Chalk Lines & Lipstick: a Maren Colepepper cozy mystery (Maren Colepepper Mysteries Book 1)

by Ophelia London

  "Ladies, please," I said with my arms outstretched. "Let's keep it civil."

  "I should go," Bertha said with jagged breath. She tossed back the rest of her liqueur, handed several bills to Gia, and stormed to the door. Before leaving, she spun around and glared at Margaret. "For your sake, Cassidi, I hope the quality of your clientele improves."

  I watched Bertha stomp from the salon and wondered whether she would ever come back. I sighed and followed Gia into the break room.

  "You think Miss Appleby's telling the truth about Vinnie?" she asked as she threw her fuchsia bag over her shoulder.

  "I'd rather not think about it," I said as I washed my hands in the sink. I heard a jangling sound and turned to see Gia holding the keys to the sleek, black Ferrari California that I'd inherited along with the property. "Are you taking the car?"

  "Why, do you need it?" she asked as though it had come as a complete surprise to her that I might want to use our only means of transportation.

  "The unpleasant exchange between Margaret and Bertha reminded me that I have an unpleasant errand to run," I replied in a bitter tone. "Could you drop me off at the police station?"

  "Of course." Gia slipped on oversized white sunglasses. "But don't let the biddy brawl get you down. Remember what I said about publicity."

  I rolled my eyes.

  Lucy entered with Margaret's cup and saucer. "You're leaving?"

  "I'll be back in an hour," I said as I grabbed my jean jacket from the back of the chair. "Hold down the fort."

  "And if Bertha comes back for the blue-haired broad," Gia added, "man the artillery."

  Lucy's eyes grew wide, and I pushed Gia from the break room.

  As we made our way to the door, I glanced at Margaret. She was resting under the warmth of the dryer with her eyes closed and her hands folded in her lap. The corners of her mouth formed a small smile. I wondered whether she was reminiscing about her altercation with Bertha or her rendezvous with my uncle. I wanted to believe that it was the former. I'd never really known my Uncle Vinnie, but I'd been told that he was "the black sheep of our family." I was finally starting to understand why.

  * * *

  I turned my accounting textbook sideways, hoping that a new perspective would help me to make sense of the information. As I scrutinized the numbers, a shadow fell over the page. I looked up and saw the hulking figure of Detective Bud Ohlsen.

  "Were you waiting to see me, Miss Conti?"

  "Yessir, Detective, sir," I said, using my Texas police manners. Not that I'd had a lot of experience with the law—just a speeding ticket or two. Okay, and an underage drinking charge. "I'd like to talk to you about my uncle, Vincent Conti's, case."

  He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "I've got to run down to the pier. Can you come back in a couple of hours?"

  "I'm not sure. I share a car with my cousin, and she dropped me off—"

  "I'd be happy to drive you home," he interrupted. "We could talk on the way?"

  "Thank you. This won't take long." I closed my book and followed him outside to the parking lot behind the station.

  To my relief, he led me to an unmarked car. I wasn't relishing the thought of being spotted by the likes of Donna Bocca or Mallory Winchester in the company of the Danger Cove police so soon after the statue screw up. "I can sit in the front, right?"

  He pursed his lips. "Unless you've done something I don't know about."

  "Nossir, Detective." I hopped into the passenger seat and tried to wipe the guilt from my face. I hadn't done anything wrong, but dealing with the police always made me feel like I had.

  Detective Ohlsen lowered himself into the car and pulled the seat belt over his wide midsection before starting the ignition. "Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

  "There's a water leak coming from my uncle's old bathroom, and it's damaging the ceiling above one of the salon chairs. If we don't get the pipe fixed soon, I'm afraid the sheetrock will collapse on a client."

  "What makes you think the leak is coming from his bathroom?" he asked as he pulled onto the street. "If I remember correctly, there are sinks in all the upstairs bedrooms."

  I shifted uncomfortably. The sinks were a not-so-charming feature from the building's brothel days, since they served as a one-stop freshen-up spot between clients, if you know what I mean. Fortunately, the LaSalle House, as the brothel was known, finally went out of business in 1955 when a group of God-fearing women (i.e., prostitute-loathing wives) set fire to the place. What remained of the building had been abandoned for forty years, until my uncle had turned the bottom floor into a hair salon and restored the top floor to its former, uh, glory. "Yeah, but the damage is right below the sink in his bathroom."

