CHAPTER TWO

 

Gia was the first to speak. "You don't know that Vinnie's death had anything to do with sex."

"Oh, no?" I arched a brow. "Then how do you explain the black fishnet stocking around his neck? The one with the red sequin heart appliqué?"

"Don't forget the black silk ribbon," Lucy added with a nod.

"That doesn't prove he was with a woman," Gia said with a shooing motion. "Maybe a jealous husband strangled him."

I crossed my arms. "Still sex-related."

Gia flipped her hair. "Well, even if it was, he was living the life. You know, that whole 'wine, women, and song' thing that old people always talk about. And he told my step-mom that business was so good, he already had enough money to retire."

"Maybe he was trying to impress Aunt Carla," I said. Because the amount he'd left me was only enough to keep afloat for about six months.

The salon bell sounded.

"That must be Margaret Appleby," Lucy said, rising to her feet.

Gia grimaced. "You mean, Miss Marple."

"Lower your voice," I whispered.

Lucy grabbed the new drink menu. "I'll take this out to her."

I turned to Gia. "Margaret has been coming here since Uncle Vinnie owned the salon. Please be polite to her."

"Fine," she huffed. "But, blue hair aside, that woman is straight out of an Agatha Christie movie."

"Novel," I corrected. "And she's one of the sweetest ladies I've ever met."

"I agree, but it totally creeps me out when she takes a nap under the hair dryer. She looks like she's dead."

"Give her a break, will you? She's eighty years old."

 "I know." Gia gave me a pointed look. "But I get that bad feeling every time she comes in."

I sighed. Ever since Gia had predicted that my relationship with my ex, Shane Austin, would end badly—a fact that the entire town of Fredericksburg had also foreseen—she thought that she had psychic powers. "I don't care if you get a stabbing feeling—you're going to greet her with a smile. Because if I go under, you go under. Capish?"

Gia's mouth opened in outrage as she shot to her feet. "Sometimes you're such a prima donna."

Oh, the irony.

As I entered the salon, I smiled at the stooped woman sitting in Lucy's chair. "Hi, Ms. Appleby. Have you had time to look over our new drink menu?"

"Why, yes." Her blue eyes twinkled. "I'll have a chai latte, dear. But with soy. I can't tolerate milk, you know." She squeezed my forearm with knobby, arthritic fingers. "Gives me gas."

Gia wrinkled her nose as if she smelled said gas. "I'll get right on it."

The door opened, and a cute, athletic-looking brunette entered. "Do you take walk-ins?" She smiled and raised a hand to her bob. "My bangs could use a trim."

"Absolutely." I tried to hide my excitement as I ushered her to the station beside Lucy's. "Welcome to The Clip and Sip. I'm Cassidi."

She slipped out of her sailing jacket and sat in the chair. "Prudence Miller."

"I haven't seen you around town," I said as I put the cape around her. "Are you new to Danger Cove?"

"Just passing through. I took a leave of absence from my job in L.A. to sail my boat to Alaska."

"Wow, that's quite an adventure," I said in awe of her bravery. It had taken all the courage I could muster—and a couple of Xanax—to move to a ready-made house and business in Danger Cove. I wouldn't dream of sailing a boat that far on my own—not for all the oil money in Texas.

I lowered the chair backward and began to wet her hair, and she closed her eyes as the warm water ran over her head.

I studied her face for a moment. She was a dead ringer for Kate Jackson back in the 1980s. "What type of work do you do?"

"Hospital administration."

"Well, I'm jealous." I shut off the water and applied shampoo. "The beaches here in Washington are nowhere near as warm and sunny as the ones in California."

She laughed. "Actually, I'm not much of a beach bum. I'm always too busy sailing."

"Believe it or not, I learned how to sail in Texas," I said as I worked the shampoo into a lather. My mind drifted to the lazy summers I'd spent with Shane on Lake Travis, and then I promptly squashed those memories. "I did it for a guy, of course."

The corners of her mouth turned up. "I think that's how a lot of women get into sailing."

I turned on the faucet and waited for the water to heat up. "What about you?" I asked, trying to keep the conversation going. "Did you learn to sail in L.A.?"

"No, in Cape Cod where I grew up," she said quietly. "There, learning to sail is almost as common as learning to drive."

Sensing that Prudence was tiring of the polite chatter, I let her relax in peace while I rinsed her hair. Then I wrapped a towel around her head and raised the chair to an upright position. As I removed a sanitized comb from the canister, the bell sounded.

I glanced at the door and recognized Bertha Braun, a retired nurse and lifelong bachelorette in her late seventies whom I'd met during a marketing call at the Senior Citizen Center.

"I'm here to see your makeup artist," Bertha announced, striking a pose in the lobby.

"At your service," Gia exclaimed as she practically threw the soy chai on Lucy's station.

Bertha's eyes zeroed in on Margaret. "I have a date tonight," she said at the top of her lungs as she sashayed to the chair behind Lucy's. "We're going to the Lobster Pot, so I want to look extra special."

"Better get out the war paint," Margaret suggested sweetly before taking a sip from her teacup.

Lucy, who'd been stirring the blue rinse for Margaret's hair, stopped in mid mix and shot me a look of surprise, while Prudence looked on amused.

