Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai: a Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 5) (10 page)

I remembered Margaret mentioning my uncle's tattoo and his "tush," and I cringed on the inside. "I guess."

"Is there any word on the cause of death?"

"Nothing official yet." I hesitated and then added, "But at this point, everyone knows that it was foul play."

She grimaced. "That's one of the worst parts of working in a hospital—tragic cases like this."

The second she mentioned her job, I thought of the syringe wrapper. "Would you mind if I asked you about something I found outside the salon?"

She shook her bangs to one side. "Not at all. What is it?"

"A wrapper from a syringe."

Her head recoiled. "Can I see it?"

I glanced into my purse and then realized that I'd left the wrapper in my bedroom. "I don't have it with me. But what I need to know is whether there's some way to trace the person or the company that bought it."

She drew her index finger to her mouth and thought for a moment. "The manufacturer can trace the batch using the number on the back of the wrapper."

My chest swelled with hope. "Really?"

"Yeah." She crossed her arms. "They would only have general information, though, like the state where the syringe was sold."

"Oh," I said, deflated. "That wouldn't be of much use, I'm afraid. But thanks for your help."

"Absolutely. Please let me know if I can do anything else." She grinned. "I'll be here for a few more days doing some sight-seeing."

"Of course. And if I don't see you before you go, have a safe trip to Alaska." I pulled my purse strap over my shoulder and prepared to leave.

"Cassidi?"

I turned to face her. "Yes?"

"Take care." She gave a wry smile. "Not to be melodramatic, but the world is a dangerous place."

I nodded. "I'm sorry to say this, but Danger Cove has taught me that."

Her mouth formed a grim line, and then she stepped back onto her boat.

As I made my way up the dock, I reflected on Prudence's warning. It seemed that she too had a sense that the peril wasn't over.

A flash of lightening pierced the sky, followed by a crack of thunder.

I pulled my scarf around my face and shivered—this time for real.

Here comes that storm
.

*   *   *

The rain pounding on the roof of The Clip and Sip break room almost drowned out the cheesy hold music coming from my speakerphone.

I didn't want to do it, but I turned the volume all the way up. As the opening notes of "Crazy Train" played, I cocked a brow.
Ozzy Osborne? What kind of Muzak is this?

The back door creaked open, and a damp Gia shoved her way inside. She was holding so many shopping bags that she was visible only from her tangerine eye shadow up and from her tiger-striped heels down.

"It's three o'clock," I said, refusing to move a muscle to help her. "What happened to watching the salon while I ran errands this morning?"

"Don't worry," she grunted. "I forwarded the calls to my cell." She let go of her wet load without warning, and the sopping packages tumbled onto me, the table, and the floor.

"Would you please watch what you're doing?" I lifted a soggy bag from my phone. Fortunately, the soothing sounds of Ozzy were still wafting from the speaker.

Gia removed her black lace blazer to reveal a white T-shirt with the phrase "Italian swag" and smirked. "You're not actually listening to that white noise, are you?"

I sighed. "Believe me, I'm trying not to. But I've been on hold with the manufacturer of that syringe for over an hour."

"Are they willing to help you?" she asked, hanging her jacket to dry on the back of a chair.

"So far." I took a sip of my jasmine tea. "Where have you been, anyway?"

She opened the refrigerator and bent over to peer inside. "Fabric shopping."

I blinked. "You can sew?"

"How do you think I got this?" She pointed to the rear of her orange satin A-line midi skirt.

"It's nice," I admitted, examining her backside. "Your skirt, I mean. And thank you for taking off that Devils jersey."

She pulled a DRY rhubarb soda from the fridge and slammed the door. "Well, I didn't do it for you," she said, popping open the can with a white fingernail that said "Fendi." "I had to change my clothes and my nail polish after that garbage escapade."

My eyes narrowed to slits.

Luckily for Gia, the Muzak stopped.

I picked up the phone to make sure that the line hadn't dropped. "Hello?"

"Yes, Miss Conti," a modulated male voice replied. "Sorry about the wait, but I had to search our archives to locate the information you requested."

Gia and I exchanged a puzzled look.

"So," I began, "does that mean the syringe is old?"

"It's from 2005."

"But that doesn't make sense," I protested. "Why would the EMTs here in Danger Cove be using a syringe that's ten years old?"

"It's like I always say," Gia asserted. "Nothing ever happens around here."

I shot her a stare that shut her mouth.

