Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai: a Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 5) (3 page)

"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 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 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.

I let out a scream that would wake the dead. But it didn't wake Margaret Appleby.

Lucy ran from the break room, holding her cell phone. "What is it? Are the statues back?"

I gaped at her, astonished. How could she think that the statues would cause my bloodcurdling scream? But the truth was that if Tucker were to return Sadie and Pearl, I would scream blue murder—I mean,
bloody
murder. "Call 9-1-1! Margaret's unconscious."

Lucy's finger trembled as she tapped the numbers on her phone.

"Where were you? I looked everywhere."

She put the phone to her ear, and her teeth began to chatter. "I-in the p-pine trees out back. Sven called, and we got into a fight. I-I didn't want Margaret to hear."

I looked at Margaret's lifeless body and doubled over. The nausea was starting, and so was the dizziness. I was about to have a panic attack. But I couldn't let that happen, not now. I had to try to resuscitate Margaret. The problem was that I didn't have the faintest idea how. "Do you know CPR?"

Lucy shook her head and held up her hand to silence me. "W-we need a-an ambulance at 627 Fletcher Way," she stammered into the receiver. "Th-there's been a-an accident with an elderly client."

By now the room was beginning to tilt, so I did the 5-2-5 breathing exercise I'd been taught to ease my anxiety. I inhaled for five counts, held my breath for two, exhaled for five.

"Hang on." Lucy pulled the phone from her face. "What are Margaret's symptoms?"

"Can't you see that she's blue?" I yelled at the top of my air-filled lungs. "People who turn blue aren't breathing, right?"

So much for that calming technique.

Lucy listened to the 9-1-1 operator, and then her mouth contracted in horror. "Oh, no," she wailed. "I-I can't touch her. She looks…d-d-dead."

Okay, so Lucy wasn't good in a crisis either. It was time to pull myself together. After all, I was the owner of the salon, and a client's life depended on me. "What are they telling you to do?"

"Lay her flat and do mouth-to-mouth."

I slipped off my jean jacket. "Grab Margaret's feet and help me lower her to the floor."

Lucy laid her phone on the floor. Beads of sweat formed on her upper lip as we struggled to lift Margaret from the chair and place her on the floor.

"Talk about dead weight," I muttered. I realized the magnitude of what I'd said only after I saw Lucy's stricken face. "I didn't mean it that way," I soothed as I put my jacket beneath Margaret's head. "She's going to be fine."

Lucy swallowed. "What do we do now?"

"Whatever the 9-1-1 operator tells us," I replied with a calmness I didn't feel. "You listen to the instructions and repeat them to me. Understand?"

She nodded and put the phone to her ear. "She's on the floor. We're ready for the next step."

The salon bell buzzed as the door burst open.

"What?" Gia spread her arms wide. "So now we're making Sleeping Beauty a pallet on the floor?"

"Shh!" I hissed. "Lucy's talking to 9-1-1. Something's wrong with Margaret."

Since silence wasn't a skill Gia practiced, she scurried over in her stilettos, removed her supersized sunglasses, and squinted at Margaret. "Holy freakin' cannoli. If she were a guy, she could join the Blue Man Group."

I shot her a look of death. "Can you please cut the jokes and help us? This is serious."

"Who's joking?" Gia exclaimed. "The woman looks like Nanny Smurf. What'd she do? Drink her hair dye?"

"Of course not!" I snapped, although I had my doubts, given Margaret's blue hue. "She stopped breathing."

"Then why are yous just sittin' there?" she exclaimed in New Jerseyese. "Start chest compressions!"

I gasped. "
You
know CPR?"

Gia fell to her knees and ripped the cape from Margaret. "I worked as a barista in Atlantic City, remember?"

"So?"

"Do you know how many hipsters OD on artisanal coffee?" she asked as she began pumping Margaret's chest.

I made a mental note to monitor the coffee intake of my customers, especially those wearing hats, scarves, and skinny jeans. Then I remembered that soy chai latte. Was it possible that the small amount of caffeine in the tea had stopped Margaret's heart?

"CPR is underway," Lucy said into the receiver. Then, seemingly without thinking, she ended the call and clutched the phone to her chest.

As Gia alternated between pumps and breaths, I examined Margaret. She had a bluish tint to her lips and skin, like she'd been stained by blue ink—or blue dye. Even her yellowed fingernails had turned a pale shade of blue, which made my stomach lurch. The rinse Lucy had used was designed to take the yellow out of gray hair. So, was Gia right? Had Margaret somehow ingested the dye?

The sound of sirens and the ringing phone shook me from my thoughts. "Lucy, that's probably 9-1-1 calling you back."

She jumped and pressed Answer. "Hello?"

I watched her carefully. She was kind of fragile, and I was worried that this situation would be too much for her to handle.

"Yes, they've arrived," Lucy said, and then she hung up again.

"Lucy, what happened after Gia and I left?"

Her eyes grew to the size of saucers. "You don't think I—"

"I don't know what to think," I interrupted. "That's why I'm asking you for answers."

"But you were here when I put her under the dryer," she protested.

That was true. I'd watched Lucy mix and apply the dye, per routine. "Did anything happen after that? Like—I don't know—did Margaret ask you for something else to drink or get out of her chair?"

"Not as far as I know." Her eyes welled with tears. "But Sven called right after you left, so I was outside the whole time."

I stood up and walked to her station. "What did you do with the bowl you used to mix the dye?"

"It's in the sink in the break room." She wiped tears from her face. "I haven't washed it or the brush yet."

"Did you use all the dye on her hair?"

She nodded.

I looked again at Lucy's station. The shampoos, conditioners, hair sprays, gels, and other products were lined up neatly in front of the mirror, and the brushes, combs, and hairdryer were in their places. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, and yet something didn't seem right.

