CHAPTER ONE

My name is Valentine Beaumont. When I was a kid, I dreamed of being a beautician. It was either that or becoming a movie star, the kind who wore sparkly gowns and lots of diamonds. But since acting wasn’t in my blood, the movie-star dream died a fast death.

In the end, I became a licensed aesthetician and hairstylist, and I opened Beaumont’s, my Mediterranean-themed salon, in the heart of Rueland, Massachusetts. Some days I even glitzed up my outfits. Not to movie-star proportions, but enough to give me pleasure without looking cuckoo.

I currently have three employees. Two are talented beyond measure. The third is inept beyond hope.

Though cutting hair is my main profession, I’ve also solved the odd crime. Some would say solved is too generous a term, but there were naysayers everywhere. And when it came down to it, I was still using my beauty tools…just in a more creative way.

It was Sunday morning, and I hurried out of the cold November wind, stomping my feet to warm up in my friend Jimmy O’Shea’s new, soon-to-be-opened restaurant.

Jimmy and I had been friends since he’d moved here from California in the ninth grade. He was a surfer and a first-class ticket scalper and had often blessed us with cut-rate Bruins, Celtics, and Red Sox tickets. But he’d come into some money, thanks to a rich, deceased aunt, and had swapped selling tickets for buying a favorite local eatery that had been on the market for a month. The favorite eatery, the Wee Irish Goat, had undergone changes and had now become the Wee Irish Dude. Dude was the language Jimmy spoke.

Since Beaumont’s was closed on Sundays and Mondays, my staff and I had agreed to help Jimmy finish unloading boxes, set beer kegs into place, and clean both floors of the restaurant before his grand opening Saturday.

I was going to miss seeing Gene Kelly and dozens of other actors’ pictures plastered on the walls. But the dartboards, beer kegs, ceiling fans, wall plaques of all things Irish, and the Celtic welcome sign with a greeting I’d never pronounce in a million years gave the place a true Irish-pub feel, and I was convinced the Wee Irish Dude would be a success in its own right.

I set my ever-present black beauty bag on a table and took off my tailored leather jacket. I was attempting to tame my hair from the nasty weather when I spotted Phyllis—my inept-beyond-hope employee—bent over Jimmy at the far end of the bar. On the wall, behind Phyllis’s head, was an Irish saying that read If it’s drowning you’re after, don’t torment yourself with shallow water.

I grimaced at the sign, wondering if anyone had ever posed the sentiment after meeting Phyllis. And what was she doing anyway?

She was in a fuzzy black-and-yellow striped sweater, and it looked like she was smearing black gunk on Jimmy’s brows and lashes. And Jimmy, in his green Celtics jersey and cape over his shoulders, was angled back taking it.

I didn’t want to ask Phyllis what was up. I’d had my own hellish morning, and this was low on the list of things I cared to know about.

Max thumped a box on the bar and paraded over to me. “What happened to you? You’re late. And what’s that in your eye?”

Max was my righthand man in the salon and nosy friend outside the salon. Nothing got by him, and his clever remarks said as much. If there were a Pulitzer Prize for excellence in being a smartass, Max would win the award hands down.

I whipped a long burgundy strand of hair off my forehead, gave up in frustration at taming it, and blinked at Max. “I poked my eye with my mascara wand this morning. Why?”

He leaned his handsome, boyish face in until he was an inch from my nose. “Your eye’s all red.”

“You should’ve seen it earlier.” I pushed him back. “And my morning only got better after that.”

“I sense sarcasm.”

A sigh escaped me in exasperation. “Seems someone’s playing a nasty joke on me.”

He rubbed his hands together, his hazel eyes mischievously glinting more green than brown. “If it’s nasty, I want to hear about it.”

“Figured you would.” I glanced around the room, then centered on Max. “Sitting straight up on my porch this morning was a dildo with a perm rod fastened around the bottom. No note. No explanation.”

Max scrunched up his nose. “What kind of a sick joke is that?”

I studied him carefully. “I don’t know, but I’d feel better knowing you didn’t have any part of it.”

He planted his hands on his hips. “Lovey, I may be a lot of things, but I draw the line at playing sick pranks.” He pursed his lips as if he were thinking. “Maybe one of Mr. Long Arm of the Law’s cops is behind it.”

This was Max’s playful term for Michael Romero, an extremely sexy, ruggedly handsome, tough police detective I’d fallen for months ago during a past murder case in my salon. After a series of mishaps and misunderstandings, we’d officially just started dating, most recently, a night out bowling.

“Aren’t Rueland’s finest always teasing you about catching that crook using a perm rod?”

“Don’t forget and wrapping it around his family jewels!” I griped.

“I was being polite.”

Oh brother. “I don’t know why any cop would get that personal. This feels different.”

“Speaking of feeling different…” He gestured to the far end of the bar at Phyllis. “What’s going on with Madame Medusa lately? She’s been all keen about hair and stuff.”

Max comparing Phyllis to one of Disney’s villains spoke volumes about their relationship. “She didn’t tell you? Phyllis has been taking a course on haircutting and eyelash and eyebrow tinting.”

I glanced over at my incompetent employee, suddenly realizing the latter was what she was attempting on Jimmy. I had to give her credit. At least she was trying to improve her skills.

Max gaped at her in disbelief, and I couldn’t be sure if he was impressed with this news, or if he’d finally thought he’d heard it all.

Before he could utter another word, Jimmy cried, “Riiiiighteous!”

