Makeup & Murder
Beauty Secrets Mystery 1
Stephanie Damore
Pink Sapphire Press
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Kiss & Makeup
20. Chapter 1
21. Chapter 2
Kiss & Makeup
A Ring to Die For
About the Author
Stephanie Damore
Copyright © Stephanie Damore 2017
The mortal right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
To Dominic,
who told me I could do it, so I did.
1
In my world, Christmas falls on May 14 every year. That’s when the summer issue of Beauty Secrets magazine drops, and all my clients anxiously await their copies.
Today was that day.
If the worst part of my job was getting up at sunrise every few months for a couple of catalogs, then I didn’t have much to complain about. As soon as those beauties landed on my doorstep, I ripped open the cellophane and dove into the hot new looks of summer. I had seen the product sneak peeks at last month’s regional meeting, but was still amazed by all the new fashions. Lipsticks that plumped, mascara that defined, and moisturizers that worked magic, rounded the lineup. Sexy summer skin was merely a click away. Out with the smoky eye shadows and heavy bronzers. In with soft watercolors for the eyes, shimmering blushes, and bright nail polishes—the romantic look. I was eager to try it out, and I was certain my clients would flip for it too.
I knew I’d have to be on my A-game if I was to visit all of them before sunset, which is why I was steering my little Chevy pickup truck down Sugar Plantation by a quarter after eight, toward my first client’s house. Yes, I know it’s not the sexiest of rides; but hey, it was free—thanks to my parents—and no car payment meant extra money for shopping. Hello, Nordstrom!
My first stop was to see Aria, my best friend, and the first one to snatch up any free samples. Thankfully, she also hosted the best parties, so I didn’t mind. Aria’s a girl’s girl—fashionably chic and a straight-talker with a sweet spot for nail polish. Her love of the candy-colored lacquer made her a platinum-card-carrying, top-notch client for Beauty Secrets, and the new summer shade selection promised to deliver. I had the free samples to prove it.
I pulled into Aria’s neighborhood and gagged at the bubble-gum colored Jeep idling at the stop sign waiting to pull out. What was Justine Martin doing here? The woman was my arch enemy ever since fourth and a new beauty representative for that Other Company, a fact that I wasn’t able to understand given that her makeup looked like she slapped it on with a paint brush. If pastels were in, I’d guarantee her face looked like a chalked up Easter egg. It was no coincidence she was pulling out of my business’ most popular neighborhood the day of a catalog drop. I knew better.
She rolled down her window and leaned forward as I slowed to turn in. Her fluffy white poodle sat on the seat next to her wearing some ridiculous sequined outfit. The poor pup. I sped up as I turned the corner instead. My truck splashed some nice muddy water off the road curtesy of the last night’s rain onto her gaudy ride. I smiled at her shocked expression and gave her a little wave. I hadn’t willingly spoken to her since 1995. I didn’t see any reason for that to change today.
When I pulled into Aria’s driveway, her front door was already open and her son Arjun stood there in his monster pajamas, action figures in hand, being the look out. He smooshed his face against the glass when he saw me, complete with blown-out cheeks and finger antlers. I laughed, and he took off racing down the hall like a wild child—a characteristic I know he picked up from his mother. While she has definitely mellowed out in her thirties, get a couple tequila shots in her and she’s nineteen again. Girls’ nights are always an adventure.
A second later, Aria came to the door, looking as much like a fashionista as ever. She could make even yoga pants look glamorous, which she did almost every day at the downtown fitness studio where she taught.
I waved hello and bent down to grab my client binder, aka my Beauty Bible. I never made a house call without it. The binder was key to my success in the business. It held record of every product my clients purchased, along with a register that included the date, item numbers, and methods of payment. My beauty business would be a mess without it.
“What’s up, girlie?” Aria asked, opening the front door.
Before I could answer, Arjun came zipping back down the hall, sporting a pair of red rain boots and a cowboy hat, ready to head out the front door.
“Excuse me, little man. Where do you think you’re going?” Aria asked.
“Outside,” replied Arjun, trying to wrangle past his mom.
“I don’t think so. You know the rules,” Aria replied.
“Ooohhhh!” Arjun’s little fists got all tight and his cheeks puckered in as he wound up to pitch a preschooler’s fit. I knew where this was headed if Aria didn’t calm him down quickly.
“Give me twenty minutes with Aunt Ziva, and then we’ll go out together. Got it?” Aria said.
I loved it when Aria referred to me as Aunt Ziva. We weren’t really sisters, but we were the closest thing to it for each other.
Aria shut the front door, putting an end to the matter. Arjun stomped his rubber boots and did an about-face and headed to the living room. The clamor of engines roaring and monster trucks being dumped out onto the hardwood floor, soon followed. Disaster adverted for now.
“No seriously, what’s up? You look ticked.” Aria knew me well.
“Justine,” I said, and shuddered. “She wasn’t here, was she?”
