Free By a Spider's Thread: A Tess Monaghan Novel by Laura Lippman

family nickname didn’t give her away. “Since when do you come to Adrian’s?”
    “Oh, I thought I’d start paying a little more attention to my appearance, get a manicure.”
    “Well, it’s a start.”
    There was no malice in Deborah, although Tess had not always understood this. Her cousin simply lacked the usual filters: If a thought passed through her brain, it headed straight to her mouth. Tess had come to think of Deborah as sort of a walking James Joyce novel, albeit one narrated by a preternaturally self-satisfied matron. They had been competitive as girls, and even as adults, until they finally stopped to wonder what, exactly, they were competing for. They had chosen different paths, but not as a rebuke to each other. And they had the foxhole of family in common, a powerful bond.
    Deborah peered into Tess’s face. “Isn’t this awfully far off the beaten track for you? I thought you never went outside the Beltway if you could help it.”
    “Yes, but everyone says this place is the best.”
    Her cousin smiled, happy to be complimented for her taste in spas. “It is, and it’s convenient to Sutton Place Gourmet, not to mention a Starbucks.”
    “No caffeine,” her attendant practically squealed. “Are you trying to undo everything we’ve done?”
    Deborah giggled. She was not a stupid woman, and it was doubtful she believed that this young man had any interest in her beyond her lavish tips. Yet she clearly was enjoying their flirtatious shtick.
    “Not even one mocha?” she wheedled.
    “Decaf, no whipped cream,” he decreed, and she nodded, as if his word were law, but Tess knew that her cousin would be clutching a venti with the works when she roared out of the parking lot. The Weinstein side of the family did not run toward sacrifice. “Now let’s go make sure that Carlos does a fabulous job on your hair. Not so red this time. Something softer, a shade that sneaks up on a person. I didn’t do all this work on your face just to have the Castilian wonder screw up the presentation.”
    “Have fun,” Deborah called to Tess over her shoulder as she headed into the salon. “You ought to think about getting a seaweed wrap next time. Or a kosher salt scrub.”
    “Does that come with belly or Nova?”
    But Deborah had sailed out of earshot, so all Tess’s flippancy earned was a frown from the Velvet Frost.
    “I believe Lana is ready now. You were lucky to get this appointment. She is our most popular girl.” The voice thawed perhaps one degree. “I did not realize you were one of
the
Weinsteins. Is Deborah your sister?”
    “Cousin,” Tess said, feeling the lack of challenge occasioned by telling the unadulterated truth. “First cousin.”
    “Ah,” the Velvet Frost said, and Tess could see her calculating: not one of the Weinsteins of Weinsteins Jewelers, just an impoverished twig from another part of the family tree. Tess’s advantage was lost as quickly as it had been gained.

7
     
    L ana Wishnia balanced Tess’s hands on her fingertips, clearly unimpressed. No rower has pretty palms, but even the tops of Tess’s hands were unattractive, with short, nicked nails, ragged cuticles, and a few random cuts that she couldn’t recall inflicting on herself. After a few moments of stony inspection, Lana took Tess’s left hand and flipped it over, touching it the way one might handle a dead animal brought home by a faithful cat. Here the damage was far worse — a corporal’s stripes of hard yellow calluses. Still, Lana said nothing, her face impassive.
    The only consolation was that Lana’s hands, while nowhere near as damaged as Tess’s, were not spectacular. Her nails were blunt cut and unpolished, her fingers stubby and plump.
Manicurist, file yourself.
    “What do you do?” she asked, dropping Tess’s hands into warm, soapy water. They were the first words she had spoken since they were introduced. Her accent was quirky — American, with a hard, aggressive edge, more New York than