*   *   *

"Don't these people have TVs?" I muttered as I sized up the crowd near the police cars and emergency response vehicles parked in front of The Clip and Sip. Then I threw my head into my lap and wished that the plainclothes detective who had sequestered me had put me anywhere but the front porch. It was the second time in less than five hours that I'd had to endure the concerned and even hostile looks of the townsfolk, and I wasn't sure how much more I could take.

In fact, when Detective Lester Marshall had first introduced himself and led me outside, I seriously considered making a break for it—running as far as I could from the salon and never looking back. But with his dark hair and stocky frame, the detective looked pretty foreboding. Plus, that would have just made me look guilty, especially if Margaret was dead. And at this point I was certain that she was. The emergency medical technicians had been with her since five fifteen, and it was six o'clock. If she'd survived, they would have taken her to the hospital by now.

The salon door burst open, and I bolted upright as Detective Marshall strutted onto the porch with his chest jutting out like a rooster.

"I suppose you know that Margaret Appleby is deceased."

I bowed my head. "I'd gathered as much, yes."

He let out a long, slow breath. "You should count yourself lucky that you were with Detective Ohlsen when she stopped breathing," he began in a dismayed tone, "otherwise, you'd be a prime suspect."

I stared at him, stunned. I couldn't believe that he was talking about suspects so soon after Margaret's passing, and I was shocked by his disappointment that Detective Ohlsen had provided me with an alibi. But I don't know why I was surprised. From the minute Detective Marshall had arrived on the scene, it was clear that he'd been in a hurry to make an arrest.

"As the owner of the old LaSalle brothel," he continued, "you were the first person I was going to question."

I leapt to my feet as anger shot through my veins like rocket fuel. "For your information, this building hasn't been a brothel for over sixty years, and the LaSalle family sold it to my uncle twenty years ago."

"It doesn't matter who owns it. This place is bad news." He gave me a pointed look. "Your uncle found that out the hard way."

I gasped. How could such a clean-cut guy be such a dirty dog?

Detective Marshall pulled out his notepad. "Now, I just questioned your cousin in the break room. She said that there were clients in the salon at the same time as Margaret Appleby. Can you confirm their names?"

"Bertha Braun and Prudence Miller, but—"

"Did anyone else come in?" he interrupted. "Like the mailman…or a supplier? Because I'll need to question them too."

I shook my head and remembered how excited Bertha had been about her date and Prudence her sailing adventure. They'd come in to The Clip and Sip for a pleasant experience, so I felt awful that they were now involved in this morbid mess. "Why do you have to question them if Margaret died after they left?"

"It's routine procedure to talk to everyone who saw the victim in the hours before death."

"Victim?" I put my hands on my hips. "Aren't you jumping the gun here, Detective? Margaret was eighty years old. Maybe she died of natural causes or a heart condition or something."

"Not a chance," he replied as he straightened his suit coat. "The EMTs said that she was unusually cyanotic—"

"What?" I interrupted (I owed him one). "You can't possibly think we have cyanide in the salon!"

His lips curled. "Cyanosis is when the skin turns blue because of poor circulation or a lack of oxygen in the blood."

"Oh." I collapsed into the swing. "In that case, I agree with the EMTs."

"Sure, sure." He drew his hand to his chin. "But here's the funny part," he said in a voice devoid of humor. "She's been dead for at least an hour, and yet she's still blue."

I thought of the dye but immediately dismissed the notion. "Well, of course. Now that she's dead, she definitely has circulation problems and a lack of oxygen in the blood."

He snorted. "Dead bodies don't turn blue, and they don't
stay
blue either. They turn pink." He stepped closer to the swing. "So, what I want to know is why Margaret is still as blue as the ocean down at the harbor."

My body stiffened as my mind drifted back to the dye. "I'm afraid I can't help you with that."

"That's okay. Because I know someone who can." He looked through the window at Lucy, who was sobbing in a salon chair.

A protective instinct surged through me, and I pounced like a mamma bear. "You can't possibly think that sweet girl would do anything to harm Margaret!"

He shrugged. "She was the last person to see her alive, and from what I understand, she'd just applied blue dye on the victim's hair."

"Exactly," I snapped. "She put it on her
hair
, not in her teacup or anything."

He cocked his head. "Now, that's an interesting remark." A smug smile spread across his lips as he jotted a note on his pad. "Anything else you'd like to add?"

My hand flew to my head, which was again starting to spin—not from an oncoming panic attack but from the absurdity of the situation.
Did Detective Marshall really believe that Margaret had been murdered? Even worse, had I just incriminated Lucy in that poor woman's death?

Detective Marshall glanced toward the street, and I followed his gaze. One look told me everything I needed to know.

The Crime Scene Response Team had arrived.

*   *   *

As I contemplated the
3:02 a.m.
reflected on my bedroom ceiling, I regretted buying an alarm clock that projected the time in an eerie blue light. I never wanted to see that color again. Of course, that hadn't stopped me from binging on a half gallon of Tillamook Oregon Blueberry Patch ice cream after the CSR Team had left. But technically, that was purple.

Instead of unplugging the clock, I covered my face with a pillow, halfway hoping that I would suffocate.

Then I heard knocking, and I sat straight up.

The sound was coming from Uncle Vinnie's room next door.
Was it an intruder? Or worse, a killer?

Fear filled my chest as I crept out of bed and threw on my robe. I opened my door a crack and peered out. The second floor was laid out shotgun-style with three small bedrooms on either side of the hallway and a living room and bathroom at the back of the house. There was a third floor with a walk-in attic and a tower room that my uncle had never gotten around to renovating. Gia and I occupied the two second-floor bedrooms facing the street, so all I had to do was look across the hall to see that her lights were on.