Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai: a Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 5) (6 page)

"Well, I heard that Bertha Braun used to work for you and that Margaret and Bertha were in a pretty nasty feud."

"Is that right," he said in a distracted tone.

"Yeah. Apparently, Bertha threatened her." I paused for effect. "More than once."

He put his pen down and removed his glasses. "If I didn't know better, young lady, I'd say you were trying to pump me for information."

I was so embarrassed that I stopped breathing.

Dr. Windom rose to his feet and tucked his glasses inside the pocket of his lab coat. "You'll have to go back into the waiting room, so you'll need to change into your street clothes. A nurse will call you for the X-ray."

"Thanks," I said, still half holding my breath.

He stared at me for a moment and then left the room.

I let out a long exhale. If he'd waited any longer, I would have turned as blue as Margaret. Well, not
that
blue. But clearly, I wasn't going to get any more information from Dr. Windom. I just hoped that the X-ray tech would be more forthcoming.

I hopped from the examining table and pulled on my clothes. When I returned to the lobby, I froze. There was only one available seat, and it was right next to that gossip Donna Bocca. I grabbed a magazine and held it up as though I were reading it as I sat down.

"Look who's trying not to show her face around town," Donna needled. "Tell me—are you here because you hurt yourself watching Zac Taylor manhandle those sex statues? Or did it happen when you doused Margaret Appleby with a fatal dose of hair dye?"

I kept my gaze glued to the magazine and said nothing.

"Just can't tear yourself away from
Orthopedics Today
, can you?"

I dropped the magazine and turned to face her. I wanted to dislike Donna, but I couldn't. She reminded me of a cross between Pumbaa from
The Lion King
and my Italian great-aunts on my father's side—a wide nose, a stubby body, and a mustache. "For your information, I never touched Margaret."

"Then it had to be one of your hairdressers. Which one was it? That flighty O'Connell girl? Or that crazy cousin of yours?"

I threw the magazine onto the table. "That's none of your business. Besides, Margaret could've died of natural causes, you know."

Donna smirked, causing her mustache to fluff. "Not when she turned as blue as a bottle of NyQuil, she didn't."

I sighed. The blue analogies were getting blooming annoying. "Look, even if someone did do something to harm Margaret, why do you think that it was one of us? Her stylist wasn't with her every second, and there were other people in the salon that day."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up like a slot machine that had just hit the jackpot, and she scooted her chair closer to mine. "Like who, for instance?"

I leaned back. Donna smelled like Pumbaa and my paternal aunts too—kind of a cross between musk and garlic. "I couldn't tell you that even if I wanted to." I gave her a pointed look and added, "And as I'm sure you already know, the police are investigating what happened. So, let them do their job, okay?"

"Well," Donna exclaimed, her oversized nostrils flaring. She crossed her arms and turned away.

The main door to the office opened, and a haggard-looking, fifty-something male with his arm in a sling entered and approached the reception desk. He handed a stack of paperwork to the middle-aged brunette behind the glass partition. "I'm Clyde Willard," he said in a gravelly voice. "I have a two o'clock appointment."

"This is a workers' compensation case, right?" she asked as she flipped through the papers.

"Yeah, a couple of us was in an accident out at the Pirate's Hook Marine Services," he replied in a thick southern accent. "A boat we was workin' on came off its stilts, and I fell and busted up my arm."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Willard," the receptionist replied.

I thought about Zac and wondered whether he'd been injured too. Not that it mattered to me on a personal level, of course. It's just that I hated to see anyone get hurt.

The receptionist handed Clyde a clipboard. "Fill this out, and a nurse will call you back in a few minutes."

He took the clipboard with his free hand. "Is Bertha around?"

My ears pricked up. From the sound of things, Bulldog knew every man in town.

"She hasn't worked here for over a year."

He nodded and took a vacated seat.

Donna leaned toward me. "It's a good thing for us that Bertha's gone."

I looked at her, confused. Apparently, her outrage of moments before was overcome by her need to gossip. "What do you mean?"

She looked from side to side to make sure that no one was listening. "Bertha worked for Dr. Windom for years. She did everything from suture patients after surgery to prescribing their pain meds."

"But she's retired now, right?"

Donna shot me a knowing look and clasped her hands around her crossed leg. "Yes, but she was forced into retirement." She gave a smug smile. "As in, f-i-r-e-d."

"Fired?" I straightened in my seat. "How do you know that?"

