Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai: a Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 5) (4 page)

Mustering up my courage, I dashed into her room, wincing at her choice of decor. I'd never taken LSD, but every time I looked at the deep-purple walls, zebra-striped curtains, and fuzzy orange comforter set I felt like I had to be tripping.

Gia sauntered in from the hallway wearing leopard-print footie pajamas with fuchsia angel wings attached to the back and holding a hammer. "Did I wake you up?"

I gritted my teeth.
Nope, not hallucinating
. "You know Vinnie's room is off limits. What were you doing in there?"

"Tapping on the sheetrock and listening for hollow spots." She flopped onto the bed, causing her wings to flap. "I'm positive that he stashed cash in this house. These old brothels were notorious for having hiding places. I read about one that had a system of chutes in the walls so that every hooker had her own specific money drop. How does that saying go? If these old walls could talk…"

"…they'd be charged with public indecency," I concluded as I sunk into a neon-green beanbag chair at the foot of the bed. "And they wouldn't know a thing about any hidden treasure."

"I don't understand why you're so skeptical about the money thing," Gia said as she let the hammer drop to the floor with a thud. "Vinnie left you a paid-off Victorian mansion, not to mention that fine Ferrari we're driving. Seems to me the guy had some cash."

I sighed. "People who have money don't hide it in walls."

"No, they hide it in offshore accounts." She grabbed a pad and pen from her bedside table. "Which is another avenue I need to look into."

"Great, Nancy Drew." I elbowed my way deeper into the chair. "You get right on that."

"I will, because you're going to need some serious dough now that this whole Miss Appleby thing has happened." She jotted down a note and then pointed her pen at me. "And by the way, any lost treasure I find? You're giving me a generous cut."

"If you uncover any wall treasure, I'll gladly split it with you." The accounting quiz I hadn't studied for flashed into my mind. "Because it's looking like I'm never going to get that business degree."

Gia's shoulders slumped. "Don't say that, Cass. Given the circumstances, you can get the professor to give you an extension on your quiz."

"Oh sure," I said, waving my hand, "I'll just tell him that a woman came into my salon, turned blue, and died. Because that's a likely story."

"It's plausible. Just don't mention that she
stayed
blue."

I massaged my temples. "The truth is, I wouldn't pass the quiz even if I did have a few more days to study. Besides, as soon as the news of Margaret's death gets out, I could be too stressed to deal with school."

"Ugh, speaking of the news, I can see the front page of the
Cove Chronicles
now, 'Old Lady Clipped at The Clip and Sip,'" she recited in a dramatic voice. "Or wait. This is better, 'Old Lady Dipped and Clipped at The Clip and Sip.'"

I stared at her, incredulous. "You sound like Detective Marshall! We don't know for sure that Margaret was murdered."

"Are you kidding?" She opened her arms wide. "The woman looked like Cookie Monster, and this ain't
Sesame Street
. That didn't happen by magic."

I sat up in the chair. "Are you implying that Lucy is somehow responsible?"

"That Goody-Two-Shoes?" She straightened a drooping angel wing. "Not a chance in hell."

I bit my thumbnail. "Then that leaves Margaret."

"As in, maybe she was over being old and ended it all by drinking dye?"

I recoiled as though she'd just swung at me with the hammer. "I was thinking more along the lines of she mistook the mixing bowl for her teacup. But now that you mention it, suicide could have been a factor, especially if she had a terminal illness or something."

Gia reached under her bed and pulled out a bag of Tim's Potato Chips. "Either way, it doesn't make sense. If she wanted to off herself, she could've done that at home with a bottle of aspirin. Why go to a salon and drink dye to die?"

I folded my hands in front of my face. "I was wondering the same thing."

"And if she swallowed some dye on accident, she would've spit it back into the bowl. It's no secret that stuff is toxic." She pulled a handful of chips from the bag and then shoved it toward me. "Want some? They're dill pickle flavored."