  "I see." Detective Ohlsen chewed his cheek as he slowed to a stop at a red light.

  I waited for him to say something. When he didn't, I cleared my throat. "Would it be all right to have a plumber come out and fix the leak?"

  He exhaled. "Your uncle's room is no longer an active crime scene, but since the investigation is still ongoing, we'd like to keep it as intact as possible." He glanced at me. "You're not using the room, are you?"

  "Me?" I shuddered. "Oh, no way, sir. I mean, Detective. I keep it locked at all times."

  "Good." He hit the gas. "Because there's certainly no shortage of bedrooms in the place."

  "So," I began, eager to shift the conversation away from all those sinks and bedrooms, "does that mean I can't call a plumber?"

  He hooked a left onto Fletcher Way. "Make an appointment, and let me know the date and time. I'll send an officer out to keep contamination to a minimum."

  I stiffened. The last thing The Clip and Sip needed right now was a cop car out front. "I don't suppose that there's anyway you could send someone in an unmarked car?"

  "I'll see what I can do."

  "Thanks." At least there was some good news where the salon was concerned, but I was starting to wonder whether there was ever going to be any good news for my family and me about my Uncle Vinnie's homicide investigation. "I don't suppose there've been any developments in the case?"

  "Something has come to our attention, yes." He fell silent.

  I'd heard that Detective Ohlsen was a man of few words, so I pressed on, desperate for some information about my uncle's murder. "Can you tell me about it?"

  "Vinnie's former receptionist said they often got strange calls from clients."

  "Strange how?"

  "That part's privileged." He slowed the car to a stop in front of the salon.

  "I understand." I opened the car door. "You know, I really appreciate your work on the case. I didn't really know my Uncle Vinnie, but his death has really taken a toll on me and my whole family. And honestly, if it's not solved soon, I'm not sure what will become of the salon. Or of me, for that matter."

  He turned to face me. "If you don't mind my asking, Miss Conti, why would you want to live and operate a business on the site where your uncle was murdered?"

  Detective Ohlsen wasn't the first person to ask me that question. I took a deep breath and decided to tell him the truth. After all, he was a cop. "I kind of made a mess of my life back home. And just when I was thinking that I needed a do-over, I inherited a home and a business in another state. All things considered, I figured it was a pretty sweet deal for a twenty-six-year-old."

  "I imagine so." He nodded. "Good day, Miss Conti."

  "Bye, Detective. And thanks for the ride." I stepped out of the car and walked up the sidewalk to the old Victorian building, wondering for around the hundredth time whether it really was such a sweet deal.

  There was no direct entrance to my house upstairs, so I decided to enter through the front door of the salon and see whether Lucy needed help closing up shop. As I pulled open the door, I glanced at the time on my phone. It was almost five o'clock, which meant that I had the evening to study for my quiz. And I was going to need every minute of it.

  I shoved my phone back into my bag and lo
oked around the salon. There was no sign of Lucy, but Margaret was still dozing beneath the dryer. Apparently, the caffeine in the soy chai latte hadn't been enough to keep her from that date with her afternoon nap.

  "Date" turned out to be a poor choice of words because I got an instant visual of Margaret and Uncle Vinnie locked in a passionate embrace. I shook my head to dispel the icky image and grabbed the mail from the reception desk as a distraction. But the stack of bills was an equally sickening sight.

  I tossed the mail back onto the desk and headed to the break room. Like it or not, it was time to hit the books. But before I could do that, I had to find Lucy. She needed to wake up Margaret before the dye dried out her hair.

  "Lucy?" I peered into the room.

  But she wasn't there. Nor was she on the back porch or in the bathroom adjoining the break room.

  I was starting to get concerned. Lucy wouldn't leave during the middle of an appointment, especially not when she was the only stylist in the salon.

  "First things first," I muttered as I walked out to the dryers. "Time to rinse your hair, Ms. Appleby."

  As usual, she didn't budge.

  I bent over and reached out to shake her, but then my hand recoiled. And I blinked—hard.

  Because either my eyes were playing tricks on me, or Margaret Appleby had turned the exact same shade of blue as her hair.

  DEADLY DYE AND A SOY CHAI

  available now!