“Girl, did you bump your head? You honestly think she’d stop by my house?”
Back in grade school, when Justine turned all my girlfriends against me, making my world seem very small, Aria was the only one who stood by my side. She was still there today.
“I passed her on my way in. I know she’s up to something. She always is,” I said.
“Pshhh, let her try. She’s pathetic. Latte?”
“With soy?” It was a rhetorical question. With Aria, it was always with soy milk or almond milk, or whatever milk alternative she had in her fridge.
“You know it,” she replied.
“Pass.” Nothing ruined a good latte like soy milk. Gross. I took my lattes with two percent at least, whole milk preferably, and skip the coffee. I was chai all the way.
“A little bit of good nutrition wouldn’t kill you. Did you get in your run this m
orning?”
Aria knew I tried to work out a least a couple times a week to make up for my poor eating habits. Okay, make that downright horrible eating habits, but business had been booming and exercise was at the bottom of my to-do list.
I couldn’t hide my guilt. “Yeah, of course.”
“Liar.” Aria didn’t even have to look up to know that I was full of it.
I laughed. “But hey, at least my jeans still fit.” Although, at that moment, my jeans did feel a little tight. They were a denim-spandex fabric too. Maybe I should just switch to leggings. Those are quite fashionable nowadays, and a good beauty consultant is always in style.
“You mean my jeans?” said Aria.
“Aren’t those my heels by the door?” I asked.
Aria met me with a coy smile. It was a fair trade and she knew it. It seemed both of our closets had revolving doors. We couldn’t keep track of who borrowed what.
“Speaking of fashion, did you hear that Winston’s was robbed last night?”
Winston’s was an upscale fashion boutique located downtown on the waterfront. It was Aria’s and my go-to shop for accessories like designer sunglasses and leather handbags.
“What? No way. That’s like the second break-in this week. Didn’t someone just hit up the yacht club?” I asked.
“Yeah, made off with the charity gala proceeds too.”
“What? I didn’t know that. Who would steal from a charity?”
“Not a clue, but there are a couple purses at Winston’s I’d like to get my hands on too,” Aria said.
“I know, right?”
I could drop a small fortune in that store if I wasn’t careful. It was actually after one particularly pricey shopping spree, which ended there, that I decided I would be a cash-only customer from that point forward. No cash meant no shopping. It was a tough rule, but I stuck to it. My credit score thanked me.
“Is that it?” Aria changed the subject in a hot second when she spotted my client binder on the table.
I smiled and slid the catalog out of the front cover. “Here you go. I don’t understand why you even need to look. You know you’re going to order the entire line.”
“Oh, shut up and give it to me.” Aria opened the catalog directly to the nail polish page and fell in love. “Oh, girlie, look at this one. Atomic Sun? It’s bright and citrusy. I love it, love it, love it. Oh, and these pinks are perfect. I have to have them,” she said.
“Told you,” I replied.
Over the next half hour, I proceeded to mark Aria down for all thirteen new shades, one for each week of summer, and I was confident she’d wear every one of them. I completed Aria’s order, detached the yellow carbon receipt for her records, and filed the white copy in my client binder with the rest of the orders I planned on processing the next morning.
My cell phone rang in my purse while we were wrapping up, and I didn’t need to look at it to know that it was Mrs. Birdie Jackson, aka Mrs. J., calling to hound me for being late. Having three Beauty Secrets clients in the same plantation saved time making deliveries, but it also meant you couldn’t socialize at one house for too long. Mrs. J. seemed to always know when I was in the neighborhood, and patience wasn’t a virtue she was blessed with.
Mrs. J. was sitting on her front porch, waiting impatiently for me to arrive. She started in with me before I even shut the car door.
“You know, this jam cake’s been sitting outside here for almost an hour? I can’t keep the sun from drying it out all day.” She motioned to the large slice of strawberry cake and tall glass of lemonade sitting beside her on the front porch breakfast table. Bless Mrs. J. I loved Aria, but a girl needs her sweets. How she survived on carrot sticks and humus was beyond me. What was humus anyway?
I doubted Mrs. J. had been sitting out there for an hour, but I didn’t say anything. The whole town of Port Haven knew not to make Mrs. J. mad, unless you didn’t like your reputation, or her cooking. You see, Mrs. Birdie Jackson was known for three things—her crazy sense of fashion, her love of gossip, and her amazing baking skills. Today, she was wearing a lime green suit and a matching white hat with lime green polka-dot trim. The bright color perfectly complimented her shiny red nails and matching lipstick. Only a rich southern woman could pull this look off and, believe me, Mrs. J. could. She had a style and a bank account that more than a few women in the neighborhood envied. Back in the day, Mrs. J. and my Nan were the best of friends. Those two ladies were the eyes and ears of Port Haven. You couldn’t step a toe out of line without them getting word of it, and knowing what you stepped in, too. My Nan had since passed on, but Mrs. J. kept the tradition alive.
“Morning, Mrs. J.”