The caller cleared his throat. "I can't speak to why ten-year-old syringes are in use in Danger Cove. But I can tell you that the syringes in the batch number you provided were originally sold to the Presley-Smith Memorial Hospitals in Jackson and Gulfport."

I was so stunned that I was speechless.

Gia slurped her soda like a Japanese diner slurping soup. "So, where are Jackson and Gulfport, anyway?"

"Uh," he began, "that would be Mississippi."

I put my head in my hand. We Contis and our kin weren't exactly worldly. "Is there anything else you can tell me about the syringes?"

"That's all the data I have on this particular batch number," he replied. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"That's all. Thank you," I said and then closed the call. "What do you make of that?"

The salon bell buzzed as the door opened.

"I don't know," Gia said, looking into the lobby from her seat. "What do
you
make of
that
?"

I stood up and entered the salon. Detective Ohlsen and Detective Marshall were standing beside the reception desk. "Good afternoon," I said, going to meet them. "Is everything okay?"

Gia came to my side. "This is about Lucy, isn't it?"

"Actually," Detective Ohlsen began, "this is about Dr. Seth Windom."

Somehow I knew that this was the moment I'd been dreading all day.

"Were you aware that he was reported missing yesterday?" he continued.

I gasped. "But I saw him last night!"

Gia elbowed me in the side à la Amy. "What she means is that he was at the Smugglers' Tavern for the Save the Lighthouse Committee fundraiser."

Detective Marshall curled his lips into a sneer. "We're aware of that, miss."

Gia, in turn, curled her fingers into fists. "Then maybe you should be out looking for him."

I took a step forward to prevent a fight with the fuzz, and Detective Ohlsen held up his hand.

"Now everyone stay calm," he said. "We found Dr. Windom."

"That's right," Detective Marshall said as he fixed a cold stare first on Gia and then on me. "And guess where he was?"

"At home?" I offered in a hopeful tone.

"Dead on the rocks below the Smugglers' Tavern," he said through clenched teeth.

Gia gripped my arm, and I covered my mouth.

"That's horrible," I whispered. "I…I can't believe it." I paused to let the terrible reality of another senseless death sink in. And then another terrible reality rained down on me like all of Gia's shopping bags. "But…why are you telling this to me?"

Detective Ohlsen licked his lips. "We found your name in Dr. Windom's patient calendar, and—"

"And," Detective Marshall interrupted, "he was as blue as the regulation shirt on Detective Ohlsen's back."

A blast of thunder shook the salon as though punctuating the shocking news of Dr. Windom's cerulean skin.

The slight movement of the building was all it took to knock my legs out from under me. I capsized onto the Rococo Revival lobby couch and felt like I was drowning in a sea of blue. It seemed like everywhere I turned I saw the dreadful color—on Margaret Appleby's body, the police uniforms, even the fabric I was sitting on. But why turn Dr. Windom blue too?

Detective Marshall bent over and stared into my eyes. "What happened?" he asked with feigned innocence. "Did that trick knee of yours give out again?"

I descended further into the sofa. Obviously, the police knew the reason for my appointment with Dr. Windom, and they were having none of it. I was officially in hot water, and if they were aware of the break-in too, I was sunk.

With a loud exhale, Detective Ohlsen pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lester," he began in a tired tone, "that's enough."

Emboldened by his reprimand, Gia jutted out her "Italian swag" and clenched and unclenched her fists like she was preparing for a prizefight. "Just what is Barney Fife here trying to imply about my cousin?"

Detective Marshall's eyes narrowed at the Mayberry mockery, and his pecs perked up like Gia's Chicken-Filleted chest. "That she's as phony as your fingernails, Snooki."

"You did
not
just call my nails fake," she fumed, forgetting all about me—and that
Jersey Shore
slight.

Detective Ohlsen's neck turned as crimson as my living room couch. "You two keep this childish behavior up, and I'll put you both in a time out."

A vein protruded from Detective Marshall's forehead, and he spun around and started pacing in the salon like a caged animal.

Gia, in turn, flopped onto the couch beside me, crossed her arms and legs, and began bouncing her tiger-striped foot back and forth like she wanted to kick some cops in the can.

"As for you, young lady," Detective Ohlsen continued, turning to me, "I'd like to know what you were doing at Dr. Windom's office yesterday, and don't tell me that you were there about your knee."

"If I were you, Cass, I'd lawyer up," Gia said from the side of her mouth. "These two have already made up their minds about you."

Detective Ohlsen put his hands on his hips and looked at the ceiling. "I should've listened to my mother and become a fisherman."

