Free Death of a Domestic Diva by Sharon Short

anything except the aftershock of the flash, but I heard the tinkle of the bell again.
    â€œJosie, I really need to talk to you.” That was Chief John Worthy’s voice. I swiveled in his direction, to the right, even though I couldn’t see him—my eyes still hadn’t cleared.
    â€œI just saw Owen and Winnie,” he said. “You should have told me about Tyra being here, because when filming starts, we’ll need crowd control. Or will security be coming with her crew?”
    â€œTurn this way, Josie.” Cherry swiveled me to the left. “Stop grimacing!”
    Flash! The bell tinkled again. Another flash.
    â€œJosie, you little devil you, you really did it!” I recognized the voice of Cornelia Hintermeister, the mayor of Paradise and top seller of Joy Jean Cosmetics for all of Mason County. “Now, we’ll need a parade—maybe we can use some of the floats from the Beet Festival Parade.”
    â€œWe can’t do anything of the kind!” hollered Chief Worthy. “We haven’t gotten paperwork for the traffic control for a parade, and we need it at least two weeks in advance—”
    Cherry swiveled me to her. Flash! Flash! “I think that does it for the ‘before’ pictures. Now, we’ll have to find some makeup to keep you from looking so washed out on camera, and—”
    â€œJosie, I need to talk to you! When can I interview Ms. Grimes—” that was Henry Romar, the editor, chief reporter, and president of advertising at the Paradise Advertiser–Gazette .
    My vision, at last, cleared—and I was rewarded with the image of dear old Sandy, one hand on her hip, glaring at me, pot of coffee in her other hand.
    â€œGet outta here,” she growled at me, “before the whole town comes in here after you and breaks the place to bits.”
    I slipped off my stool, turned, and was blocked by the Mayor and Chief Worthy and three ladies from the church and the reporter and several other people who were hollering my name—and Cherry, who saw her opportunity and took it.
    She grabbed my elbow and pulled me through the crowd. “Make way! Josie will get back to you on matters of crowd control and media and such. Right now, she’s late for her makeover!”
    I went along with her—anything to get away from the crowd.
    It was late afternoon when I emerged from Cherry’s a new woman. Well, at least a woman with new hair. Or changed hair, anyway—since, strictly speaking, it was still my hair.
    Much to Cherry’s disappointment, I refused the facial and manicure and pedicure she was sure I needed.
    But here’s the thing about my hair.
    I hate it.
    I’ve always hated my hair. Its color is dull—a bland shade somewhere between light brown and dark blond. It’s fine and thin and gets split ends if I even sneeze.
    And there’s this one strand that insists on plopping right down in the middle of my forehead. I’ve tried hairspray and gel and mousse, but suddenly, this one strand’ll start to quiver—I swear it will—and then plop down right over my left eye. I’ve even nicknamed it—the Forelock from Hell. And don’t even mention bangs. Bangs make me look like a girl-version of Howdy Doody, except with dull-colored hair. Not pretty.
    So I’d long given up on having any kind of style at all, and just went for clean and out of the way years ago. I shampoo it, and while it’s still wet, just pull it back in a ponytail.
    So when Cherry said she could do miracles for my hair, I thought, why not? I didn’t want to go back into the laundromat and deal with Winnie and Owen. Or anywhere else in Paradise, where I was sure I’d just be greeted with more Tyramania. Truth be told, I didn’t want to deal with Tyra herself, either.
    Besides, Cherry was doing my hair for free—on account of me now being a celebrity-stain-expert-to-the-stars.
    And when