I wrinkled my nose. "No, but that reminds me. I've heard of elderly people losing their sense of taste. What if she didn't know it was dye?"

"Then why order a soy chai latte and not just plain tea?" Gia popped a chip into her mouth. "If you ask me, the real question is whether Miss Appleby's death had anything to do with Vinnie's murder. I mean, we know those two were connected, if you get what I'm saying."

I got it, all right. My stomach churned at the possibility—and at the pun. "That seems like a stretch, but I'll bet the police look into it. After all, there are two active crime scenes in the house."

Gia chewed another chip. "So, what are you going to do about it?"

"The only thing I can do—wait while the authorities handle it."

"Cassidi!" she exclaimed in a bite-your-tongue tone. "You're half Italian!"

"And?"

"Show some passion!" She sprung to her feet on the bed, producing a flurry of wing flapping, and began punching the air. "Find your fighting spirit!"

I gave her my best blank stare. "To be honest, I've always identified more with my German side."

"Well, stop it, Claudia Schiffer." She punched a fist in my direction. "You can be all logical and practical at school. Right now you have to react."

Gia had a point, albeit an ethnically inappropriate one. Lucy's freedom was at stake, and everything I had was on the line. This wasn't the time to play it safe, particularly when one of the cops on the case was grasping at straws. I had to do my part to prove Lucy's innocence, protect my home, and save the salon. With any luck, I'd resuscitate the Conti reputation in the process. "You're right. I need to do something."

"OMG! You're admitting that I'm right?" She held up her arms and fell backward onto the bed. "Have I died and gone to heaven?"

I smirked. "Don't get carried away—by those wings of yours."

She hopped up and sat cross-legged on the bed. "So, what's the plan? Are you going to be like Jessica Fletcher and go around Danger Cove investigating people?"

I shifted in my seat. "I hadn't really thought about it. But if I did, I'd like to be someone younger, like Veronica Mars."

"Well, whoever you are, you can totally count on me to be your sleuthing sidekick—you know I never miss an episode of
48 Hours
. And Amy could help with library research. With three brilliant criminal minds like ours on the case, it'll be a piece of cake," she said with a snap of her fingers.

Criminal minds?
Okay, so I had my doubts about Gia's abilities, but Amy was a genius. She could probably solve this case with her brain waves alone.

"And who knows?" she continued. "Maybe we could solve Vinnie's murder too."

I stared at her, surprised. It had never occurred to me to look into my uncle's death—I guess because I'd just assumed that the police would have solved the mystery of his murder by now. "Sure," I said, although I was anything but. "Now, if I'm going to sleuth, I've got to sleep." I rolled from the chair. "No more hammering, okay?"

She gave the thumbs-up sign. "You got it,
cug
," she said, using an abbreviation of the Italian word
cugina
, or "cousin," which everyone always thought was short for
Cujo
.

No sooner had I crossed the hallway than my resolve waned. As I climbed into bed, I wondered what I was getting myself into. I was already trying to get established in a new town, run a salon, and earn a business degree, and I was failing at all three. Plus, the closest I'd ever come to detective work was when I tracked down a missing skirt at the drycleaners. So, investigating a suspicious death seemed more than a little outside my area of expertise.

And what if Margaret
had
been murdered like my uncle? And what if their deaths were related?

I shivered and pulled the covers up to my chin.

Uh-uh. I couldn't go around town questioning people and poking into their private lives. I was no Jessica Fletcher or Veronica Mars. I was Cassidi Lee Conti, a hairstylist from Fredericksburg, Texas. And regardless of what happened in those cozy mysteries, I knew that real-life hairstylists didn't go around investigating murders. No, I was going to do the smart thing and leave Margaret's case in the hands of the qualified professionals.

