Authors: Traci Andrighetti,Elizabeth Ashby
Amy sucked in her breath and covered her mouth with her hand. "You're jealous!"
"Don't be ridiculous," I said with what I hoped looked like a nonchalant flip of my hair.
Her grin had practically turned into a leer. "You like him."
"No, I don't," I said, tugging at the neck of my gray sweater. It was getting really hot in here.
"Then prove it by going to talk to him about Clyde."
"I will. I will." I grabbed my tote bag. "But I can't do it right now."
Amy smiled. "Cassidi and Zac sittin' in a tree—"
"Would you stop that?" I interrupted as I picked up the Bible. "The salon reopens in fifteen minutes, so I have to go check on Gia and Lucy before I can go down to the pier."
"K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Fir—" A note died in Amy's throat as I held the Good Book in the air.
"You sing another word," I began, "and you eat this Bible."
She mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.
I shoved the book into my bag and headed for the door. I felt a twinge of guilt for threatening Amy with the Bible—on a couple of levels. But honestly, sometimes I didn't know which was harder on my sanity—a crazy cousin or a loopy librarian.
I did know one thing, though. I did
not
like Zac Taylor. Not the slightest bit.
* * *
I entered the salon through the back door and deposited my bag on the break room table. It was only nine fifteen, but thanks to last night's break-in and subsequent Bible study, I was already in dire need of a catnap. Uh, scratch that—caffeine. I fired up the espresso machine that we had yet to use on a single client and prepared to make myself a twelve-thousand-dollar cup of coffee.
Gia entered in a New Jersey Devils hockey jersey and high-heel high tops. "Is Lucy with you?"
"Nope." I poured coffee beans into the grinder. "Maybe she's with your pants?"
She smirked. "This jersey is longer than most of the skirts I wear."
"Except that it's not a skirt." I turned on the grinder to underscore my displeasure. I felt bad about being snippy with Gia, but even though we didn't have any business, I still needed for her to dress as though we did. "Have you tried calling Lucy?"
"Yeah," she replied as she adjusted her red hair-band bow. "But she didn't answer."
"She's probably just running late." I filled the portafilter with the ground coffee and pressed the brew button. "If she doesn't show up in the next twenty minutes, I'll call her. I have to run an errand at the pier, so I need her to relieve me for an hour or so."
Gia took a seat at the table. "I seriously doubt that we'll need either one of you. It's not like we have anything on the schedule." She paused. "But I did book an appointment for next Saturday."
"Really?" I reached into the cabinet for an espresso cup.
She broke into an ear-to-ear grin. "It's a wedding party—six girls, the mother, and the mother-in-law."
"Get out!" I was so psyched that I almost dropped the mini mug. "Why would they call us, though? I mean, not that we're not good enough, but—"
"But we did just kill a client," she said with a curt nod. "Apparently, it was your ad in the paper. The bride's mom said that the wedding is way over budget, and when she figured out how much money they'd save by getting free manicures here, she decided that it was worth the risk to their lives and canceled an appointment she'd made at a swanky salon in Seattle."
I was so excited that I didn't care whether Gia was being sarcastic or sincere. "Given everything Lucy's going through, I'll let her work it solo. Even with the free manicures, I'll still make a good percentage off all those updos."
"Not just that. They want makeup too."
My enthusiasm ebbed. If this bride had been planning to go to a high-end Seattle salon, I was positive that she didn't want to look like Gia's Jersey-inspired idea of a bride. "Did the mother happen to mention her daughter's color scheme?"
She puckered her red-and-black lacquered lips in disgust. "Pink and baby blue. I mean, they really need to throw in some adult colors like red and purple—otherwise this shindig's gonna look like a fancy friggin' baby shower."
As I removed my cup from the espresso machine, I made a mental note to be on hand for the appointment. I wanted to make sure that the bride didn't leave looking like Lily Munster.
Gia snapped her fingers. "I almost forgot. Before the bride's mom called, I took a call from some guy who said he was one of Vinnie's old clients."
I sat across from her at the table. "What did he want?"
"A 'Bobby Darin.' And when I said that I wasn't familiar with that hairstyle, he asked for Vinnie."
"I got the same request a month or so ago," I said, spooning a third of the sugar bowl into my espresso. "It must have been a popular look around here."
"I doubt it. I googled Bobby Darin and found out that he was a 1950's pop singer who went bald when he was like twenty and wore a toupee that looked like a poor man's pompadour. Now, I'm the first one to say that Danger Cove is hopelessly out of style compared to Jersey, but even I have to admit that it's not
that
far behind the times."
