Permanent Damage: A Valerie Urniak Mystery, #1

By Rebecca A. Engel

Valerie Urniak is a hairdresser with a difference. She can shrink your head as well as style your hair.

Valerie gave up a promising career as a psychologist to return to the vocation that put her through school. Her belief is that she's still helping people, but in a much more hands-on manner.

Then, within a period of three weeks, three of her clients die.

Only one was a natural death.

One was a suicide. Valerie cannot accept that she did not recognize the depths of her client's depression. Nor can she shake the feeling that there is a connection between that suicide and another client's murder.

Her penchant for hands-on work leads her to conduct her own investigation, much to the displeasure of the detectie working the cases.  And they both learn that sometimes displeasure can lead to something else...

Permanent Damage is the first book in the Valerie Urniak Mystery series. The setting is Chicago, and the series starts in 1973.

This book contains some sexual content, and is intended for mature audiences.

The complete Valerie Urniak Mystery series consists of:

Permanent Damage, Book 1

Contrive to Kill, Book 2

Variants of Deja Vu, Book 3

A Ring of Truth, Book 4

Too Soon, Book 5

Dangerous Undercurrents, Book 5

Zugzwang, Book 6

Alternate Lives, Book 8

Partings, Book 9

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca A. Engel
• Release date: Jan 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524227708

Book preview

BOOK DESCRIPTION

Valerie Urniak is a hairdresser with a difference. She can shrink your head as well as style your hair.

Valerie gave up a promising career as a psychologist to return to the vocation that put her through school. Hairdressing allowed her to help people in a truly hands-on manner.

Then, within a period of three weeks, three of her clients died.

Only one was a natural death.

One was a suicide. Valerie cannot accept that she did not recognize the depths of her client’s depression. Nor can she shake the feeling that there was a connection between that suicide and the other client’s murder.

Her penchant for hands-on work led her to conduct her own investigation, much to the displeasure of the detective working the cases. And they both learned that sometimes displeasure can lead to something else...

Permanent Damage is the first book in the Valerie Urniak Mystery series. The setting is Chicago, and the series starts in 1973.

This book contains some sexual content, and is intended for mature audiences.

Books in the Valerie Urniak Mystery series:

Permanent Damage, Book 1

Contrive to Kill, Book 2

Variants of Déjà Vu, Book 3

A Ring of Truth, Book 4

Too Soon, Book 5

Dangerous Undercurrents, Book 6

Zugzwang, Book 7

Alternate Lives, Book 8

Partings, Book 9

CHAPTER ONE

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I knew something was wrong when Gloria Evans did not show up for her seven a.m. appointment.

I had arrived at my shop fifteen minutes early. Although spring had officially begun over a month ago, nights were cold enough that I wanted to nudge the thermostat higher so the chill would be out of the air by the time Gloria got there. I usually avoided making appointments this early in the morning, but for Gloria I’d made an exception. She had a job interview at two today, and had decided a few days ago that having her hair tipped would give her the confidence she needed to ace the interview. Unfortunately, I’d been booked solid every day since she had made that decision, but I couldn’t let her down. She was a morning person and said she wouldn’t mind coming in early; I wasn’t, but agreed to the appointment anyway. Her life hadn’t been easy lately, and the whole point of my opening this business was to help women like her.

When she wasn’t there by a quarter after seven, I started getting worried. Until recently, depression had almost incapacitated her. I wondered if the depression had returned; anxiety over her upcoming interview might have triggered it. My gut feeling was that hadn’t happened. She’d definitely been more upbeat lately. There had to be something more to it.

I switched on the radio. Perhaps a traffic jam was making her late. She didn’t drive, but buses were subject to the same traffic problems as cars. She might be stuck on a bus in traffic, in which case she couldn’t call. She’d have to get off the bus to find and use a payphone, and that would make her later than she already was.

Although money had been tight for her since she’d left her last job, I knew second thoughts about her finances weren’t the reason she was a no-show. I’d cut back on everything else if I had to, so I could come here, she’d told me once. There hasn’t been a time when coming here didn’t made me feel good about myself.