I turned to my side and closed my eyes, but I couldn't sleep. Something was eating at my gut, and it wasn't fear—or that Oregon Blueberry Patch ice cream. It was guilt. My Uncle Vinnie had shocked our entire family by leaving all his worldly possessions to me. He'd explained his decision in his will, stating that I was the only member of the family who would give The Yankee Clipper, as he had called the salon, "the love the old girl needed." (In retrospect, I wish he'd used a different phrase, but whatever.) He'd believed in me, so I had to repay his trust, not to mention his generosity. To do that, I not only had to save The Clip and Sip, but I had to find his killer too—whether his death was connected to Margaret's or not.

I rolled onto my back and covered my face with a pillow.

If I made it through what was left of this wretched night, I would start my inquiry after breakfast.

And I knew exactly who to investigate first.

"Here's your espresso," the baby-faced teen said as he placed the cup and saucer on the weathered table outside Carolyn's Coffee and Creamery.

I flashed a wan smile and dumped three packets of sugar into the black gold. It was only 7:00 a.m., and I was in no mood for anything bitter.

As I stirred the sweetener, a breeze blew across the pier, and the combined aroma of the sea air and the coffee soothed my nerves. A small seagull perched on the pier railing caught my eye, and I felt an unexpected moment of calm.

A thwack shattered my serenity as a copy of the
Cove Chronicles
landed beside my cup.

"If you haven't seen this morning's paper, you'd better take a look," Amy warned. She was standing before me in a stark gray sack dress, and her mouth was set in a grim line. "And prepare yourself," she continued as she dropped into a chair. "It's pure yellow journalism."

Better than blue journalism
. Or so I thought. When I opened the paper, a photograph of spread-eagle Sadie with the caption "Sex and Suffocation at the Salon?" greeted me.

Without a word, I tossed back my espresso like it was a shot of whiskey. Gia's titles suddenly sounded a lot more appealing.

The young server approached and took my cup. "Can I get you anything else, ma'am?"

"I'll have another," I whispered, too shocked to be upset about that "ma'am." "And make it a double."

"Whoa." Amy raised her hand in a stopping motion. "Pull the reigns on the caffeine, cowgirl. My mother says it's like rock music—it causes addictions to cigarettes and reefers."

Amy, like her mother, obviously, was more than a little square. "First of all, I might be from Texas, but I'm no cowgirl. And second, if anything's going to drive me to drugs, it's stories about people suffocating in my salon, not a few shots of espresso in my system."

Her eyes grew wide. "Be careful, then, Cass. Because the reporter who wrote that article is convinced that there was some sort of funny business going on at The Clip and Sip."

I sighed—both because of the reporter's cheekiness and because of Amy's cluelessness. For such a bright girl, she often struggled with the difference between sarcasm and seriousness. "Who is this reporter, anyway?"

"Duncan Pickles. And the surname fits him. He's a real
sauertopf
."

I gave a frustrated sigh. Amy was German on her father's side, but she told me that she hadn't known a word of the language until she'd studied it in college. Since that time, she'd taken to peppering her speech with the occasional Deutsch word "to exercise her ancestral right to speak the 'fatherland tongue.'" "You know, just because I'm half German and grew up in a town settled by German immigrants doesn't mean I can understand the language."

"But it's so close to English," she whined.

"Maybe to you, but it's Greek to me."

"No." She shook her head. "It's German."

I rolled my eyes. "Would you just tell me what a
sauertopf
is?"

"A 'sour pot.'"

I could think of other things I'd like to call that reporter. "So, I assume that he was the camera-wielding blond I saw standing in the crowd?"

"Yeah." She flashed a goofy grin. "He's a real sex pot, isn't he? But his camera is the least of your concerns. Wait until you read what he wrote in the article."

Against my better judgment, I picked up the paper.

Amy tapped the page from behind. "Read it aloud. I want to hear it."

I put the paper down and stared at her long and hard. Then I began to read in a low voice.
"'Almost a year after the salacious murder of salon owner and Cove Casanova Vincent Conti
…
'"

"Cove Casanova?" I exclaimed, outraged. "Where does he get off talking about my uncle like that?"

