“Uh-huh,” Marla said. “Well, you never would have found a haircutting place open on Sunday in Aspen Meadow.”
“No place could have done better.”
She winked at me as she called Grace Mannheim and asked her to come get her. “This way, we can ask Grace what she’s up to over here, anyway, digging around for Frank’s daughter.”
“Okay,” I said. “Oh, one more thing. What do I call the cut, anyway, if Tom asks?”
Marla smiled. “I know what you don’t call it. I spent a semester at Oxford fifteen years ago. When my hair was getting unmanageably long, I asked some girls at a party if they knew of a good beauty salon where I could get a cut. I said I wanted a shag. Six guys at the party immediately offered to give me a shag.”
“I know what a shag is,” Arch said as he bounded through the kitchen door.