Her words meant more to me than she could know. I looked around my shop with satisfaction. It was a totally feminine place – none of this new unisex nonsense for me. Women needed a place where they could go and be surrounded by other women. A beauty shop with a man sitting in the next chair – whether he was getting a manicure or having his hair blown dry – was simply not the same. Women needed time when they could simply be with other women, with no men in the vicinity.

When Gloria remained a no-show at seven thirty, I looked up her number in my card file and called. There was no answer, not after twenty rings. I called again at seven forty-five and again at eight. I tried to think of someone I knew who lived near her, another customer or an acquaintance, anyone who could go knock on her door to make sure she was all right. If I had been able to come up with a name, most people would either be on their way to work or about to leave, and wouldn’t have time to check on her for me.

I tried calling her a few more times before my first, regularly scheduled appointment came in at nine for a wash and set. Mrs. Tanner was cagey about her age, but putting two and two together from the stories she told me of her youth, I figured she had to be in her early seventies, like this century. She’d been a widow for almost ten years, and this weekly trip to my beauty shop was one of the few luxuries she allowed herself. There’d be no easy-care cut that could be blown dry at home for her. She liked her hair precisely styled after a curler set, and with enough hair spray on it to choke a horse – or the unfortunate hairdresser wielding the can – but what could you do? At her age, she wasn’t going to change her preferences.

I found that the old were like the very young, and needed a human touch to thrive. That was why I took my time as I shampooed her snow-white hair, which was thick and lustrous, and gave her scalp a long massage. If my fingers on her scalp could make Mrs. Tanner feel a little less lonely, that was far more important than a quick turnover of customers for a slightly higher profit.

I knew Mrs. Tanner’s only child, a daughter, lived in another city. She rarely got to see her two grandchildren. They had to be adults already, although she talked about them as if they were toddlers.

With Mrs. Tanner under the dryer, I tried Gloria’s number again; there was no answer. My two stylists, Claudia Williams and Brenda Bartowski, arrived. Their morning clients came in, along with more of mine, and it became busy, busy, busy, so that it was five before I had another chance to try to reach Gloria.

There’s still no answer, I said to no one in particular. Brenda was sweeping up a pile of hair from a teenaged girl who’d had a fight with her boyfriend and came in wanting a drastic change – from waist-length hair to a pixie cut. She wasn’t my client, but when I’d heard that, I talked to the girl first, and convinced her cutting her hair to the middle of her back would be change enough for now. The scissors would be here next week if she wanted the pixie cut, and if she did, I told her that cut would be on the house. I knew she wouldn’t be back for the more drastic cut, and was probably already bemoaning the eight or so inches Brenda had taken off.

You should go over to Gloria’s house and give her a piece of your mind, Brenda declared, not missing a beat in her sweeping. While Claudia had been with me since I opened the shop, Brenda was a more recent addition. I’d hired her fresh out of beauty school; she was nearing her six-month anniversary here. She made you get up so early for nothing. Brenda, like me, was not a morning person. That’s what I’d do – or what I’d want to do, anyway, she added honestly. At nineteen, Brenda was more bark than bite.

Going to Gloria’s apartment wasn’t such a bad idea, though I wouldn’t go there to chastise her. My concern for her had grown all day, and I wanted assurance that she was all right. Going there would have to wait, though. I was booked solid until six that evening.

It was close to seven by the time the dryer buzzed for the last load of towels. I would have been happy to head home to a bubble bath, but when I tried Gloria’s number and got no answer, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night unless I checked on her myself. There was probably some simple explanation. Her phone could have come unplugged and she didn’t know it wasn’t functioning. She could have been called in early for her job interview and had forgotten to let me know. The interview could have gone so well that they asked her to start right away. I might arrive on her doorstep at the same time she was getting home from her new job, and we could go celebrate over a pizza.

I checked my file card again; by this time, I had her phone number memorized, but I needed her address. When I looked it up, it was a short bus ride away. If I hadn’t spent twelve hours on my feet, I might have walked it. But I got lucky. There was a bus coming up the street when I stepped outside my shop, and I was able to cross the street in time to board it.

Gloria lived in what was a typical design for older Chicago apartment buildings. The U-shaped structure had a center courtyard and multiple entryways. I found her entrance was in the back left-hand corner. Inside the dimly lit foyer, I checked the bells, pressed hers, and waited. And waited. I pressed again, with no better results. Her apartment was on the second floor. I went out to the courtyard and looked up. There were no lights on in either of the second-floor apartments in this corner of the building.

