Killer Eyeshadow and a Cold Espresso (A Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery)

by Traci Andrighetti

  I lowered my eyes. Duncan could read facial expressions faster than a newspaper headline.

  "Don't worry. I already know it was Rothman. You don't kill a guy like Sonny Torlone without payback."

  Jesse's victim had been in the news almost weekly since his murder, but it was the first time his name had made me uneasy. My Aunt Carla had predicted a mob hit, and a moniker like Sonny Torlone smacked of The Godfather.

  Duncan raised his camera and snapped.

  "Don't you dare put my picture in one of your articles."

  "The town has a right to know that Cassidi Conti was at another crime scene." He peered in the window. "Now all I need is a shot of Fontaine."

  "George hasn't done anything."

  "Are you sure? Because the florist gig is a sham."

  Duncan wasn't the first person to wonder why George had bought Some Enchanted Florist, but I'd never questioned his motives. Changing careers was common, and he was too nice to be mixed up in anything nefarious. "You should focus on Torlone's people. Didn't he and Jesse invest in real estate?"

  "Yeah, about two years ago—a failing casino in Atlantic City."

  My uneasiness escalated to anxiety. Aunt Carla might've been right about a mobster coming to collect missing casino money.

  "But the plan was to run it, not rent it. Then Jesse took off with Torlone's investment capital."

  The anxiety turned to relief. The money he'd told Gia and me not to look for wasn't my uncle's, so we didn't have to worry about ending up at the bottom of the ocean.

  Duncan snapped a photo. "So this is either payback, or the silent business partner took him out."

  "Jesse and Sonny had another partner?"

  "They had two. It came out during Torlone's murder investigation."

  "Who were they?"

  "Their names weren't revealed because of some concurrent investigation. But every reporter at the Chronicles knows who one of them was." He aimed the camera at me. "Your uncle, Vinnie."

  * * *

  Gia's body hung in a backbend position from a red band of silk supported by two chains suspended from the ceiling. "They could've at least let us wait in the spa instead of the gym. I mean, we could certainly use a massage, and this aerial yoga thingy isn't cutting it."

  I rose from the hammock next to her that I'd been sitting in like a swing. "I don't think Elise is going to give us the spa treatment if she thinks we killed her husband."

  "Apparently not." Gia rolled onto her stomach and dangled, limp, lifeless.

  "Would you get off of that?"

  "I'm relieving stress."

  It was a good thing one of us was. Detective Marshall had confiscated our phones, so we didn't know the time. But Gia and I had been in the gym for so long that it was dark outside. And through one of the windows, we'd watched Lilly, Alex, and George be released one by one, which had sent my sky-high anxiety to Mount Kilimanjaro level. I'd done several laps on the indoor track, and I'd even resorted to panic attack breathing. So far nothing had lessened the dizzying fear in my chest.

  I pondered the exercise equipment against the back wall and climbed onto a rowing machine. Maybe some upper body would give me relief. "I don't like that they're still holding us."

  "We'll get to go soon."

  I pulled the oars and pushed back with my feet. "You also predicted that we'd be safe with Katrina."

  "And we were. Look, we're alive." She kicked off from the rubber flooring and spread her arms to simulate flight.

  "We're in danger of being arrested for killing Jesse, but I guess a lifetime in prison is still technically considered living."

  She skidded to a stop. "Who do you suppose did it?"

  "After Duncan told me his theory about Sonny Torlone, I'm thinking Aunt Carla might've been right about the mob hit."

  "Think of the people in that living room." Her tone was as skeptical as it had been the first time I'd told her that bronzer and glitter together were over the top. "Who's the mobster?"

  None of them seemed like mafiosi to me. In fact, the only obvious criminal in the house was Jesse, and he was dead. "Maybe he wasn't there. He could've come earlier and poisoned some food or a product Jesse would use."

  "I guess Richie Faria will find that out when he watches the security video. But what if no one else is on it?"

  Her question shot my anxiety up to Mount Everest. I needed full body, so I climbed onto a NordicTrack and started skiing. "Then it had to be one of the people in the living room."

