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

by Traci Andrighetti

  "Gia, there are yew berries in that arrangement, and they contain the poison that killed Jesse Rothman."

  Her boots buckled, and she fell into a chair. "So what are you saying? That George set me up?"

  I sat beside her and grasped her hands. "I'm saying that you need to get the arrangement out of the trash, for both of our sakes."

  She shivered, but I wasn't sure whether it was because of the incriminating yew berries or the thought of climbing into a dumpster full of hair and rotten fish.

  "Can't we just leave them, Cass? I mean, people do throw away dead flowers."

  "Sure!" I released her hands so I could throw mine into the air. "And then the police will find out we disposed of evidence."

  Her dark eyes drifted to the doorway. "They just did."

  Slowly, I turned.

  Donatello stared at us, slack-jawed. And if that weren't bad enough, Zac was with him, jaw clenched.

  Zac's gaze sought mine, more hurt than surprised. "Clark saw you speed through the parking lot at the hardware store and said I should make sure everything was all right."

  An awkward pause ensued because everything was clearly all wrong.

  Donatello closed his mouth, and I didn't like the twist his lips had taken. "Yo, it's time you two start talking."

  * * *

  Flip-flopping between enthralled and embarrassed, I watched from the doorway of the break room as Donatello faced off with the dumpster. He shook out his arms, jogged in place, pulled his head from shoulder to shoulder, and all while staring down the trash bin as though he was trying to intimidate it.

  Zac stepped forward. "It's probably safer to climb in. Otherwise, you could slip and bang up your head on that metal."

  Donatello struck a pose reminiscent of Aesthetic God at Hard Bodies Gym. "Yo, I appreciate the input, bro. But search and recovery missions are best left to trained police officers."

  I sneered at his bravado. He was dumpster diving, not scuba diving, although there were a lot of fish in that receptacle.

  With a flourish, Donatello crouched in the set position of a sprinter and charged. He leapt, let out a war cry, and catapulted via the rim inside. He landed on his feet but wobbled. His arms rotated once, twice, and he fell backwards with a wet smack.

  In a psychosomatic show of support, I held my breath and waited for him to reappear with the floral arrangement.

  Zac approached the bin. "You all right, man?"

  Donatello emerged buoyant from the abyss. "Totally, dude." He spotted the fish juice and cut hair on his arms. "It's all goo—"

  A cone of vomit spewed from his lips.

  And another.

  One more still.

  Apparently, police search and recovery training hadn't prepared him for diving into rotting fish and salon waste. Repressing a gag, I went inside and closed the door, hoping those cones had missed the flowers.

  Gia was at the table in her tiara, meditating—that is, polishing her nails and sipping tea-flavored vodka. "How's Donny doing out there?"

  "He's, uh, riding the waves of the Dead Sea."

  She applied a coat of sparkly blue to her thumbnail. "So, how mad do you think Zac is?"

  "Well, until a few minutes ago, I had neglected to tell him that a person in a trench coat, who is possibly a member of the British Mafia, was following me." I flopped into a chair. "I guess in that sense I'm no different from George."

  Her eyes darted to the stairway at my back, and my stomach seized as though I were Dead Sea diving with Donatello.

  Alex Jordan was behind me, which meant I'd outed the entire Fontaine family.

  "It's all right, Cassidi." She took a seat at the table. "George asked me to meet him at Marlton House for lunch today, and he told me everything, including the details of his meeting with you this morning."

  Gia slid a bottle of polish toward her. "This'll take the edge off the stress."

  Alex reached for the vodka. "Thanks, but manicures and renovation work don't mix."

  While she poured a shot, I debated how much to tell her. George might have come clean about his family's art dealings with Rhys Ingall and the British firms, but I doubted he'd confessed to putting yew berries in Gia's exotic floral arrangement—if he was the one responsible.

  The back door opened, and Zac entered holding the flowers at arm's length. "You might want to hold your noses until I rinse these off. They smell like rotten shrimp."

  Alex's eyes crinkled. "Pardon the pun, but did you fish those flowers out of the dumpster out back?"