Was there a chance the super lived on the premises? Many buildings had begun to switch to management services rather than employ an on-site super to deal with day-to-day problems. But this building could be like mine, with a live-in super. I started at the first entryway and began checking all the names over the bells.

At the third entryway, I hit pay dirt. W. Jagielski, Sup., was blazoned on a piece of embossed black tape over one of the bells. I rang it.

He came to the door of the foyer. My buzzer’s broken, he said by way of explanation, which I thought was rather ironic considering his position in the building. You here about the vacant apartment?

No. I gave him a brief explanation of my concern.

He walked to the outer door and peered across the courtyard. No lights on in her place. She’s probably not home. Why don’t you try her later?

What if she’s home, and too sick to answer the door or turn on a light? I countered. Couldn’t we check to make sure she’s not in there?

He looked dubious, and I feared he was about to refuse me.

I’ll take responsibility for it if she’s not there and gets upset when she learns we checked her apartment, I said quickly. And if she is there and she’s sick, she won’t be mad that we checked on her. If you don’t want to go with me, you could lend me your passkey—

Not a chance, he said quickly. I’m not going to give it to you and let you go wandering around the building. But if you think it’s that important, I guess I can spare a few minutes to go over there with you.

He didn’t bother going back inside for his jacket, though the air was growing cooler. We hurried across the courtyard. He used his passkey on the stairwell door, and then again on Gloria’s door after we’d trudged up the flight of stairs. The apartment, as we’d already seen from the outside, was dark. Mr. Jagielski fumbled at the wall of the narrow entry until he found the switch and flipped it on. A dim light came on beyond the short hallway. I pushed past the super and went toward it, calling Gloria’s name. There was no response.

I hadn’t been here before, but in my quick glance around the small living room, I had a sense of Gloria in it. The furniture was non-descript, in neutral colors, but on the couch were bright cushions that looked new. In the same way Gloria had planned on adding some brightness to her hair, she had added a dash of color to her surroundings, too.

To the right was the door to the kitchen. I went through it and flipped the light switch. A fluorescent light hummed into brightness. She obviously wasn’t there. As I glanced around, I noted that there was no sign she had eaten anything in that room today. Or else Gloria wasn’t one to leave dishes in the sink, and had cleaned up after herself before she went out this morning.

I turned off the light and stepped back into the living room. Was there a bedroom, or was this some kind of hybrid apartment, a studio with a separate kitchen? Did that couch fold out into her bed? No, there in the hallway, behind where Mr. Jagielski lurked, were two doorways. I hadn’t noticed them when I entered the apartment.

Which one’s the bedroom? I asked as I started toward the super. He nodded at the door on his left. I stepped into the room and turned on the light. The bed was neatly made. It had a frilly pink bedspread with several stuffed animals sitting atop it.

I turned off the light as I stepped back into the entryway. The one room left to check was the bathroom, obviously the door across from the bedroom. Its door was closed, but there was no light showing from beneath the door. If Gloria had been in there when we arrived, she would have heard us and come out to investigate.

Or maybe not. When she’d heard us enter, she could have switched off the light, and was waiting inside, trying to figure out if we were intruders, or what exactly might be going on. I stepped across the hall and rapped sharply on the door. Gloria? It’s Valerie, I added, in case she hadn’t recognized my voice when we came in. Are you okay in there?

There was no response.

She’s not here, Mr. Jagielski said. Can we go? My show starts in a couple minutes.

Okay, I said, but then tried the doorknob. It’s locked, I told him.

You think she’s in there? he asked, frowning. He reached out a meaty hand and pounded on the door. It’s Mr. Jagielski, your super. You all right in there?

I looked at the doorknob. It was not original to the building; I knew that because I lived in a building from the same era as this one, and my apartment had its original doorknobs. To lock, or unlock, my doorknobs required an old-fashioned skeleton-type key. This door had a newer style privacy lock, the kind with a button in the middle of the doorknob that you turned to lock the door once inside. You could also accidentally turn that button and end up locking the door when you left the room. The door could be locked because Gloria had turned the lock by mistake this morning before she left. Do you have a passkey for this lock? I asked the super.