I took a quick sip of coffee to hide the smirk on my face.
"The weird thing was," Gia continued, "when I told the guy that Vinnie had passed, he hung up."
"You know, the same thing happened to me. I just assumed that the caller hadn't heard about his death."
She shrugged as the phone began to ring. "I'll get it," she said, heading into the salon. "Maybe it's Lucy."
As I opened my laptop to check my e-mail, I thought back to my conversation with Detective Ohlsen about Uncle Vinnie's former receptionist and those "strange calls" she reported. I wondered whether the callers were saying something unusual to her or whether they were asking for my uncle and then hanging up if he wasn't available. If it was the latter, it could have had something to do with his little black book, especially if Gia was right about him being a bookie. I decided that it was time to bring the book to the police station and let the authorities figure it out.
The second I entered my Gmail account I saw the message that I'd been waiting for—the results of my accounting quiz. I hesitated before opening the e-mail. I'd dropped out of Texas State University when I'd ended up on scholastic probation at the end of my freshman year. Then I'd gone back and dropped out again after the student loans had started piling up. When Uncle Vinnie left me the money, I'd gotten out of debt and back into college. But the online program I'd enrolled in didn't count a lot of my hours from Texas State, so I was still a junior after six years of college. And in my current financial state, I couldn't see spending any more money on school if I wasn't making progress toward the degree. So, my entire college career came down to this moment.
I took a deep breath and clicked the message. The number
50
jumped from the screen. Without batting an eye, I shot the remainder of my espresso as I processed the fact that I'd failed the course. I sat back and said, "I wonder what the future has in store for me now?"
"Funny you should ask," Gia replied from the doorway.
I stared at her in silence. Clearly, I'd spoken too soon.
"That was Lucy's mom," she said, crossing her arms. "She wanted to let us know that Lucy won't be coming in today because the police brought her back to the station an hour ago for more questioning."
I gripped my empty cup, wishing I had another shot of espresso for the bad news that was sure to follow. "Why? Did they find something?"
"The medical examiner did—a puncture wound on Margaret's neck."
My blood ran cold. "Like, from a needle?"
She nodded. "I'll bet that no one noticed it before because it was hidden by her sagging skin." She swallowed and clutched at her throat. "You know what this means, don't you?"
I did, indeed, and it wasn't what Gia was thinking. It meant that the syringe wrapper I'd found in the flower garden might not have belonged to the EMTs after all. It could have come straight from the murderous hands of the killer.
Ignoring Gia's question, I ran to the garbage can by the back door and flipped the lid. It was empty. I spun around to face my cousin. "What did you do with the trash?"
She looked at me like I'd flipped
my
lid. "I took it out."
I yanked open the door. "One of these days I'm going to take
you
out."
"What did I do?" she exclaimed, jogging behind me as I marched across the parking lot toward the Dumpster. "You're always harping on me to throw out the garbage."
"And the first time you actually did it is the one time I wish you hadn't." I was so upset that I was clenching and unclenching my fists as I walked, but I didn't really blame Gia. I was mad at myself for pitching a potential clue and even madder at the sanitation department for making me share a commercial waste bin with Filippo "Filly" Filipuzzi, the fishmonger next door.
"Look," Gia began after a rare moment of silence, "when I asked you if you knew what the needle mark meant, I was trying to imply that the cops were going to accuse Lucy of injecting Margaret. I didn't mean to suggest that our situation was so desperate that we had to start Dumpster diving."
"That's not what I'm doing," I huffed as we arrived at the bin. "Well, okay, it is. But it's because I threw out a syringe wrapper that might lead us to the killer."
Gia wobbled on her heels. "Whoa. Dude."
"You can say that again," I muttered—not because I'd thrown the wrapper away, but because the stink of rotting fish was assailing my nostrils like a fillet knife.
She took several steps back. "What are you going to do?"
"What do you think?" I kicked off my Candies and started rolling up my pant legs.
She fluttered her red eyelashes. "You're not really going inside that fermented fish pot, are you?"
"Not if you want to do it for me," I replied as I climbed onto the side rail of the bin.
She held up her hands in a stopping motion. "We New Jersey Italians try to avoid 'swimming with the fishes,' especially dead, decomposing ones. Besides, you were the first one who tossed that wrapper."
"That's what I thought you'd say—more or less." I threw my legs over the side of the bin and surveyed the rancid refuse. Our white kitchen bag stood out like a beacon in a foreboding sea of Filly's black, industrial-sized ones.
Holding the side of the bin for support, I eased myself onto the mound of debris. The air was so putrid that I lurched forward and gagged. But I couldn't make any more sudden movements, because if I fell face first into this fowl fish stew, I was going to yack.