“Morning? Sug’, it’s almost noon.”
No, it wasn’t. I had another hour before she could make that claim, not that it mattered. I looked down on her table and saw Justine’s card with a sample lipstick and her own company’s catalog. My heart sank. Not only had Justine beaten me there, but I had left Mrs. J.’s Passion Pout lipstick at home. My day started out so well.
“Mmm-hmm. At least someone can get out of bed before noon.” I knew what Mrs. J. was implying. Justine was an early riser. She had probably gone to the gym this morning too. Oh, how I hated her.
“I know, I know, but Justine doesn’t love you like I do,” I said with a smile. “Besides, today was a little extra crazy with the new catalog drop and all.” I sensed Mrs. J. wanted more details, but all she got was, “I had to stop by Aria’s first.”
“That girl’s still in town?” I ignored Mrs. J.’s rhetorical question. “I would have bet all the cornbread in Savannah that she’d hightail it straight back to India after Raja died last spring.”
“Aria’s from Atlanta,” I remarked. “And Raja passed away two years ago.”
Mrs. J. didn’t acknowledge my comments. “You know how those young girls are, always looking for an old man with money. I could’ve spotted her shovel from a Mississippi-mile away.”
This wasn’t the first time Mrs. J. had called Aria a gold digger, but I didn’t believe it. Aria wasn’t the money-grubbing type. Although, even I had to admit her late husband, Raja Patal, wasn’t much of a looker. Add that to their thirty-year age difference and Aria’s beauty, and I could see how someone could make the case.
I was still thinking about Aria and Raja when Mrs. J. said, “Did you hear? Someone broke into Winston’s last night. Patsy Ann told me all about it this morning at the Piggly Wiggly.”
Being friends with Patsy Ann pretty much eliminated the need for a police scanner. Her husband was a local deputy and told her everything.
“I know, I heard. I love that store,” I said.
“Who doesn’t? It sounds like the crook made off with a pretty paycheck too. At least that’s what her husband said. I tell you, this town is just swirling right down the drain.”
I agreed with Mrs. J. Port Haven was definitely changing, and it wasn’t for the better.
“Tell me you got something to cheer me up, sug’. I could sure use a reason to smile.” Mrs. J. looked downright depressed.
I opened my binder and handed her a new catalog, along with a couple extra free samples I knew she’d love, to remind her why I was the best. It worked. Mrs. J.’s face lit up. In that moment, I was reminded of why I loved my job so much. Somewhere during our visit, I mumbled something about her lipstick not being in yet (a flat out lie, I know), but Mrs. J. didn’t care. She pushed the jam cake my way and let the world of Beauty Secrets float her cares away.
2
Good thing I can set my own schedule because, if I had a boss, I’d be fired by now. My beauty consultant butt should’ve high tailed it out of Mrs. J.’s an hour earlier but, nope, I had to have a second serving of jam cake and get wrapped up in the gossip. Not that I ever said anything. That’d be a big Beauty Secrets no-no, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t be entertained. It’s just a fact that no visit to Mrs. J.’s was ever quick, and some days it was harder to leave than others. I
would’ve socialized another hour away if I hadn’t remembered I wanted to talk to Marion about hosting another party. The last party she hosted had been a major success, earning me Consultant of the Month, and a couple new clients to boot. The new summer promos surely would tempt her into hosting again. At least I hoped so.
The Siebold house was just off Palmetto Court toward the back of the plantation. To me, it was a smart place to build a house, away from the golfers. I always thought it was crazy for people to place their houses smack-dab on the fairway, like a target waiting to be whacked by a golf ball. If you were lucky, and your house didn’t get hit, you still had to deal with strangers trampling all over your property. What a waste.
The Siebolds didn’t have that problem. Sheltered by deep overhangs and a wraparound porch, their house was a fine example of Southern living. I adored that wraparound porch. Mrs. J. called them sipping porches because you could sip an afternoon away on them. I wasn’t so sure about that, but I never objected to sipping a glass of sweet tea or swinging on the Seiebolds’ porch swing while talking shop. But the closed-up nature of the house told me there wouldn’t be any sipping today and, honestly, that was fine by me. I’d already had enough sweets to sweat off after my visit with Mrs. J. I just hoped Marion was home. It wasn’t like her to be out when she knew I’d be stopping over, especially on a day when I had the new catalog and her product order to deliver, but the closed blinds didn’t offer me much hope. Of course, it wasn’t a huge deal if she was out. Like with all my clients, Marion and I had arranged a designated delivery drop-off spot, but no Marion meant no booked party, and I’d have to make another house call later in the week.
I gathered my client binder and Marion’s beauty-filled gift bag off the passenger seat, and bumped the car door closed with my hip. It shut with a hard thud. I was definitely getting a little extra junk in my trunk. Looks like I’d better add ten more minutes to tomorrow’s run … and get those leggings sooner rather than later.
Makeup & Murder: Beauty Secrets Mystery Book 1 Page 1