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“I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY think Portia capable of murder. I’ve only met her a few times, but she’s a lovely girl. Then again, darkness can lurk in the most unexpected places.”
I jerked my cell phone away from my ear and glared at it, even though I knew Lucas couldn’t see me. Was he serious? Slapping it back against my ear, I practically shouted, “Listen to me, Lucas Salvatore. Portia did not kill that...jerk. There is no doubt in my mind. And you can take your ‘darkness’ and...and...shove it.”
It was a dumb idea to call Lucas. I thought he’d be supportive. After all, he’d totally had my back at the writer’s conference in Florida. Plus we were dating. Kind of. I was hesitant to call him my boyfriend. It seemed like such a juvenile word. Right now, though, his name was mud.
“Hey, hey,” he soothed, his voice a rich baritone in my ear. “I didn’t mean to upset you, but you know as well as I do that people can surprise you. They can be very good at keeping secrets.”
“Not Portia.” Though a seed of doubt had already niggled its way into my brain, which annoyed me to death. No. Portia was innocent of The Louse’s murder. Of that I had no doubt. Some people thought she was snobby or whatever because she always dressed like a runway model rather than in jeans and flannel shirts, but she was a sweetheart. She happened to like pretty clothes and dressing up. What was wrong with that?
“I hope you’re right.”
“Of course I am,” I snapped. “I was right last time, wasn’t I?” Last time being when I found a dead body on the beach in Florida, and Cheryl and I ended up suspects. Fun times.
“Speaking of last time, maybe you shouldn’t get involved this go ’round. You nearly got yourself killed. Perhaps you should step back and let the police handle it.”
I snorted. “As if. I’m not letting my friend rot in jail any longer than necessary just because the police think they know something.” I turned on the tap and rinsed out my coffee mug. “They have no evidence.”
He cleared his throat. “Fingerprints on the weapon seem like a pretty solid piece of evidence.”
“Sure. They seem that way,” I admitted. I swung open the fridge door and stared inside. Empty. I hadn’t had time to go grocery shopping what with my deadline and everything. “But these things can be faked, you know.”
“It’s true,” he admitted. “But according to my research, in most instances—”
“Listen, I’ve got to go,” I said, cutting him off. I didn’t want to hear anything negative from him. It would only piss me off. “Need to hunt down some lipstick.”
“That’s a new one.”
I laughed. “I’ll tell you all about it later. By the way, when are you headed this way next?” I fidgeted with the blue and white dish towel hanging from the fridge handle.
“I was thinking I’d come by this weekend. We could have some dinner. Maybe a bottle of wine. If you’re not too busy trying to solve another mystery.”
“We’ll see,” I said slyly. “If you’re lucky.”
––––––––
THERE WERE EXACTLY five places in Astoria a woman could buy cosmetics. For inexpensive to downright cheap stuff, there was the local grocery store and two independent pharmacies. The selections were small and the prices exorbitant. Then there were two salons that sold higher-end cosmetics. Based on the neon-pink color of the lipstick on the second wineglass, I was guessing cheap. But then, I tended toward neutrals, so what did I know?
I hoped that if I could find out who carried lipstick that color, I might be able to find out who bought it. That particularly shocking shade of pink hadn’t been popular since the eighties, so I couldn’t imagine too many women in Astoria wearing it. I hadn’t found it online, so I was hoping I’d have better luck in person. Maybe it was a fool’s errand, but I had to try.
A quick stop at the grocery yielded nothing. They had six colors, none of which matched the picture on my phone. I had equally disappointing results with the drugstores. The first of the two salons, however, showed promise.
The salon was in one of the storefronts along Commercial Street, the main drag of downtown Astoria. The three-story brick building had been built sometime at the turn of the last century. More recently the brick had been painted white. Large front windows were filled with spa-like elements from river rocks meant for hot-stone massage to tiers of candles in glass globes. Swirling letters proclaimed it to be Viviana’s Salon and Cosmetics. I pushed the door open and stepped inside to the pungent odor of hair products and too much perfume. My eyes began watering immediately. My head throbbed in time to the beat from the radio. Something catchy and fun. Unless you had a headache.
The girl behind the front desk, which looked more like a podium than an actual desk, glanced at me through eyes lined with thick, black kohl. Her pale-blond hair was artfully wispy with a bubblegum-pink streak over her left ear, which matched her pink and white striped shirt and pink combat boots. Her skinny jeans had artful rips in interesting places.
“Welcome to Viviana’s. How may we enhance your beauty today?” she chirped perkily, though her eyes were glazed with boredom. Or pot. Who knew around here?
“I’m looking for lipstick.”
“Oh, sure. Over here.” She tromped to a display of makeup only marginally more extensive than the drug and grocery stores. “We carry Viviana’s own line of mineral makeup. Non-toxic. All natural. So good for your skin.” She waved to one of the shelves, her pink, glittery nails flashing in the light streaming through the window. “Lipstick. What color?”
“Pink. Bright pink.”
That startled a response out of her. She eyed me doubtfully. “Are you sure?”
I stared her down. “Of course. Why?”
“Just, um, it’s not the right color for you.”
I scrambled for an excuse. The bonus of hitting the other stores was that nobody cared. They were totally anonymous. I could browse the makeup section without anyone batting an eyelash or asking silly questions about my color choices. “It’s for my mom. She loves bright pink.”
“Ohh!” The girl’s eyes widened as if it suddenly all made sense. “I have noticed older ladies tend to like bright colors.” She snagged a couple of tubes from the shelf. “These are our brightest.”
I took them from her and slipped off the lids. One was a shocking purplish color, and the other more of a raspberry. Neither of them were anything like the lipstick on the glass.
“This is all you’ve got? No pink?”
She shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Thanks anyway.”
The other salon was a few doors down from Viviana’s, but it was closed. It looked like a one-woman operation with a note on the door explaining that it was by appointment only. I couldn’t see any makeup on the display inside, so I was betting it was mail-order only.
I was having zero luck with the lipstick hunt, and my feet were starting to hurt. It was nearing lunchtime, and I was running on coffee fumes, so I decided to head to the bakery for a sandwich and more caffeination. Then I should get home and do some work.
I’d decided to swap to a different work-in-progress since I was having fits with Scarlet and Rolf. In The Rancher’s Virgin Bride, Matilda had run away from her evil, murderous husband back east and into the arms of the hot, sexy cattle rancher, Blade. Unfortunately, Blade thought Matilda was a nun. I had all kinds of interesting ideas about how to get her out of that conundrum. At least two of which involved ropes and lacy undergarments. I smirked to myself. A writer’s work was never done.
I was in my car, headed to the bakery, when the Flavel House loomed up on my left. I paused, and, without thinking, pulled my car over in front of the museum. Cardamom scones could wait. Maybe there was something yet to be learned inside the scene of the crime.