Gia held out her hand in protest, purposefully displaying her 100 percent authentic nails—unless you counted that coat of acrylic. "Please. Fishing is a nasty business. If you don't believe me, go take a whiff of that Dumpster out back."

He opened his mouth as if to speak and then seemed to change his mind. Instead, he gestured toward the window overlooking the porch. "Outside," he ordered in a low voice. "And make it snappy."

Gia stood up and stomped her Italian swag to the door, slamming it behind her.

Detective Marshall sneered as he returned to the lobby. "Good rid—"

The last word died on his lips as Detective Ohlsen pointed a finger close to his mouth.

Turning back to me, Detective Ohlsen straightened his collar. "Let me make this clear, Miss Conti. You are not a suspect at this time."

"But she—" Detective Marshall began.

Detective Ohlsen held up a finger again, this time with a wild-eyed look.

Detective Marshall's pumped pecs deflated like a popped inflatable bra insert.

"Now, Miss Conti," he said, running a finger through his hair, "you went to Dr. Windom's office looking for information regarding the death of Margaret Appleby. Is that correct?"

I nodded.

"And you were snooping into the affairs of one Bertha Braun. Am I right?"

I nodded again.

He pursed his lips and clasped his hands behind his back. "I don't think I need to tell you that interfering in a police investigation is a crime. Do I?"

I shook my head.

"And I also don't believe I need to tell you that I will charge you with said crime if I catch you doing anymore meddling. True?"

I started to shake my head but then nodded.

He gave me a pointed look. "I'm glad to see that we're on the same page."

"Yessir, Detective, sir," I croaked. "Me too."

"All right, then," he said as he opened the door. "I'm going to have a word with your cousin in case she should get the urge to do some sleuthing herself." He squinted as though searching my face for signs of Gia's involvement.

I held my breath and focused on staying expressionless, which was no small feat with a six-foot-four, two-hundred-plus-pound cop staring me down.

"We'll be in touch," he announced after what seemed like an hour and exited the salon.

Detective Marshall moved to leave but stopped at the threshold. With a penetrating gaze, he pointed two fingers at his eyes and then at mine. Next, he reinflated his chest, balled his fists, and shouldered his way out of the salon, no doubt with the intent of trying to subdue Gia.

I leaned forward, gasping for air. If he'd lingered much longer I would've turned blue—but preferably purple. Either way, I was relieved that Detective Ohlsen didn't mention the incident at Margaret's house. Because if he had, I would've sung like Tweety Bird, and I would've taken that bad ol' putty tat, Sylvester, a.k.a. Gia, down with me.

What I wanted to know was whether someone had ratted me out to Detective Ohlsen. If they had, the most likely candidate was Dr. Windom's receptionist because she was the one who scheduled his appointments. Although Donna Bocca was certainly a possibility since her name was on the doctor's calendar too. Of course, Bertha also had a reason to turn me in to the police, but I knew it wasn't her. If it had been, she would have told them about the breaking and entering the minute Clyde reported it to her so that she could have me locked up and out of her hair for good.

The real question was, who killed Dr. Windom? To my mind, everything pointed to Bertha. She was with him the night he died, and they were near where his body was found. What I didn't understand was why she would want to kill him when he was trying to help her. Was she getting back at him for firing her in the first place, or was something more sinister going on between them? And what was Clyde's role in all of this?

There was only one thing I knew for certain. Donna knew that I suspected Bertha, thanks to Dr. Windom. So as soon as the police called Donna in for questioning, if they hadn't already, I was a marked woman—as in blue at the bottom of a cliff.

*   *   *

Gia hung up the salon phone and switched on the pink neon
Closed
sign. "I have awesome news."

"Good, because I could use some," I said as I attached a
Sale
sticker to a bottle of volumizing shampoo on the lobby product display case.

"I just booked a Sweet Sixteen. It's makeup only, but it's for the birthday girl and four of her friends." She gave a festive fist pump.

I reached for a jar of reconstructing conditioner. "What day are they coming?"

Her fist flopped. "Actually," she hedged, "it's at the client's house. She's too afraid to come to the salon."

I dropped the jar onto the shelf. "Well,
that
news just got a lot less awesome."

"You don't have a problem with it, do you?" She clasped her hands in front of her face in a pleading gesture. "Because this is a perfect opportunity to promote my makeup line."

I sighed. "I guess not, but please remember that this is a Sweet Sixteen, not a Sexy Sixteen. I don't want parents coming after me because you vamped those girls out in smoky eyes, false eyelashes, and glitter lip kits."