Passkey? he snorted. You don’t need a passkey for these things. He dug around in his pocket, pulled out an extremely narrow screwdriver and inserted it in the tiny hole in the center of the doorknob. A second later, he turned the knob and the door swung inward a few inches. You know, he said slowly, if she’s hurt in there, like if she fell getting out of the tub, she wouldn’t want me to see her if she’s, you know, undressed or something. You wanna take a look first?

His concern over Gloria’s modesty was surprising; you’d think it was 1873, not 1973. But he did have a point. I knew I wouldn’t want my own super to see me undressed. I sighed and stepped past him, feeling along the inside wall for the light switch, pushing the door open and stepping inside as I flipped it on. The room was small, utilitarian, and empty. The toilet seat was down, as you’d expect in an apartment where a woman lived alone. The shower curtain was drawn across the footed tub.

See, Mr. Jagielski said with a smug undertone. Told you there was nothing to fuss about.

I was about to apologize for inconveniencing him when something caught my eye. At first, I wasn’t sure what it had been, and looked around the room again, my eyes stopping at the shower curtain. There was an odd shadow behind it.

I took a quick step and pulled the shower curtain aside, its rings making that irritating metallic sound as they scraped against the rod. What little I had eaten today, hours before, rose up in my throat, and I clasped my hand over my mouth.

The tub was filled with water, dark reddish-brown water, and in it, looking as cold and white as marble, was Gloria. Her arms, their slit wrists gaping like open mouths, floated below the surface.

CHAPTER TWO

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Jagielski had definitely missed his show by the time the police were through with us. A squad car with uniformed officers had arrived first, followed by two plainclothes detectives. They looked like they might have come from central casting. Both were tall, broad-shouldered, and good-looking; one was fair, the other dark. That kind of contrasting appearance was exactly the way the big screens of Hollywood and the small screens of television liked their detectives. Despite these circumstances, my stylist Claudia would have managed to be in a decidedly flirtatious mode with them.

Personally, I could not have cared less what they looked like; I wanted to go home. An ambulance and EMTs had also arrived about the same time the detectives did. To me it seemed senseless to send paramedics here for someone long past needing emergency medical attention. The flashing lights of the police and emergency vehicles had attracted a small crowd to the courtyard, which buzzed with excitement and speculation over what had happened. I saw this from Gloria’s living room window while I waited for Mr. Jagielski to emerge from the kitchen with his detective. The two detectives had looked at the two of us when they arrived, then had a brief, private consultation. The dark-haired one had taken Mr. Jagielski into the kitchen, while the fair-haired one talked to me in the living room. I wondered if the detectives would have to consult each other again to make sure our stories collaborated – which of course they would – before they would let us go. Or possibly they’d let us go now and compare our accounts at the police station rather than at the scene, and confront us later about any discrepancies. Of course, there wouldn’t be any.

A squeaky noise drew my attention. I turned in time to see the paramedics wheeling Gloria’s body out of the apartment. I shuddered, not at that sight exactly, but at a memory it evoked...

Miss— the fair-haired detective paused as he checked his notebook, Urniak?

I turned toward him.

If we need to talk to you tomorrow, that number is— He rattled off the number for my shop.

I nodded confirmation. And if I need to talk to you?

He appeared surprised by my question but reached inside his jacket and pulled out a card. This is my number at the station. If I’m not there, they can track me down.

I took it and tucked it into my purse. Is that it?

I think it is.

Aren’t you going to tell me not to leave town? I felt stupid as soon as I asked that. This was no time to make an attempt at humor, no matter how weak. That’s what they always say on TV shows, I explained.

He nodded, the corners of his lips twitching – with amusement or annoyance? I couldn’t tell. Right. Don’t leave town.

For how long? Again, I could have bitten my tongue. Why was I being flippant? But I knew. It was a defense mechanism, pure and simple.

Why? he asked. Do you have plans to go away this weekend or something?

No, I admitted, I simply don’t want to be forced to stay in Chicago for the rest of my life because someone failed to tell me that I’m free to go anywhere I want.

Once the autopsy’s done and everything else has checked out, you can go where you please, he said, with what I recognized as a hint of humor in his eyes. That could take a few days, a week at the most.

Can I go home?

Yes. Do you need a ride? One of the officers could take you home.