Bertha showed no sign of having heard the comment, and I was grateful. Her nickname around town was "Bulldog," both because of her dogged personality and her barrel-chested body type. And the last thing I needed at the salon was an elderly throw down.

"In that case, Bertha," Gia began, "you'll want Mad Makeup. It's my personal line that I designed to celebrate the glamour of New Jersey."

Yeah, because the Garden State has long been known as the center of haute couture, I thought as I clipped Prudence's bangs.

"Oh, that sounds exotic," Bertha cooed. "Just like my date. Maybe you know him?" She looked behind her to see whether Margaret was paying attention. "Santiago Beltrán?"

At the mention of his name, Margaret straightened in her chair.

"Never heard of him," Gia said as she opened her eye shadow case. "But he sounds like a real Latin Lover."

Bertha's thin, wrinkled lips spread into a lizard-like smile. "That's because he's Cuban."

"Well in that case, I think we should go with a strong look." Gia tapped her index finger on her cheek. "Something militaristic."

While Gia elaborated on her plans for Bertha, I had to bite my lip to focus on Prudence's hair. If you asked me, Mad Makeup should have been named Commando Cosmetics. The colors included raging reds, bellicose blues, and glaring greens—there wasn't a pastel in the palette. The line also had alarming accessories, like camouflage eye makeup stickers and temporary lip tattoos. It was hardly a style appropriate for a quaint cove town.

"That sounds perfect," Bertha replied. "Santiago's very macho, just like his famous countryman, Ricardo Montalbán."

Margaret snorted, causing her turkey neck to wobble. "Ricardo Montalbán is Mexican. If anyone, Santiago is like Ricky Ricardo."

"You mean, Desi Arnaz," Bertha corrected.

"No, I mean Ricky Ricardo, because you're going to drive poor Santiago crazy, just like Lucy did Ricky." Margaret smirked. "After one date with you, he'll run screaming 'Babalú.'"

Bertha's face grew dark, thanks only in part to Gia's handiwork. "You're just jealous. Tell us, Margaret. Exactly how many dates have you had in the thirty-odd years you've lived in Danger Cove?"

"Just one," she replied, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "But it was enough to last me a lifetime."

"Hogwash," Bertha spat. "Who was it with?"

Margaret met Bertha's eyes in the mirror. "Vincent Conti."

I gasped and narrowly missed lopping off one side of Prudence's bangs. My Uncle Vinnie was fifty-five when he died, which made him almost thirty years younger than Margaret Appleby. Surely what they'd shared had just been a…a friendly lunch?

"I don't believe that for a minute," Bertha scoffed. "What would a handsome stud like that want with an old crone like you?"

"To have his way with me, apparently." Margaret drained the last of her soy chai, as though the steamy memory left her parched. "Talk about a Latin Lover. Vincent was my Marcello Mastroianni. He even had a tattoo on that tight little tush of his that said 'La Dolce Vita.'"

Everyone in the room was struck speechless, and I had to lean on my station to steady myself. Looks like they'd shared a lot more than lunch.

"It's a shame he's gone," Margaret continued in the stunned silence. "I don't suppose you have any more uncles, dear?"

I stared at her open-mouthed. Was Margaret some kind of man-eater?

"No, just her Aunt Carla, my step-mom," Gia intervened. "Unless you count her dad, Domenic."

"W-we're p-pretty small by Italian family standards," I stammered as I searched for some way to bring the sexual conversation away from my father. "Um, what about you, Prudence? Are you from a big family?"

"I'm the only child of two only children," she replied. "So, it was pretty lonely growing up."

Margaret frowned. "The important thing is that you had two parents who loved you, dear."

Prudence nodded. "So true."

Relieved that the conversation was on safer ground, I took one last snip from Prudence's bangs and picked up my hair dryer.

"Oh, I always let my hair dry naturally," she said as she pulled cash from her front pocket. "How much do I owe you?"

"Twenty," I replied.

Prudence handed me twenty-five dollars. "Thanks, Cassidi."

"Thank you," I replied as I escorted her to the door. "Enjoy your stay in Danger Cove."

"Definitely." She grinned. "This place is an answer to my prayers."

Let's hope it's an answer to mine, I thought as I closed the door. I turned and saw Bertha climb from Gia's chair with two green, black, and brown eyes and a non-existent mouth. She looked like she was ready to embark on The Bay of Pigs Invasion.

"Always remember the Jersey rule," Gia advised. "Go with a nude lip, at the most pale pink. The only thing you want to accentuate is the eyes, especially for a romantic dinner."

"Oh, I agree," Bertha said. "Now I need to be on my way, or I won't have enough time to get ready."

"Then your date had better be next year," Margaret said as Lucy helped her take a seat beneath a dryer, "because it's going to take at least that long to make a battle-ax like you look presentable."

Bertha balled her fists at her sides, and her face turned so red that it was visible through her pancake makeup. "Lucky for you I'm in a good mood today," she said in a dangerously low voice. "Otherwise, I would shut that miserable trap of yours once and for all."

Margaret's mouth formed an O shape in mock alarm, but Lucy's fear was real. She turned white and stepped out of Bertha's way.

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

"I should go," Bertha said with jagged breath. She 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's 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 looked 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 my 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

A DANGER COVE HAIR SALON MYSTERY