Phyllis whipped off Jimmy’s cape, a smile of accomplishment on her face.

Jimmy was lovingly referred to as the Skink because of his short neck, long torso, and short legs. On top of that, he had curly bleached-blond hair that corkscrewed out in every direction. Now that Phyllis was done with him, his thick brows and blond eyelashes were black. He looked like Groucho Marx without the bushy mustache and fat cigar.

My jaw dropped a foot, and I blinked in shock.

“Hey, dudette!” He wagged his shaggy eyebrows at me. “Sexy, huh?”

I closed my mouth and swallowed. “That’s one word for it.”

“You know they say Armenian women and Irish men are the world’s sexiest people. Want to make it world’s sexiest couple and get it on?”

I knew of the survey he was talking about. “I’m saving myself for marriage.”

“Then let’s get married!”

You had to admire Jimmy. He saw himself as a stud. Unfortunately, he was the only one.

“There’s also a little French running through my blood, and Ukrain—”

He was so pumped he cut me off. “So we’ll have a massage à toi.”

“You mean a ménage à trois. And I don’t think that’d work in this case.”

“I’m willing to make it work. Max?” He waggled his brows in Max’s direction. “What do you think of the new look?”

“I think you got what you paid for.”

“I didn’t pay a thing.”

Max brightened. “Then you should be pleased.”

Jimmy looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. “I am, dude. Like far out! Always willing to try something new. And since Phyllis has been helping with the restaurant, the Skink’s happy to assist with her training.”

“Maybe you could also assist with her wardrobe,” Max muttered.

And it only took my presence to start the insults. Thing was, Phyllis wasn’t merely a poor stylist, she was also a seamstress in the worst degree. But in an uncanny way, her outfits actually suited her.

“Hello, ding-dong.” Phyllis eyed Max. “I’m standing right here.”

“Oh. I thought you flew off to make honey.”

Phyllis almost tripped over the cape she was holding, hurrying to get in Max’s face. “Just because I’m wearing black-and-yellow stripes, you’re saying what? I look like a bumblebee?”

“No, you look more like a hippo pretending to be a bumblebee.”

“I’ll hippo you!” Phyllis’s mahogany curls shook as she raised her fist in Max’s face.

Max swatted her hand away, unconcerned, but Phyllis was on a roll.

“I know everyone around here hates me. Just because I’m not skinny like Valentine or have natural talent like some people.”

Max gave a small shrug. “Weight and talent have nothing to do with it. We’d hate you anyway.”

“Max!” I gawked at him.

“Okay!” he conceded, palms up. “We don’t hate you, Phyllis.”

“Hmph,” Phyllis said smugly.

“We just don’t like you very much.”

I rolled my eyes so far to the back of my head I could almost see the tag on my top.

The other thing about Phyllis was she was distantly related on my mother’s side. So distant, in fact, nobody could figure out where the bloodline came in. In my mind, Phyllis was the mangy dog nobody wanted, and she was sort of adopted into the family. If truth be told, it was something I preferred not to share. Seemed Phyllis was okay with this arrangement as well.

“You’ll see,” Phyllis snapped. “Once I master this course, I’ll get a job anywhere I please.”

“Why wait?” Max asked. “Handsome Groomers is hiring.”

Phyllis squinted meanly at him. “That place is for dogs.”

“What’s your point?”

Jock, my last—but certainly not least—employee, appeared at the top of the curved staircase, hands on hips, a dozen big brown wooden barrels behind him. “Am I the only one working around here?”

I gazed up at the gorgeous mocha-skinned face of this Argentinean Hercules and all but forgot about the arguing duo in front of me, not to mention my red eye, messy hair, and the dildo delivery.

“Sleeping Beauty arrives.” Jock winked at me, holding the stare longer than necessary.

Any remaining chill in my bones vacated my body, and a wave of heat rushed through me from the remark. His way of reminding me how I’d woken up tangled in his arms a few short weeks ago when the whole staff cruised the Bahamas.

I knew better than to say anything on the matter. Instead, I tightened my lips, snatched a nearby cloth, and wiped down a table. I caught his grin, but he left it alone. For now. That was another thing about Jock. There was always a later.

“Jimmy,” he said, a trace of humor left in his deep, sensual voice, “what’s in these big kegs?”

Jimmy ambled to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at Jock. “Like, they’re empty, dude. Since the small kegs at the bar hide those ugly beer canisters, I thought it’d be cool to complete the rustic look by lining the wide steps with those big kahunas.” He blinked through his black lashes. “You know, like one barrel on each step.”

Jock nodded. “Max, I’d like your help, please.”

Max charged up the steps. “At your service.”

Jock motioned to the barrels. “We’re going to rotate these down one step at a time. Got it? I’ll do the first one. You grab the next keg.”

“Aye-aye, cap-i-tan!”

Everyone else got busy cleaning, and a moment later we heard a heavy thud. “Look out!” Max squealed.

Jimmy, Phyllis, and I jerked our heads toward the stairs and watched a barrel bounce down the wooden steps. Jock secured two drums against the railing so they wouldn’t get knocked down in the process.

“I couldn’t hold on!” Max cried from the top of the landing. “It was too heavy.”

The keg swerved off the last two steps, went thumpity-thump, and crashed on the floor in front of us. Cartoon-like, the sides split open, and at once we knew why the barrel was too heavy. It contained a dead body. And the victim looked like Jimmy.