  "So where's Donny, Zac?" Gia fiddled with a safety pin earring, trying to seem innocent.

  "He, uh, needed a shower." Zac cast a wary look from me to my cousin. "After that he was going to the station to talk to Bud Ohlsen about a security detail for you two."

  But was he going to turn us in for the yew berries? I desperately wanted to ask, but Alex was scrutinizing our faces, and the flowers, looking for an answer to her question.

  Zac turned on the faucet and sprayed the arrangement. "But regardless of the police, Donatello agrees that I should stay here until we know who's following you."

  I didn't bother to protest about him missing work. He might be angry with me, but he would stay until Gia and I were out of danger. And while I loved him for it, I regretted the extra pressure. Since buying back his father's company was no longer an option, I didn't want to cost him his job.

  Gia pointed her polish brush. "I'll bet it was that peroxide power lifter, Katrina."

  "It could've been Rhys." I leaned back in my chair. "I still want to know what he was doing on that rowboat the other morning."

  Zac turned off the water. "When was that?"

  "The day before yesterday."

  He leaned against the counter. "That's the same day one of our rowboats was found on the beach not far from the pier."

  Alex frowned. "Rhys doesn't strike me as a rower."

  "Or any kind of athlete," Gia said.

  I looked at Zac. "Now that I know he stole the boat, I'm convinced he was disposing of evidence. Maybe even the cameo."

  Alex massaged her palm. "If only Gram could remember where she saw that brooch."

  "I'd better call work and give Clark an update." Zac pulled his phone from his back pocket and walked into the salon.

  The clock above the sink read six o'clock, and I needed to get to Dangerous Reads before they closed to talk to Meri about the orders for A Pocket Full of Rye. But first I had to do the right thing and give Alex an update about George.

  I reached for the vodka and helped myself to a shot. "Alex, I'm sorry we didn't answer your question about the flowers earlier. The truth is, we didn't know how to tell you that the arrangement contains the berries that poisoned Jesse Rothman."

  Gia tipped her tiara. "And they came from Some Enchanted Florist."

  Alex stared straight ahead, turning her shot glass on the table. "It couldn't have been George."

  I placed my hand on her back. "I know, but the berries were in the arrangement, and he delivered it to the salon."

  "Someone else put them in there. I'm sure of it. And he delivers so many arrangements that he wouldn't have noticed them."

  Gia jabbed her polish brush at Alex. "I'll bet it was Ruby, his intern. That tan and those teeth are clearly fake."

  I glanced at my cousin's acrylic nails and Chicken Fillets–enhanced chest. "Ruby is a nice girl who has no reason to frame us. Someone else must've had access to the flowers."

  Alex swallowed a second shot. "They assemble the arrangements in the back of the shop, so I doubt it was a customer."

  "Leaping lasagna." Gia jumped from her chair as if to underscore the expression. "George mentioned Charlotte Vickers. Remember, Cass? He said he was late because of a flower order for her niece's wedding."

  I bolted to my feet. "No, he was going to the church after he delivered your flowers. He got held up taking the order somewhere else."

  Gia and I clasped hands. "Craggy Hill Estates." We shouted
from excitement. "For a vow renewal ceremony."

  * * *

  Burt Lewis frowned as he two-finger typed A Pocket Full of Rye into the computer next to the register at Dangerous Reads. A retired military man, he had no use for modern technology.

  Anxiety gripped my gut as I waited to find out whether Katrina, Rhys, or even Elise had ordered a copy, and I wasn't the only one who was antsy. Alex stood beside me chewing her nails, and Big Ron paced the floor behind us. He'd insisted on canceling a rare date to act as our bodyguard while Zac stayed with Gia to wait for word from Donatello.

  Burt scowled at the screen and tapped some keys. He stepped back, rubbed his chin, and tapped a few more. "I show that eleven copies were ordered for the book club."

  Amy said that nine members of Esprit de Corpse, including herself, had participated in the Agatha Christie discussion. "Can you tell us who ordered them? It's really important."

  "I'm not sure I'm allowed to share client information."