She held her nose high. "I'd rather not name names, because I'm not one to gossip, you know. But I'm friends with Dr. Windom's previous receptionist, and she was here when he let Bertha go." She glanced around the room and leaned in. "A former patient had filed a complaint against Bertha."

"Do you know why?" I whispered.

She leaned back and put a hand on her hip. "Does the pope know he's Catholic?" Then she shielded her mouth with her hand. "After a routine surgery, Bertha prescribed the pain reliever Darvocet to the patient, knowing full well that she was violently allergic to it. The woman got so sick," she began, her eyes opening wide, "
it was coming out both ends
."

I was shocked, not to mention disgusted. I mean, I could have done without that last detail. "Did the woman press charges?"

Donna shook her head. "She couldn't."

"Why not? Was there no evidence?"

"That, and…" Her voice trailed off, and she gave a wry smile as she savored the suspense she was creating. "…she died."

I gasped and put my hand to my chest. "From the Darvocet?"

"That would've made for a much better story, wouldn't it?" She gave a disappointed sigh. "But she died from complications following the surgery. Dr. Windom reported the Darvocet incident to the police, though. He knew that the allergy had been documented in the patient's file and that Bertha must've deleted it."

"Maybe it was deleted by accident," I suggested. "If you press the wrong computer key, you can lose an entire document."

"Who said anything about computers?" Donna asked. "According to my friend, Dr. Windom only made the switch to electronic medical records after the incident with Bertha. So the patient's file was the old-school paper version, and someone had clearly used Wite-Out to delete Darvocet from her list of drug allergies."

My eyes widened in surprise.

"Unfortunately," she continued, "nothing ever came of it. That sort of thing is hard to prove."

"Did anyone ever find out why Bertha did it?"

"This is where it gets good," Donna replied, giving my arm a shove. "It was the old green-eyed monster. Bertha had found out that the woman was flirting with a man she'd been seeing."

My heart started pounding so hard that I could barely breathe. All I could spit out was, "Who?"

She shrugged. "Some older gentleman who passed away a few years back. But does it matter?"

No, it didn't. Because I already knew everything I needed to know.

Bertha Braun had worked in healthcare for a long time, so she would have known about the toxicity of Barbicide. More importantly, she had a history of poisoning her romantic rivals.

Gia skidded the Ferrari to a stop in front of Amy's gingerbread-style house at five o'clock on the dot and laid on the horn. "Looks like something straight out of friggin' 'Hansel and Gretel.'"

"I know," I said, regretting my decision to cave in to Gia's request to drive. "Every time I come here, I halfway expect a witch to come out."

"Yeah. Or Amy. Why's she coming to this shindig, anyway?"

"The Save the Lighthouse Committee required businesses to buy an entire table for the fundraiser, so she's filling one of our extra seats."

"Gotcha." Gia honked again and then looked through the windshield at the sky. "I still can't believe how early it gets dark here."

"Well, it's a good thing that the streetlight is reflecting off your glitter lip appliqués—otherwise we wouldn't be able to see."

"Silver is understated," she protested in a defensive tone. "I mean, it's not like I'm wearing red or anything."

"Yeah, because red lips are so shocking," I said. "But thank you for taking your pirate eye patch off to drive."

"Sure. But I'm putting it back on when we get to the Smugglers' Tavern. It goes with the theme."

There was a knock on the passenger window.

I jumped when I saw Amy, not because
she'd
startled me but because the puffy sleeves on her homemade yellow prom dress had. As I got out of the car, she whistled like a sailor on shore leave.

"You look like a modern-day Princess Aurora in that pink cocktail dress."

"Thanks, Amy." I searched for an appropriate compliment and came up with, "And you look like the original Snow White."

She giggled like a tickled tween and climbed into the tiny backseat, revealing what looked like white pilgrim shoes.

Or maybe Hester Prynne
. I got back into the Ferrari and slammed the door. "Can you drive a little slower now that we have a guest?"

Amy leaned in from the backseat. "Would you? Anything over thirty miles per hour makes me carsick."

"Fine," Gia grumbled as she pulled away from the curb at a crawl. "But next time, you two princesses are taking a horse and carriage."

I looked at Amy through the rearview mirror. "Did you find out anything about Barbicide?"

"Barbicide?" Gia echoed. "Why would you ask her about that?"

"Actually," Amy began, "I'd like to know that too."

"I might as well tell you both." I looked from Gia to Amy. "But what I'm about to say doesn't leave this car, okay?"

"Pinky swear," Gia said, holding out the little finger on her right hand.

We hooked pinkies, and then I held out my finger to Amy.

Her brows knit in confusion, and she raised three fingers. "Scout's honor."

