hurt from sitting too long, so I popped more Tylenol 3s. Armed with Randi's information, I had some leads I could check out. As we rode along, I started with the low-hanging fruit—I called Broadmoor Nail Techs to find out if Sheryl Jansen worked there.

The woman picking up the phone didn't recognize "Sheryl Jansen", but like Randi, once I gave her my spiel, she did recognize the serial use of false names. "Oh, you must mean Shawntelle - yes, she's here."

Someone needs to explain to Sheryl Jansen that being famous for having so many aliases is no less identifying than everyone knowing your real name.

"Thanks," I said, "I'm in the neighborhood. I'll drop in and make an appointment with Shawntelle. I need to show her what I want done and see if she can do it," I said.

Cathy drove me to the closest CVS pharmacy, and I asked her to wait for me again. There I bought a bottle of nail polish remover, some cotton balls, tissues, and baby wipes. Once back in Cathy's Prius, I had her pull up to a fast-food restaurant and wait for my return. Removing Randi's art from my nails in the McDonald's restroom broke my heart. But it made little sense to go into a different nail salon and not need their services. I didn't want Sheryl, or now Shawntelle, to recognize Randi's work. If they were still friends, as Randi believed, I didn't want Randi revealing to her I'd been asking so many questions. For this introduction, I'd use an alias myself, simply a referral from a past client of Sheryl's. I wasn't about to confront her over Theresa Seaver's body dump in the salon. I just needed to confirm where she worked, see what she looked like now, and look for any challenges I might face.

Cathy drove me to the Broadmoor salon, and I had her park in a space near the front door. "I'm just getting an appointment to have my nails re-done; please wait for me," I said.

"I'm good," Cathy said graciously. "If I'm not in the car when you get done, don't worry—I've just gone to the ladies' room or to get something to drink, and I'll be right back."

When I asked the girl at the front desk, she told me Shawntelle wasn't busy and directed me to a station near the back. When I first set eyes on Sheryl, it was immediately apparent that time had not treated her kindly. She was almost unrecognizable from the five-year-old photo Claire provided me.

I never cared for the expression, but she had that look the men who worked construction for Dad would have described as "rode hard and put up wet." She had severe crow's feet around her eyes and crepey skin around her neck and upper chest as if she'd had too much sun in her past life. Her makeup base didn't entirely hide her pockmarks. She kept her lips together when she smiled, but her stained, missing, and jagged teeth were impossible to hide when she talked. Her face and body had sagged significantly from the old photo. She reminded me of all those former twenty-something silicone-chested blondes in La Jolla. Now in their 40s, they troll Match.com for men with 401Ks large enough to support their spending habits. A snippet from Alex Siegel's rendition of "Beauty Fades" sprinted through my mind.

"Hi, Shawntelle; it's so nice to meet you. I'm Angie, Angie Carlson, and I need to get my nails done for a party. Debbie Armstrong from church said you did a great job for her. Here's a photo of what I'd like to do," I said, purposefully rushing through it and stabbing my cell phone at her with last year's photo of my nails.

"Hi, Angie - it's nice of you to stop by. Oh, beautiful; yes, I can do that. Let me see your hands. Oh, did you recently have a manicure?" Sheryl asked, eager to do the work but a little let down that there wasn't more for her to do.

"I have to be honest, I tried to do them myself, and they turned out so badly I took it all off so you wouldn't see them," I lied with a shy smile, trying to sound embarrassed.