She pursed her lips. "That part is actually true."

I glared at her and resumed reading.
"'
…
the specter of sex and death still looms large over The Clip and Sip. Literally. Within hours of a tasteless, not to mention dangerous, publicity stunt involving a lewd statue suspended from a pulley
…
'"

I gasped. "He thinks that I had Sadie out there swinging her stuff as a publicity stunt?"

"Well, her stuff did draw a sizeable crowd."

I gave her a half-lidded stare and then continued reading.
"'
…
long-time Danger Cove resident Margaret Appleby was found unresponsive under a hair dryer following a routine touch up to her blue hair dye. Attempts to revive her were unsuccessful
.
"

"Duncan did you a favor there," Amy said. "He could have mentioned that she was abnormally blue."

I leaned across the table. "Whose side are you on here?"

She put her hand on her chest. "Yours. But when you break the story down like that, you can see how he came up with the version that he did."

"All I can see is that he twisted the facts to write a sensational story." I pushed the paper away. "I refuse to read another word."

"But you haven't gotten to the best part." Amy grabbed the paper and began to read—with gusto.
"'Although police haven't released any information about the incident, there is reason to suspect foul play. Medics at the scene initially believed that the deceased was deprived of oxygen. But an EMT was overheard stating that hours after her demise, she was 'still bluer than a bluefish swimming in Ty-D-Bol,' which begs the question—Did Margaret Appleby die from dye?'"

I clenched my jaw. "She wasn't
that
blue."

"I'd say any amount of blue is pretty darn blue," Amy said as she folded the paper.

The server deposited my double espresso on the table, and I reached for eight packets of sugar. Despite my efforts, this day was getting more bitter by the minute.

"Listen," I began, "I didn't ask you to meet me because I wanted to discuss the details of the incident, okay? The truth is—I need your help with some research."

Amy's face lit up. "For your accounting class?"

"I've got that covered," I replied, neglecting to mention that I'd picked
C
for every answer on the online multiple-choice quiz before coming to meet her. "What I need to know is whether swallowing blue hair dye can cause a person's body to turn blue."

Her face darkened. "You're not thinking about interfering in the police investigation, are you?"

"Of course not. But after my encounter with Detective Marshall last night, I decided to do some asking around—you know, to see what I can find out."

"Are you sure that's a good idea? If this does turn out to be a murder, you could be a target yourself, for all we know."

This time I chugged my double espresso. I hadn't even considered the possibility that I could be next on some crazed killer's list. But why would anyone want to kill me? Was there some twisted plot to kill off the Contis, and Margaret somehow got in the way?

The little seagull hopped into my line of vision. Then it swooped down and plucked a fish from the water. I shuddered.
Was that some kind of sign?

"Are you cold?" Amy asked. "I've got an extra sweater in my satchel."

I shook my head and tried to recoup the courage I'd gathered the night before. "You know, if there is someone out to get me, then that's even more of a reason to look into what happened to Margaret. Besides, Gia said she would help."

She lurched forward as her elbow fell off the table. "You want your
cousin
to help you?"

Amy and Gia were like oil and water, or maybe I should say like beer and Chianti. "Gia's a little over the top, but I'll give her this—she's
über
resourceful," I replied, using an adjective that Amy would understand. "Right now, for instance, because of all the money problems we're having, she's hunting for some cash my uncle supposedly hid. She calls it his 'lost treasure.'"

"I didn't take you for a treasure hunter," a male voice said.

I turned and saw Zac holding a to-go coffee.

"I was talking about my cousin." I crossed my arms, annoyed that he'd eavesdropped on our conversation. I looked at Amy to see whether she was irritated too. Quite the contrary. Her face was flushed, and she was batting her eyelashes at the speed of a hummingbird flapping its wings.