"All right. Gia, today when you brought me the tea at Lucy's station, you put the cup in front of the Barbicide jar. That's when I noticed that the Barbicide level was below the tops of the combs. But they should have been submerged because I'd just topped off all the jars that morning."

"So?" She hooked a left onto Craggy Hill Road where the Smugglers' Tavern was located.

"So, I think Bertha Braun gave Margaret a fatal dose of Barbicide, not blue hair dye."

Gia swerved onto the shoulder, and Amy screamed, wrapping her arms around me from behind.

I peeled Amy off of me and glared at Gia as she eased the Ferrari back onto the road. "You have to learn to control your emotions behind the wheel."

"Who's emotional?" She reached down to the floor of the car. "My Chicken Fillet fell out."

"You've got Chick-fil-A?" Amy asked, her face brightening. "Can I have a bite? I'm starving."

I rolled my eyes. "Chicken Fillets are breast enhancers."

She looked down at her A-cups. "If I'd known that, I would've started eating Chick-fil-A years go."

"You're so literal," Gia exclaimed. "'Chicken Fillets' is the brand name of silicone bra inserts." She retrieved a floppy, flesh-colored disk from the floorboard and handed it to Amy. "Here, this is a Chicken Fillet."

"It looks delicious," Amy said.

I cradled my forehead in my hand. "You know, Gia, maybe those things would stay in better if you wore your bra on the
inside
of your shirt."

"This is too nice a bra to hide under my clothes," she said, pointing to the silver sequined lace. "Besides, it doesn't matter where you wear your bra, as long as you have one on."

I gritted my teeth. "Forget the bra. Can we get back to the Barbicide?"

"Sure," Amy said. "I found a government study on a hairstylist who drank some and turned as blue as—"

"Let's get something straight," I interrupted. "The next person who makes a blue analogy about Margaret Appleby is going to turn as blue as she did, courtesy of my fists."

Amy frowned. "I hope you're not serious, because you just made a blue analogy."

I turned and gave her a half-lidded stare.

She cleared her throat. "Anyway, it turns out that Barbicide is an extremely powerful disinfectant. It's not just a fungicide and a viricide, like it says on the bottle. It's also a germicide and a pseudomonacide."

"What does that mean in regular English?" Gia asked.

Amy blinked. "The same thing it means in scientific English."

I sighed. "And what is that?"

"It kills virtually everything, even the AIDS virus, which is why it's also used in hospitals. And it's durable too. It's the only product of its kind that holds its color after use."

"Margaret would've attested to that," Gia said with a nod in my direction.

I held up my fist, and she turned her eyes back to the road. "Go on, Amy."

She looked at my hand and swallowed. "After ingesting as little as fifty milliliters of Barbicide, acute severe methemoglobinemia occurs within thirty minutes. It's a blood disorder that prevents red blood cells from releasing oxygen to tissues."

"But does this acute severe whatever cause the skin and fingernails to turn blue?" I asked.

"That, and it makes blood turn chocolate brown."

Gia gasped. "Like a blue M&M!"

I leaned across the console and punched her in the arm.

"Careful,
cug
! I'm trying to drive up a hill, here."

"'Trying' is definitely the word for it," I said, rubbing my knuckles. "What else, Amy?"

She crossed her arms to protect her biceps. "If not treated quickly, the nervous system goes into shock, and then the person lapses into a coma and dies."

"How do you treat it?" I asked.

"With Methylene blue."

"More blue?" Gia exclaimed as she parked behind a line of cars along the side of the road. "Is that really a good idea?"

I silenced her with a look, although I had the same question. "Did you happen to find out how much Barbicide it takes to kill someone?"

Amy pushed up her glasses. "According to the study, fifty milliliters, which is a little over an ounce and a half."

"That's about the amount that was missing from Lucy's jar," I noted. "Maybe a little less."

"So now what?" Gia asked, snapping her eye patch into place.

"I'm not sure," I said. "But when we go into the tavern, keep your eyes—well, your eye, Gia—and ears open. Practically everyone in town is going to be there, and you can bet they'll be talking about what happened to Margaret Appleby."

Gia pulled her makeup case from her orange Moschino bag, dusted herself with bronzer, and then doused herself in Prada Candy perfume.

Amy started coughing and clutched at her throat.

"Seriously, Gia," I began, "can you conduct your chemical warfare outside the car?"

"Of course not." She tamped down her lip stickers. "I can't reveal my weapons to the enemy."