  Big Ron loomed over the counter. "You heard the lady. This is serious business. Can you ask your boss or something?"

  Burt's narrowed eyes traveled the foot of Big Ron that towered over him. "Stay here." His tone was as gruff as his facial expressions. "Meri's in the office. I'll see what I can do."

  I was too stressed to stand there in the interim. "Alex, do you mind waiting for him? I want to see if there are any copies of A Pocket Full of Rye on the shelf. There should be two books left over unless they sold them or had copies in stock before the book club started."

  "Okay, but what should I do if Meri comes out?"

  "Tell her the truth, but be gentle." A patron approached the cookbook section nearby, so I lowered my voice. "I have no idea how she'll react to learning that a book club selection could've inspired a murder."

  "Yeah." Alex pulled back her lips. "I'll do my best, but it'll be hard to soften a blow like that."

  "Don't worry. Normally I would be here with Gia. So, even if you hit Meri over the head with the news, that would be gentler than anything my cousin could pull off."

  We shared a grin, and I headed for the mystery section. I passed the reading-group room to the right of the main entrance. The French doors were closed, but I could see Elizabeth Ashby and Nicole Leiren presenting their latest true crime mystery set at the Smugglers' Tavern.

  The anxiety spread to my chest, and I tiptoed away before Elizabeth spotted me. She and Traci Andrighetti had already written two mysteries about The Clip and Sip, and I couldn't risk giving them the idea for a third. The salon didn't need any more negative publicity.

  I passed a couple of aisles and stopped at the mystery section. Scanning the Cs, I located the Agatha Christie books. There was one copy of A Pocket Full of Rye on the shelf. If my estimation was correct, the killer could have the other one.

  I rushed to the front counter to tell Alex and Big Ron, but they were deep in conversation with Meri Sinclair. Judging from the drawn look on Meri's face, she'd been informed of the book's probable connection to Jesse's murder.

  Alex turned to me. "Meri has graciously agreed to give us the names."

  Meri tucked a lock of her black chin-length bob behind her ear. "I was just telling Alex that only one of the eleven copies I ordered wasn't picked up. It was for Lizzie Jones. She had to cancel when she got a lucrative pet-sitting gig in Seattle."

  "Is that the copy on the shelf?"

  "Yes. I didn't have A Pocket Full of Rye in stock when Esprit de Corpse selected it for the book club. The other patron picked up their copy but never came to the discussions."

  Alex leaned forward. "And who was that?"

  "It's funny you should ask, because it was George Fontaine."

  Alex's hand went to her chest, and mine was tempted to do the same. But for her sake, I hid my shock and came up with something soothing. "There has to be a logical explanation for this."

  Big Ron's laugh was guttural. "I'd like to know what that is. I say we go straight to Marlton House and hear it from the fancy man, himself."

  "We need to take Cassidi home." Alex's tone was as calm as her demeanor. "I'll speak with George alone."

  He made a hrmp! sound. "That's not going to happen."

  "Ron." Alex's pitch had a sharp edge. "George is a good person. He's obviously being framed."

  He slumped onto one leg, unconvinced.

  Alex turned to Meri. "We'll be in touch when we know something more."

  We made our way to the exit, and Big Ron held open the door for us, activating a chime.

  A figure leapt from behind a parked car and fled down Main Street.

  "Go back inside." Ron gestured to Dangerous Reads and broke into a run.

  Alex obeyed, but I stood petrified on the sidewalk. Beneath the familiar trench coat, I'd seen a flash of steel.

  The barrel of a rifle.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Zac stood in The Clip and Sip reception area, twisting from side to side to work out the kinks from a night on the Rococo couch.

  Guilt smacked me like that fish goo Donatello had fallen into. "I feel so bad that you had to sleep in the salon."

  "It's not your fault, Cass. I blame the maniac who's stalking you." He rubbed his lower back. "And Donatello for tackling me when I got up to go to the bathroom."

  Donatello was almost as dangerous as the dark figure, and he too was armed. "Well, Officer Faria is stationed out front, and Big Ron's keeping watch from the tower with his shotgun. And it's almost eight o'clock, so please go to work."