"Well, if she's looking for treasure, she's come to the right place." He gestured toward the water. "A British ship called
Ocean's Revenge
sunk out there somewhere in 1852, and the booty that the pirate Bart Coffyn looted from Sir Francis Drake in 1579 is rumored to be buried here too."

"Well, aren't you the maritime history buff," Amy exclaimed, drawing out the word "buff" as she gawked at his biceps.

Zac grinned. "It was my father's passion."

"We have a large collection of books on local piracy at the library." Amy twirled a lock of mousy brown hair around her finger. "If you'd like to stop by sometime, I'd be happy to help you deepen your knowledge of the subject."

Oh, brother
. I cleared my throat. "If you don't mind, Zac, we were in the middle of a private conversation."

The smile faded from his lips. "Sure, I need to get to work anyway. I just stopped to tell you how sorry I was to hear about what happened at your salon yesterday."

My stomach fell like a suspended statue cut from a rope. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you knew."

"Margaret Appleby was an acquaintance of my grandma's."

Now he had my undivided attention. "Did your grandmother know her well?"

"Not really. They quilted together a few times after Margaret had to quit the Danger Cove Quilt Guild."

Amy attempted a sexy stare over the thick black rim of her glasses. "You know about quilting too? A man after my own heart."

I kicked her under the table. "Um, Zac," I began as I caught a glimpse of Amy pointing toward the ground and mouthing "ow," "why did Margaret have to quit the guild?"

He swallowed a sip of coffee. "I'm not sure exactly. But this morning I stopped by my mom's house, and I heard my grandma telling her that it had something to do with a woman named Bertha Braun."

My heart started racing, but I played it cool. I couldn't let Zac know that I was investigating Margaret's death. Word spread like wildfire in Danger Cove. "Do you think your grandmother would be willing to talk to me about Margaret?"

He shrugged. "Honestly, I think the best person to talk to would be the woman who runs the guild."

"Dee Madison," Amy interjected. "She and her best friend, Emma Quinn, come into the library to check out quilting books. They're quite fascinating—the books, I mean."

Yeah, as interesting as the history of the needle and thread
. "I'll do that, Zac. And thanks."

He looked me in the eyes. "Promise you'll let me know if there's anything else I can do?"

I looked away. Even though I'd sworn off the color blue for the rest of my life, there was something about the shade of his eyes that almost made me want to change my mind. "Definitely."

As he walked in the direction of the Pirate's Hook Marine Services, I pushed back my chair before Amy could punch me in the arm or return my kick. "So, where do I find this Dee person?"

She rose to her feet. "The Danger Cove Historical Museum. The guild has been holed up there for the past couple of days trying to finish some quilts for the lighthouse fundraiser tonight," she said as she walked over to the bike rack. "If you want to ride on the handlebars, I could drop you off on my way to work."

"I'd rather walk." I removed eight dollars from my wallet and placed it under the sugar caddy. "It'll give me time to think about what I should ask Dee."

"Suit yourself." Amy mounted her bicycle. "But be careful how you approach her. She's a real handful."

As I headed up the pier toward Main Street, I thought about Amy's warning. I wasn't sure how I was going to handle Dee or this whole situation. I mean, back home I wasn't exactly known as "the girl most likely to dig in her heels" when the going got rough. I was more like "the girl most likely to hike up her skirt and run." The most infamous example was when I broke off my engagement to Shane—at the altar. Yes, I was a runaway bride, but not because of my anxiety issue, because that actually started happening after I ran. It was because I realized a little late in the game that my impending marriage was a knee-jerk reaction to my parents' divorce.

But this was the new, do-over me. And if I could handle the likes of Gia and Amy, I could handle anyone.

Except for maybe Bertha Braun.

*   *   *

My thighs burned as I climbed the never-ending concrete staircase to the second floor of the Danger Cove Historical Museum. I resolved to find a gym with a StairMaster or do some hiking around the cove, but only after this whole mess at the salon was behind me, of course.