I would have loved a ride, but not in a squad car. Even without its lights flashing, some of my neighbors were bound to see me getting out of it. I didn’t want to have to answer their questions, either tonight or later. Thanks, but I can manage, I said.

Mr. Jagielski and his detective had emerged from the kitchen in time to hear me ask about leaving.

That means I can go too, doesn’t it? Mr. Jagielski asked. The detectives exchanged a glance, then nodded. The super and I left the apartment together.

In the courtyard, the small crowd practically pounced on the super, peppering him with questions. I eased around them and headed for the street. I knew the likelihood of a taxi cruising by was nil, so I trudged my way toward the bus stop.

At that hour, it took ages before the bus finally arrived. It was already time for the ten o’clock news when I let myself into my apartment. I switched on the TV, half-expecting to see the story of Gloria’s death as the lead, but, of course, it wasn’t. There hadn’t been any reporters at her building. In all likelihood, the most her death would warrant was a few sentences in the papers, if not tomorrow, then the day after. What a pitiful end to a life. I sighed as I got into my pajamas. I’d thought Gloria’s problems were behind her. Had I read too much into her desire to have her hair tipped – thinking because she’d wanted to brighten her appearance on the outside that things had lightened up considerably on the inside? Why hadn’t I seen any warning signs of a depression deep enough to bring her to suicide? We were hairdresser and client, but had also been on our way to becoming friends. Why hadn’t she reached out to me, and why hadn’t I recognized how serious her depression continued to be?

I switched off the TV and went into my bedroom. My eyes alighted on the small framed photograph on my nightstand. I rarely did this, but I turned it face down. I didn’t want to see a picture of my daughter tonight and have another reminder of things that might have been, and of things that could not be. Heedless of having missed my supper, I turned down the bed, got beneath the covers, and switched off the light. I needed the oblivion sleep could provide.

But sleep was a long time in coming, and when it did, my dreams were of Gloria lying in that tub. I would awaken, wondering why, why, why hadn’t I seen this coming? How had I missed the warning signs? It was a relief when dawn finally came. I dragged myself out of bed, into the shower, and off to work.

It was a rare occurrence, but Claudia had already opened the shop and had the coffee brewing by the time I got there. I was thankful for that, because I needed an infusion of caffeine. Fortunately, it was going to be a slower day for me than yesterday. When I’d deliberately kept my schedule light today, it was with paperwork in mind, not recovering from the shock of my client’s suicide. I was glad to be able to retreat to my office, which was nothing more than a corner of the room that held the washer and dryer and our supply shelves. If anyone glanced in, I would at least appear to be going over the books. In reality, I was staring at them without seeing anything.

When it came time to get more coffee, I stepped into the shop. The normal buzz of conversation died almost instantly. I knew at once what was going on: someone had found out what had happened, either from someone in Gloria’s neighborhood or from some news report I was unaware of, and had brought the story here. They must have also known that I had been the one who found her, and didn’t want to be caught gossiping about it in front of me.

I retreated to my desk with my steaming cup in hand. Claudia entered my office a moment later. We heard what happened. Mrs. Agnew told us, she said softly. Why didn’t you say something?

I was going to, I said, realizing it had been a mistake to keep quiet about this, at least with my employees. I didn’t know what to say. That was the truth, after all.

Not just this morning, last night, Claudia injected. You should have called one of us. You shouldn’t have had to be alone after—that.

I was okay. That wasn’t the truth, but what else could I say?

"I know I wouldn’t have been okay. It gives me the willies to think about it. She shuddered visibly, then grimaced. I’d better get back or Mrs. Agnew’s perm will be so tight, she’ll look like a poodle," she added with a grin as she hurried from the room.

I turned my attention back to the books. I was finally getting to the point where I could actually concentrate on the paperwork when Claudia burst into the room. There’s someone here to see you, she announced breathlessly.

Trying to total some figures without resorting to my calculator, I frowned as I looked up. A sales rep? I asked. Sometimes beauty supply companies sent representatives around to promote new products, but they usually made an appointment first.

Claudia shook her head. It’s a man, she said. "A really good-looking man."

I couldn’t imagine who that might be. I stood up, and she stepped aside as I left the office-laundry-supply room.