  "We know it wasn't Lilly, Alex, or George."

  Despite George's odd behavior and his possible connection to Rhys, I agreed with her. We'd known the three of them since we'd come to town, and they were upstanding people. "That leaves Elise, Rhys, and Katrina."

  "It's probably the brother."

  "Why would you suspect him?"

  "He was out in the man cabin with Jesse. Maybe they argued about something." Gia jumped from the hammock. "Oh! Maybe he's the mobster. He was wearing an ascot."

  I stopped skiing—not because of the absurd comment but because I wasn't used to exercise. "How does wearing an ascot make him a Mafia member?"

  "You know they dress flashy. He could be with the British mob."

  "Yeah, because everyone's heard of them. Like the Norwegian and Finnish Mafias."

  She shot me the side-eye and side-saddled an exercise bike. "All right, who do you think it is? Elise or Katrina?"

  "Elise seemed genuinely upset. But Katrina seems kind of shifty. Plus, I caught her looking at the cameo."

  "So what? Everyone loves Princess Diana."

  I rolled my eyes. "The Princess of Wales wasn't alive when that cameo was made. It's Goddess Diana, as in from ancient Greece."

  "Even if it's Diva Diana from Motown, I don't see how the cameo is related to Jesse's death."

  "Maybe it's not. But I'm starting to think it had something to do with Uncle Vinnie's."

  "How come?"

  "I don't know yet. A sixth sense. Or maybe it's because I'm also thinking that Vinnie's and Jesse's deaths are connected."

  She straddled the bike and put her platforms on the pedals. "Maybe that's a good thing."

  "What could possibly be good about it?"

  "Well, all these problems we keep having with the salon and our lives always point back to his murder. And until we solve it, we'll never get past where we are now."

  I dropped onto an exercise ball. That was the wisest thing she'd ever said, and something I'd known instinctively all along. But I never would have admitted it to myself or anyone else because I felt so powerless where my uncle's death was concerned.

  The door opened with a creak and closed with a click that echoed throughout the gym.

  Detective Marshall stood at the door like a vigilante come for justice. He put one foot in front of the other, slow and casual, which made his stride extra menacing. "Got a couple of updates for you."

  I rose for the showdown. My legs, already weak from exercise, were wobbly, so I gripped the handrail of a treadmill.

  "Officer Faria and two of my men have been combing through the security video. Over the past twenty-four hours, the only people who came to the house arrived this morning—Mr. Ingall, Ms. Jordan, Mr. Fontaine, Ms. Waters, and the two of you." He reached us and took another step, which was a step too close.

  My grip on the handrail tightened. "What about Katrina Schwarz?"

  "She lives on-site."

  Gia hopped off the bike. "I'd look at that Ingall guy if I were you. Anyone who fakes an accent is running from something."

  His lips pursed. "Thanks for sharing your considerable investigative experience."

  She saw his lip purse and raised him a lip curl. "It's always a pleasure working a case with you."

  I had to intervene before the mouth movements turned biting. "Uh, what was the other update, Detective?"

  "Oh, yes. We found a clue."

  The feigned brightness of his tone made me anything but optimistic about the dis
covery.

  He held up a plastic bag with an oval-shaped greenish brown object. It resembled a dried unripe olive, but it had a small piece of fleshy pulp on one end. "This little thing was underneath the vanity, in the crack between the floor and the wall."

  Gia squinted at the detective. "I give. What is it?"

  He moved the bag inches from her face. "A seed from some sort of berry. And according to Dr. Cooper, it could be toxic."

  "Why are you showing that to me? I don't even eat berries."

  Unless it's a flavor in vodka.

  "Because berries aren't only used for making smoothies and pies, Ms. Di Mitri. They've been used throughout the centuries to produce cosmetics." His lips pulled back in a stab at a grin. "And this neutral shade would make for a mean smoky eye."

  It took all of my willpower not to climb onto the treadmill and start running.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "Seattle Dutch Babies for you and Gia." Zac placed to-go boxes that oozed the odor of maple syrup in front of me on the break room table. "These should get your day off to a sweet start."

