Read Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray for Free Online Page B

of my face and coughing, wondering if it were possible her lung cancer was caused not by cigarettes but by hairspray fumes.
    Her hair now glued in place, Lu plunked the can down on a table in the foyer. I picked it up and read the label. Well, the part I could read, anyway. The information on the label was printed in both poorly translated English and what appeared to be Chinese. The label proclaimed the contents capable of “make big hair not move” and deemed the product “much strong extra hold.” Weapons grade was more like it. At the bottom of the label was a fire icon, the international symbol for flammable materials, as well as a verbal warning in all caps. “BE CAREFUL VERY! MUCH FLAMMABLE!”
    “Where do you get this stuff?” I’d never seen this particular brand at the grocery stores or beauty supply outlets.
    “My hairdresser, Ming Lai,” she said. “She imports it direct from a factory in Shanghai.”
    I glanced back down at the can. The hairspray probably contained a number of ingredients banned in the United States. But what the heck. It was a windy day. Might as well give the stuff a try, huh? I held my breath, closed my eyes, and sprayed a mushroom cloud of the stuff over my hair.
    Lu grabbed her purse and house keys. After she locked up, we headed to my car and climbed in.
    “Good job on the Buchmeyer case.” She eyed me from under her thick false eyelashes. “That geezer’s been thumbing his nose at the IRS for years.”
    “Well, he’ll have to find something else to do with his thumb now.”
    She stared at me, unblinking.
    “That didn’t come out the way I intended.”
    “Lord, I hope not.”
    I backed out of the driveway. “I’m not sure how much money the Spam and beans’ll bring in,” I said, “but the guns have to be worth at least five grand.” The Treasury Department held regular auctions to sell off property seized from deadbeats. A savvy buyer could find some pretty good deals. In fact, I’d phoned my father this morning to let him know about the guns. His current collection included over thirty weapons, but he was always looking to expand. Like I said, gun nut.
    “Thank goodness you and Nick seized those weapons,” she said. “There’s no telling what that bunch of wackos might have been planning.”
    Probably more than a Spam cook-off.
    After we’d driven a few miles and I’d shared the latest bits of office gossip, we reached the hospital. Lu and I sat in the waiting room flipping through magazines while waiting for her name to be called. Lu had settled on Vogue . Ironic, given that she’d bought no new fashions since the sixties. I opted for People . As expected, the issue featured several photos of Suri Cruise. That poor child couldn’t take a dump without the paparazzi wanting to photograph it.
    A nurse in blue scrubs stuck her head inside the swinging door. “Luella Lobozinksi?”
    Lu tossed her magazine onto the table and stood to go.
    I felt like I should say something but I had no idea what was an appropriate thing to say to someone heading into a chemo treatment. Best wishes? Break a leg? Mazel tov? I settled for giving her what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
    She gestured for me to follow her.
    “You want me to come?”
    “I’ll be hooked up to a drip for the next few hours. Misery loves company.”
    *   *   *
    Lu was uncharacteristically quiet on the drive home. The strained expression on her face told me she didn’t feel well. No surprise there. She’d spent the entire morning hooked up to an IV dripping poison into her bloodstream.
    As she climbed out of my car, she turned and ducked her head back in. “Thanks for taking me to—”
    Lu stopped speaking as a lock of her pinkish-orange hair fell from her head, fluttering like a feather to the seat. Even her contraband extra-hold hairspray was no match for chemo. The Lobo stared down at the hair lying lifeless on the seat. Tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over her false