Tears streamed down Amy's cheeks as she pinched her nostrils shut. "I can keep my ears open, Cass, but I'm not sure about my eyes. Or my nose."

I grimaced and climbed out of the car. There was no way I was going to catch a killer with these two as my sidekicks.

Amy scrambled from the backseat, puffed her sleeves, and then hoofed it up the hill like a mountain goat. Gia and I, thanks to our high heels, legged it like camels that had taken a wrong turn out of the desert.

"Why do they call this place the Smugglers' Tavern, anyway?" Gia asked.

"I know," Amy said, trotting back down the hill to join us. "They named it after the smugglers who brought banned English goods and supplies here in the 1800s. The caves they used to store their loot are right below this cliff."

I sniffed. "What a town. Founded by prostitutes, pirates, and smugglers."

Gia nodded. "Just like Atlantic City."

I flashed a wry smile. "What did they smuggle, anyway?"

"Tea, clothes, medicine." Amy raised her finger in the air. "Oh, and during Prohibition, they smuggled moonshine."

"I could use a shot of that now to get me up this road," Gia said.

"But we're practically there," Amy said, pointing to a rustic red brick building up ahead. "Amazing view, isn't it?"

Beyond the tavern lay Danger Cove. The lighthouse was lit, illuminating the dark clouds forming around the gray moon and the black water swirling below.

I shuddered and pulled my pink pashmina scarf around my shoulders. The view seemed more ominous than amazing. "Let's go inside."

Gia pranced up the walkway and opened the door. "We have a reserved table, right?"

"In the name of The Clip and Sip," I replied as I scanned the wood-paneled room. "The confirmation I got from the Save the Lighthouse Committee said it would be in the seating area to the right of the bar toward the back."

"What?" Gia exclaimed. "Why not just put us in the garden outside?"

"I'm sure they weren't trying to hide us," I replied as we headed for the rear of the tavern. Although I had my doubts about that.

To the left of the bar, I spotted an elderly woman sitting at the table reserved for the lighthouse committee. I grabbed Amy by the arm. "Isn't that the mystery writer, Elizabeth Ashby?"

"In the flesh."

"I heard that she was kind of reclusive. What do you suppose she's doing with the committee members?"

"She donated part of the proceeds of her last book,
Murder at the Lighthouse
, to the committee. I'm sure they twisted her arm to get her to sit with them. Speaking of which…" She looked down.

"Oh. Sorry." I released my grip on her bicep and continued toward the back of the tavern. "I don't see an empty table anywhere."

"I think there's a booth behind that big anchor they have on display," Amy said, pointing to a secluded corner. "Maybe that's it?"

My heart sank. Gia was right. They had deliberately placed us out of sight at a table that was probably popular with couples seeking privacy but not with business owners wanting visibility.

Amy rushed ahead and slid into the booth. She gave the vinyl seat a pat. "It sure is cozy."

"Yeah, that anchor really gives us privacy." I took a seat and reached for the drink menu. I needed a stiff shot of something and quick. "Wait. Where did Gia go?"

"She stayed at the bar to hand out some flyers."

My stomach dropped, and I'm pretty sure my blood pressure did too. I didn't know what she was up to, but I knew it wasn't good. I began to study the drink menu in earnest.

"Ahoy there, mateys!" Gia yelled as she flopped down into the seat beside me.

Amy blushed and averted her gaze. "Your silicone is showing."

"Blimey!" Gia shoved a rogue Chicken Fillet back into her bra.

I clenched my jaw. "Drop the pirate parlay and show me one of your flyers."

Her visible eye opened wide, and she went as stiff as a plank. "Uh, I ran out."

"Isn't that convenient?" I leaned forward and pointed a finger at her bra-embellished chest. "If this has anything to do with that Egyptian thing, I swear that I will personally embalm and mummify you for the event."

"Gah, Cass." She frowned as she adjusted a bra strap. "You're so grouchy lately."

I smirked. "Gee, I wonder why."

Her face softened. "Look, I know that the salon is in a crisis, so I decided to take this opportunity to try to drum up some business. The ad you ran in the
Cove Chronicles
came out the same day as that nasty article, so I figured that we could use a plan B."

Now I felt like a wench. "Do you really think anyone will want to come to the salon after two murders?"

"Cassidi's got a point," Amy said, folding her arms on the table.

I scowled. "You stay out of this."

"But I was agreeing with you," she said. "Gia's right. You are
griesgrämig
lately."

"See?" Gia gestured toward Amy. "Try a little optimism. There are people who will go anywhere to get a deal. Take Bree Milford, for example."