  "Are you sure?" He ran his thumb over my cheek. "I would die if anything happened to you or Gia."

  I appreciated the sentiment—but not the choice of verbs. "We have plenty of protection." I planted my hands on his face and gave him a long kiss. I pulled back and patted his chest. "Time to go, Taylor."

  He slid his arms around my waist, pulling me close. And for a split second, his blue eyes took me to a warm and safe island surrounded by sea.

  "Maybe I should stay." He nibbled my neck, bringing me back to the biting reality of the salon—and the stalker.

  "Nope. You're not getting in trouble with Clark because of me."

  He sighed. "Such a taskmaster." He released me and opened the door. "Keep your phone on you, because I'll be checking in every hour. And stay inside, away from the windows."

  "Which one of us is the taskmaster?"

  "I'm serious, Cass."

  "I know. And I won't take any risks. I promise."

  He gave me a be-careful look, and I closed the door. I watched him drive away, relieved he was out of danger, and shifted my gaze to the squad car.

  Richie Faria sat rigid in the driver seat, scouring the area with the intensity of a vulture searching for a meal. I headed for the break room, grateful that Bud Ohlsen had sent his most competent officer to watch the house, as opposed to Donatello.

  Footsteps pounded the stairs.

  My stomach fluttered. Had Big Ron spotted the dark figure?

  Gia bounded into the salon wearing the source of the stair-pounding—commando boots—with a spandex camouflage dress. Given that we were being hunted like animals, the outfit made a certain amount of sense, except for the sequins and neon purple color.

  "Wait till you hear this. It'll pick you up better than Carla's tiramisu." She hair-flipped and fist-pumped for emphasis. "We've got a group of ten clients booked for Tuesday."

  Hope crept into my chest, but hesitation kicked it to the squad car. "We can't honor that appointment. The events of last night convinced me that we have to close the salon. Permanently."

  Her mouth opened as wide as a foxhole. "With twenty Gs in renovations going on? Have you lost it?"

  "We can list the building and recoup the costs in the sale price."

  She marched toward me like Rambo, albeit purple and bedazzled. "The McCurmudgeon is the only one who'll buy this painted lady, and I'd rather burn it like those wives did in the fifties than let that happen."

  "We won't sell to Harriet. I'll con
tact Gil Torres at the Danger Cove Historical Museum to see if she knows of a preservation society that would be interested."

  "Unlikely. Aside from Vinnie and us, no one in Danger Cove has ever wanted this place. It was an embarrassment as a brothel, and then the whole Vinnie thing went down."

  And the painted lady became a haunted house of sorts.

  Gia crossed her arms. "So we have to stay open and make this work. We've been through too much to let that trench-coated stalker cost us our business."

  Her passion was moving, but it wouldn't solve the problem. "That trench-coated stalker had a shotgun, Gia, maybe even a Tommy Gun. So we can't guarantee client safety."

  "With Supercop outside and Sasquatch upstairs? Besides, with all the mass shooters out there, we couldn't guarantee client safety before, either."

  She made a decent argument, but the odds of the dark figure shooting at the salon were far greater than a random stranger. Frustrated, I sunk into my salon chair. "Who are these clients, anyway? Don't they have TVs or read the news?"

  She fiddled with an eyeliner display on her station. "They're locals."

  Something was missing from the scenario—because Gia was deliberately omitting it. "What services do they want?"

  "Hair and makeup."

  "Is that it?"

  "And a séance."

  I sprang from my seat. "Have you been hitting the vodka? Because all we need is for a group of people to come in and summon the spirit of Jesse, or Uncle Vinnie, or some salon ghost from the past."

  "All we need is cash. And the séance gave me an idea."

  "We're not doing an event, Gia. The Clip and Sip is closed."

  She held up her hands. "This isn't an event, so just listen. Instead of running from the salon's murderous past, what if we play it up and host a spa version of the murder mystery dinner party?"

  I reached for my curling iron.

  "No? Too much?"

  I plugged it into the wall.