Balancing as best I could, I reached for the bag and began picking through its contents—a shampoo bottle, a wad of paper towels, enough hair to make a wig.
"How does it smell in there?" Gia called in a tone evocative of one of the few German words I knew—
schadenfreude
, or pleasure derived from the misfortune of others.
"As sweet as Fredericksburg peach pie," I replied in a honeyed voice.
"You don't have to be sarcastic."
"Don't I?" I pulled an empty bottle from the bag. When I realized that it was the barbeque sauce my mother had sent me from The Salt Lick in Driftwood, Texas, I knew why Gia had taken out the trash.
To get even for this barbeque betrayal, I tossed the bottle against the side of the bin to startle her, and the jerking motion caused the garbage to shift. I lost my balance and stepped backward. My foot sunk deep into a black bag, and fish juice oozed from the opening and puddled around my ankle. I whimpered and looked down in horror.
A dead salmon slid from the bag and stared up at me as if to say, "It's a dog's life, ain't it?"
I dry heaved and swallowed hard.
Gia knocked on the side of the Dumpster. "What's going on in there?"
I gritted my teeth. "What do you think?"
"Well, hurry up, will ya? People in this town have a low-enough opinion of us already. If they see you digging through the Dumpster, we'll never live it down."
She had a point, albeit an incredibly aggravating one. Reluctantly, I resumed my search. I rummaged around in the bag and spotted the wrapper. I started to breathe a sigh of relief, but then I thought better of it. "I found it!"
"Awesome. Now will you come out of there?"
"Gladly." I pulled the wrapper from the bag and discovered that it was stuck to a small pad of paper. Detaching the adhesive portion of the wrapper from the pad, I happened to catch sight of the name and address at the top of the pad. I dry heaved again.
This time, it wasn't the stench of the fish that made me sick—it was the smell of a setup.
"We've got big trouble," I said as I leapt from the bin.
Gia shot me a bored look and ran her fingers through her hair like a Kardashian. "Is this supposed to be news to me or something?"
I held up the pad of paper.
Her face went pale beneath her bronzer. "How did one of Dr. Windom's prescription pads get in our garbage?"
I bit my bottom lip. "It was planted there by the same person who left the syringe wrapper—the killer."
* * *
By late morning, the sun had succumbed to a squadron of black clouds, and yet the atmosphere in the cove was unusually still.
As I walked past the pier toward the Pirate's Hook Marine Services, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was the proverbial calm before the storm—that something awful was looming on the horizon in the wake of the discovery of Dr. Windom's prescription pad. Nor could I shake the smell of that spoiled fish, not even after a long, hot shower, a generous application of orange ginger body mist, and a few sips of Gia's Meyer lemon vodka—for good measure.
When I reached the boat docks in the harbor, a roar from across the bay shattered the quiet.
I scanned the water and spotted a group of sea lions gathered on a flat area of rock near the mouth of the cove. Most of them were resting, but two males were mock sparring and pushing each other with their chests.
"They're awesome, aren't they?" Zac asked.
I stiffened when I realized that he was behind me. I turned and found him standing in front of the service entrance of the Pirate's Hook Marine Services, wiping his hands on a rag. Before I could stop them, my treacherous eyes followed the trail of motor oil down his tight T-shirt and onto his equally tight jeans.
He looked down at his clothes. "Pretty filthy, huh? I'm trying to help one of the guys fix a motor."
My face grew as hot as his smokin' body, and I said the first thing that came to mind. "They
are
awesome." And then, in case he thought that I was talking about his well-developed pecs, I added, "The sea lions, I mean."
He grinned and stuffed the rag into his back pocket. "Believe it or not, the young ones like to body surf."
I laughed. "Really? I would
love
to see that."
"If you come down here often enough you'll see them diving off that rock to catch a wave." He pointed in the direction of the sea lions. "Speaking of the rock, do you see that hook-shaped portion that juts out from where they're laying?"
My eyes lingered on the muscles of his outstretched arm. I shook my head to stop them, and then I nodded in answer to his question.
"It's called Pirate's Hook, because after Bart Coffyn stole that treasure from Sir Francis Drake, they hung him from there in a cage and left him to die."
I wrinkled my lips. "Why would your boss name his business after something so morbid?"
"You mean, my dad," he said. "He started the Pirate's Hook Marine Services as a boat repair shop when he graduated from MIT in 1983. Later on, he branched out into boat sales. And like I told you, he was obsessed with that treasure. In fact, he was convinced that the hook holds the secret to finding it."