I was surprised I recognized him, because much of last night was like a blur. It hadn’t fully registered then how good-looking he was, but I saw that Claudia was right. Hello, Detective, I said. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what his name was. What brings you here?

He looked a little uncomfortable. Half-a-dozen pairs of female eyes were brightly trained on him. Is there someplace— he began with a helpless glance toward his audience.

This way, I said. Would you like some coffee?

He shook his head and followed me to my office.

My office is a multi-purpose room, I said, by way of explanation, not apology, as we entered the room. He looked more at ease once he was away from all those staring eyes. Surely a man that good-looking had to be used to female attention. I figured he was around my age, thirty-three, or a year or two older. He certainly wasn’t a novice at turning female heads. Have a seat, I said as I took my chair, and nodded at the other chair in the room. I presume you have more questions for me.

Now he looked embarrassed again. No, he said slowly. I simply wanted to check up on you. Finding your friend that way—it had to be upsetting. I wanted to make sure you were all right...

I was so surprised at his concern that I spoke without censoring myself. I could hardly sleep last night from thinking about it. All the women here are talking about it, because one of the clients brought in the news. I’ve been holed up in here to avoid it all.

He nodded solemnly. That’s a typical reaction. There was a pause. Have you thought of anything unusual about your friend’s behavior before she— he cleared his throat, or anything unusual about the apartment last night when you went there?

There weren’t any dishes in the sink. I again spoke before considering my words. I guess when we – the super and I, that is – walked through the apartment looking for Gloria, I was thinking she got up early that morning to meet me here at seven for her appointment. I figured she had already washed her breakfast dishes. But if she didn’t eat anything before— Another thought occurred to me. Do they have the results of the autopsy? I asked. Do they know what time she—did it? She could have been in that tub overnight...

No, the report’s not in yet, the detective admitted. They’re kind of backed up. We should know more in a day or two. He got to his feet.

I stood too. Do you think you could let me know when you find out?

I guess I could do that, Ms. Urniak.

Thank you. I held out a hand to him, wishing I could use his name, but I was unable to remember it. I thought it would have been rude somehow to ask him his name when he had agreed to do me a favor. We shook hands briefly, and he said he would show himself out of the shop. As soon as he left the room, I got my purse from the drawer and dug through it until I found his card. Detective John Wilson. I noted his station wasn’t the one closest to my shop. He’d gone out of his way to come here to see me, when a phone call would have sufficed. Did that mean he considered me a suspect?

That idea was ridiculous, of course. I was reacting as if this situation would be like my last encounter with the police years before. That time, the police hadn’t been nearly as polite – or as good-looking – as Detective Wilson.

I shook thoughts of him away and went back to my account books.

CHAPTER THREE

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He showed up again two days later. This time I was busy doing a comb out. Detective Wilson stood uncomfortably by the reception desk until I had teased and sprayed Mrs. Hawkins’ hair to her satisfaction. She was another of my older clients who preferred a style that was derisively being referred to as a ‘helmet head’ to the new easy-care blow-dry cuts the younger clients requested. Once I had finished with her, I went to the reception desk and asked Claudia, who was hovering there and giving Detective Wilson flirtatious glances, if she would handle Mrs. Hawkins’ bill. Then I turned to the detective. Would you like to come back to my office?

He glanced toward the back of the shop and the line of ogling women he’d have to pass to get there. Is there someplace we could go for coffee?

I’m not sure how much time I have—

Your next client’s not due for an hour, Claudia piped up. If she shows up early, I can get her shampooed for you.

I wanted to strangle Claudia for what I’m sure she viewed as helpfulness. Then it seems I’m free, I told the detective. There’s a diner on the next block. Let me grab my purse and my jacket.

In my office, I took a moment to glance at myself in the mirror. Somehow, almost miraculously, I had managed not to chew off my lipstick over the course of the morning. I was glad for that. If I applied fresh, it might look as if I thought this was something more than a cup of coffee with a detective following up on a case in which I was peripherally involved.

Or was it more than that? That thought stopped me cold. I didn’t think he was interested in me; a man that good-looking probably had a dozen girls on the string. Perhaps he did consider me a suspect, though I’d already decided the idea was ridiculous. Was I about to undergo some kind of interrogation over a cup of coffee? I had nothing to hide, but I suddenly thought I should be cautious in what I