Gia did a combined eye roll and hair-flip. "You're such a buzz kill."

"No," I said, pointing a tube of intensive shine treatment at her, "I'm a business owner, and I'm already in tons of trouble."

"I'll say," she agreed, gazing out the front window. "Because Amy's on her way up the sidewalk, and the soles of her Hush Puppies are smoking."

Before I had time to look, the salon door burst open.

"Did-you-hear-about-Dr.-Windom?" Amy gushed in a single breath.

"The police have already informed us," I said, trying to remain calm.

"Well," she breathed, propping herself up with her hands on her highs, "you'll never guess who I saw in the back of a squad car when I was leaving work just now."

"Oh God, who?" I exclaimed, drawing my hands to my mouth.
So much for keeping my cool
.

"Bertha Braun," she replied, her eyes as big around as a sixteen-ounce tub of hydrating hair masque.

Gia took a seat on the couch. "I hate to say this, Cass, but it's probably because of you."

Amy's eyes widened to the size of the thirty-two-ounce tub of that masque. "You turned Bulldog in to the coppers?"

"Not on your life," I said with a shiver.

She held her hands up in surrender. "Don't include me in this. It's your life, not mine."

"Gee," I said, "thanks for the show of support."

Amy took a seat behind the reception desk and kicked up her Hush Puppies. "So, what do you think is going on with this blue business?"

"I don't know," I replied, marking a container of Blue Magic Hair Dress as
Free.
"But I'm afraid that Bertha is setting up Lucy."

Amy grabbed a feather pen from the desk and started fanning herself. "What about Clyde?"

"He's got to be involved in this somehow," Gia said. "Why else would he have been at Margaret's house?"

"Maybe Bertha's the brain, and he's the
braun
." Amy snorted and slapped her knee. "Get it? 'Brawn' with a
u
?"

"Speaking of brains," Gia began, "any more jokes like that, and I'll brain
you
."

Amy was so surprised that you could have knocked her over with a feather pen.

"I'm not sure what Clyde's role in all this is," I said, placing a sticker on a packet of three-minute moisturizing mud, "but I'm hoping to figure that out when I have breakfast with Zac tomorrow."

"Breakfast with Zac," Amy repeated in a dreamy voice. "How I'd like to take a bite of his cinnabun."

Gia grimaced. "It's Cinna
bon
."

Amy rested her head on the back of her chair. "You say
kartòffel
, I say
kàrtoffel
."

"Huh?" Gia and I said at the same time.

"It's German for 'potato.'" Amy sat up and looked at her watch. "And since we're talking about grub, it's six thirty. Who's up for seafood?"

Gia wrinkled her lips. "I've had enough fish for one day."

I shot Gia a sideways glance. "After hearing about Dr. Windom, I've lost my appetite. And I don't feel like doing anything anyway."

Amy pointed the pen from Gia to me. "You two need to overcome your inner
schweinehundes
."

"I give up," Gia said in a bored tone. "What's a shvinehoond?"

"A pig-dog," Amy replied.

Gia scrunched up her face. "Okay, sure, I eat
prosciut
, but nobody said anything about eating no
dog
."

Amy cocked her head from one side to the other like a puppy trying to understand its owner.

"She meant
prosciutto
," I clarified as I knelt to mark down the clarifiers. "You know, cured Italian ham?"

She stared at me, slack jawed. "I just can't follow you guys sometimes."

Gia and I didn't even bother to exchange a look.

"But anyway," Amy continued, "
schweinehund
is the German equivalent of 'couch potato.' So, you need to resist the urge to do nothing. It
is
Saturday night, after all."

"I can't believe I'm going to say this," Gia said, pressing her fingers to her temples. "But in her own weird, wigged out way, Amy's right. We need to get out of this salon."

Even I had to admit that a change of scenery was in order. "All right. But I wish this town had some Tex Mex."

"Or some friggin' Mediterranean food," Gia added.

I rose to my feet and saw a slender figure climbing the porch steps. "Look who's here!"

The door opened, and Lucy stepped inside.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," I said, although in truth I was taken aback by her appearance. She looked like she'd aged ten years in the past twenty-fours hours. "We're on our way out for a bite to eat. Why don't you come with us?"

She shook her head, dislodging a lock of hair from her faded yellow scrunchie. "After six hours of questioning, I'm just not up for it."

"I know something that might change your mind," I said. "Amy, tell her what you told us."