  After the events at the Rothman estate, a breakfast of dog food would've seemed sweet. "Where's the paper?"

  His jaw set. "Why don't you eat first?"

  "If you're worried Duncan's article will ruin my appetite, don't. I lost that when Jesse died." I stirred sugar into my triple espresso.

  "At least Detective Marshall released you both."

  For the time being.

  Zac removed his leather jacket, and I plucked the Cove Chronicles from the inside pocket and opened it to the front page.

  "JESSE ROTHMAN DEAD. Whacked by a Mafia clan? Or by a haircutter duo?"

  Two pictures were beneath the headline—one of Sonny Torlone in a black and red tracksuit with a group of shady-looking men in pinstripes, and the other of my cousin and me on the love seat cowering beneath the detective's glare.

  It was what I'd come to expect from Duncan Pickles, speculation bordering on slander.

  Gia made an entrance in a black belted sweater with a red bow at the neck, plaid tights, four-inch Mary Janes, and tortoiseshell glasses. "I had the worst nightmare of my life. We were in prison, Cass, and OMG it was awful." She put her hand on her forehead, overcome. "Instead of orange, they made us wear mustard yellow."

  The horror. "While we're talking outfits, since when do you wear glasses?"

  Her head popped up. "This is my library look."

  Zac and I dropped our jaws—both because my cousin was going to a place of reading and because she had an outfit for the occasion.

  "I don't know why it's so surprising." She filled the portafilter with espresso. "Someone needs to help Amy with her mob research, and as a former Atlantic City resident and full-blooded Italian-American, I'm the ideal person. Let's face it—that woman doesn't know a goomba from a gangster."

  I wasn't sure I did either. "I'll come with you." I glanced at Zac. "Unless you need me for something?"

  "I'm here to help you. But if you're going to the library, I'll run over to the marine and help raise the sailboat."

  "It's still in the water?"

  "One of the inflatable bags we use to lift boats had a leak, and Clark had to go to Seattle to get another one. It won't take long, and I can do anything you need after that."

  I squeezed his hand. He was always at my side, no matter how bad the predicament. And with Gia on my other side, I desperately needed him there.

  "Holy freakin' cannoli." Gia set her espresso cup on the table and snatched the paper with freshly squared nails. "That wretched reporter called us haircutters?"

  Zac swallowed a smirk.

  I didn't share his amusement. "That's what bothers you? His terminology?"

  "Uh, I'm a makeup artist? And that word is so 1970s."

  "And here I was dwelling on the 'whacked' pun."

  A tapping sound interrupted our conversation.

  Alex peered in the back-door window, and I waved her inside.

  Zac bent over and kissed my hair. "I'd better get going." He ran his thumb over my cheek. "Don't let this get you. We'll figure it out."

  I gazed into his blue eyes, willing him to be right.

  He greeted Alex and left.

  Gia pointed to Alex's steel-toed boots. "Can I borrow those for an hour? I need to kick the crap out of a certain reporter."

  "Gram showed me the article." She placed a to-go coffee on the table and took a seat. "I came to tell you that I totally understand if you need to cancel the renovations."

  My cousin's eyes met mine. They were wide, naked—but only because her library look didn't include false lashes.

  "I appreciate your offer, but we're going ahead with the work. This morning I'll place an ad to sell the Ferrari." I reached for my laptop and opened the lid.

  Gia slammed it shut. "I've got the down payment." She pulled off a Mary Jane and dumped a check onto the table. "We'll have the rest by the time the job is done. Now excuse me while I go do my researcher updo." She slipped on her shoe, grabbed her espresso and a to-go box, and trod upstairs.

  Alex let the check lie.

  I wouldn't have touched it either. "So what's the plan for the work?"

  She pulled out a poster tube that had been protruding from her backpack. "I put together a floor plan for the renovations. My carpenter, Big Ron, will handle the tower, and I'll remove the picture, placard, and sinks."