My gut told me not to ask, but I didn't always listen to my stomach—unless it wanted food. "Did your father ever go looking for the treasure?"
"Lots of times." He put his hands on his hips and stared out to sea. "But then he died in a car accident when I was in high school, and my mom had to sell the business to the current owner, Clark Graham."
I looked down. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," he said with conviction. "It'll belong to my family again one day. I'll see to that."
I fell silent as I thought about how hard it must have been for him and his mother to lose the man they loved and the company that he held so dear. It made my situation with The Clip and Sip seem minor in comparison.
A small smile formed around the corners of Zac's lips, and he looked at me from beneath his long eyelashes. "I didn't see you at the Smugglers' Tavern last night."
The sympathy that I'd felt moments before turned to annoyance. I mean, not only had I been at the tavern, but I'd walked right past him on my way in and out of the joint. Was I really that unnoticeable? "That's funny," I began dryly, "because I saw you."
His eyes opened wide. "How come you didn't say hi?"
I smirked. "Because it looked like you already had plenty of women saying hi to you."
He furrowed his brow, and then his eyes lit up. "Oh, you mean Grace, Helen, and Jackie," he said as though their names would make a difference to me. "They're—"
"Listen," I interrupted in a tone so cold that I practically gave myself frostbite, "I didn't come here to talk about your personal life." Surprised by my own reaction, I adjusted my attitude and added, "I'd like to ask you something that concerns the salon, if possible."
A muscle worked in his jaw, and he shoved his hands into his front pockets. "Sure. Shoot."
I opened my mouth to reply as a door slammed behind me.
"Hey, Zac," a male voice called, "I found that part in the warehouse."
Zac glanced toward the service center. "Be right there, Clyde."
Clyde!
A chill shot down my spine. On the off chance that he'd seen me from behind when I was leaving Margaret's house, I needed to leave before he saw my front. "Um, I should let you get back to work. Is there any way I could talk to you tonight? It's important."
"Sorry," he said. "I have plans."
Probably a date with Grace, Helen, or Jackie
, I thought.
Or, since they traveled in a pack, maybe with all three
.
"How about breakfast tomorrow?" he continued. "Or, if you'd rather sleep in, we could have brunch."
Sleep. Now there was a tempting thought. But I had to get information about Clyde, and the sooner the better. "Breakfast would be great."
He nodded. "I'll pick you up at eight then."
"Sounds good." I would have preferred to meet him somewhere, but I didn't have time to argue. I had to get going before Clyde got a good look at me. Feigning a shiver of cold, I flashed a wan smile at Zac before pulling my scarf around my face. Then I turned and headed back toward the pier.
Several of the sea lions began barking as I walked away. I knew it was just my imagination, but it surely seemed like they were chasing me off—telling me to leave their friend Zac alone. And now that I thought about it, I had been kind of rude to him about the bleached blondes. It really wasn't any of my business who—or how many—he dated. After all, he was a decent enough guy. He was always willing to help out despite the fact that he'd been through a lot. Plus, anyone who loved animals was a good person, in my book.
"Cassidi!" a female voice called.
Glancing in the direction of the boat docks, I recognized Prudence Miller, the woman who was planning to sail to Alaska. She was waving at me from the bow of a sailboat.
I returned the gesture and made my way down the dock. "Hey, Prudence," I said as I arrived at the sleek vessel. "This is a beautiful boat."
She beamed and gave an affectionate pat to the mast. "This baby's a Catalina C30. I call her
The Sea Hag
." She gave a sheepish smile. "I was a huge fan of the old
Popeye
cartoons when I was little."
I giggled. "I was all about
The Powerpuff Girls
, especially Blossom because she was pink."
"Well, I'm probably a decade older than you, so I'm guessing that was after my time. But enough about me." She made a sweeping motion toward the boat. "Would you like to come aboard and see the cabin?"
I was tempted, but I needed to check on Gia and find out whether there was any news about Lucy. "Can I take a rain check? I have to get back to The Clip and Sip."
"Actually," she began, slipping her hands into the back pockets of her khakis, "I just called you over because I wanted to tell you how sorry I was to hear about what happened to that nice woman, Margaret Appleby."
I bowed my head. "Me too. I can't tell you how bad it feels knowing that she lost her life in my place of business. I also feel bad because the police are going to call you and the other clients in for questioning."
"I've already talked to them. It was no big deal." Prudence stepped onto the dock and put her hand on my back. "I want you to know that there is nothing you could have done to prevent what happened. Besides," she began, her face brightening, "from the way she talked at the salon the other day, she had a full life."