  I should have been excited, but Jesse's murder weighed on me. And to my surprise, so did Alex's comment about preserving the history of the house. Its brothel origins had caused so many problems, and my uncle's activities hadn't helped. But with the opportunity to renovate finally within reach, it somehow felt wrong to strip the painted lady of her character.

  The screech of brakes prompted me to glance inside the salon. The Gold Rush History Tours bus had arrived for the morning tour.

  "Don't be fooled by the white exterior of this painted lady." Harriet's voice boomed through the bullhorn. "Because let me tell you, prospectors, she's anything but virginal."

  Alex averted her eyes.

  I snapped out of my uncertainty. I switched on some music to drown out Harriet. "How soon can you start those renovations?"

  "Tomorrow, if you like. Today I need to run an errand, and then I'm going to take it easy. I'm still shaken up after yesterday."

  "I get it—believe me." I drained my espresso and toyed with the idea of switching to something calming, like a shot of one of my homemade liqueurs. But it was nine o'clock in the morning, and Danger Cove was hardly New Orleans. "Alex, I hope you don't think Gia and I—"

  "Don't even say it." She covered my hand with hers. "I know you guys had nothing to do with Jesse's death. Who do you think did it?"

  "This might sound crazy, but we're wondering if Jesse had connections to Atlantic City Mafia."

  She wrinkled her lips. "It's not crazy at all. Do you remember my Gram's friend Alice Sweeney?"

  I started at the name. "I'd forgotten about her. She was from the most powerful mob family in New Jersey." I leaned across the table. "Do you know if they had any casinos?"

  "I never knew what business they were in, except crime, but her father and uncle were busted for tax evasion in the seventies. And Alice is pushing ninety, so I'm sure the father has passed away, and maybe the brother."

  "They wouldn't have been involved with Jesse, then. He tried to buy a casino a few years ago with Sonny Torlone, the man he killed." I didn't mention my uncle and the mystery silent business partner, for fear it would jeopardize my uncle's murder investigation—and implicate me in Jesse's.

  We studied the floor plan, even though our minds were on the crime.

  I wanted to ask about George, but I didn't want her to think I suspected him of killing Jesse, because I didn't. But his stint in the bush outside the man cabin made him look guilty of something.

  Alex rested her chin on her palm. "I can't fathom who at the mansion would've committed a murder, especially while we were
all there."

  I saw my opening. "Who does George think did it?"

  "Well, he knows it wasn't you and Gia. Or Lilly, for that matter."

  "What about Rhys?"

  "He didn't mention him."

  "That's weird, because there was a moment during the questioning when I would have sworn Rhys recognized George."

  "Really?" She blinked. "Well, you heard Detective Marshall point out that they both lived in London. Maybe they met at an event."

  Rhys was the snooty society type, as his attitude and ascot indicated. "You mean, like a social club or charity function?"

  "Or a gallery showing. Like me, George has a background in fine arts. He was an art appraiser in Europe, and from what I understand, he specialized in paintings."

  That explained his interest in the landscape, but it didn't explain Rhys's. "Why would he give up an art appraisal business in Europe to run a Danger Cove flower shop?"

  Alex looked down. "I wish I had the answer."

  "I didn't mean to pry. I just thought that since he's your boyfriend—"

  Her head shot up. "He's not. We're friends."

  The announcement blindsided me. I'd seen George and Alex kiss more than once, and they often referred to themselves as Nick and Nora Charles—from the Thin Man movies, not the books. I thought they were the perfect, happy couple. Everyone in town did as well.

  She rolled up the floor plan with slow, precise movements. "I don't mind confiding in you because I know you'll keep it quiet. There are some things about George's past that he hasn't…been able to share with me. Until he does, he knows I can't let myself get too close."

  I had no idea how to respond except to make sure she was safe. "It's nothing serious, is it?"

  "The only thing he told me is that his parents were involved in something illegal. And whatever they did ticked off some, quote, 'really undesirable characters,' unquote, who wouldn't think twice about coming after him for restitution."

  She couldn't have stunned me more if she'd hit me with her hammer. "Are you talking about organized crime?"

  Her eyes crinkled. "Maybe? I honestly have no clue."