Killer Eyeshadow and a Cold Espresso (A Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery)

by Traci Andrighetti

  Gia entered clutching the drinks. "Ooh, did you get anything?"

  "Lingerie's not really my thing, but Cristal talked me into buying a pair of black fishnet stockings with a red sequin heart appliqué."

  Glass shattered on the floor, mimicking the explosion in my head.

  Bree had bought a copy of the stocking used to strangle my uncle—the one the police had never been able to trace.

  * * *

  "The stockings Bree bought?" Donna Bocca wrinkled her mustached lip as she placed a bullet bra on a Lily's Lingerie hanger. "They're so tacky, Cassidi. Did you want them for your cousin?"

  Gia wrapped a garter around her hands like a garrote.

  I shoved her toward the sale area. "Why don't you look around, cuz?"

  "Okay, but only because this is a first-ever event."

  Gia darted to the thong table, and I glanced at the customers to make sure none were listening. "I'm not here to shop, Donna. Those stockings are identical to the one from my uncle's case."

  Her wide-set eyes widened, as did her nostrils. When it came to succulent slabs of gossip, her appetite was ravenous. "Do you think his murderer ordered them from us?"

  "That's what I need to find out. Did you sell any more of those stockings?"

  "We never carried them in the store. I found them in the back of a drawer in the stockroom with a note that said return special order, wrong size."

  My heart rate downshifted. "Then the killer must have gotten them somewhere else because both stockings are in the package Bree bought, and the police have the one the killer used in evidence."

  "Based on our return policy, there would have been a second pair."

  My heart kicked back into high gear. "How do you mean?"

  "If a customer needs another size, we don't send the original item back until we've verified the new size is correct."

  "So the purchaser probably got the new pair?"

  "And Marjorie, the woman who worked here at the time of the order, never returned the pair Bree bought. That was long before Leroy hired me, so it was too late to send them back."

  Leroy was Lily—because Leroy's Lingerie didn't have the same cachet. "When were you hired?"

  "January of last year."

  My heart raced the Formula One. The stockings were ordered before my uncle was murdered. "Donna, can you get in touch with Marjorie?"

  "Oh, she died on the job."

  I covered my mouth, and goose bumps dotted my arms. "Do you think it had something to do with the stockings, like maybe the killer silenced her?"

  She smacked and gave a headshake. "She was suffocated by a corset during a demonstration. It's a hazard of the profession."

  That explained why Marjorie never returned the stockings, but it raised a lot of questions about the lingerie line of work. "Did the police ever question you or Leroy about my uncle's case?"

  "They talked to Leroy, but he didn't know anything. Handling merchandise is my responsibility."

  "Is there a way to trace a special order?"

  "Sure."

  The fact that she didn't elaborate spoke volumes. I leaned a hand on the counter and pursed my lips. "What's it going to cost me? And bear in mind that I'm broke."

  "I'm going to have to lift and search dusty boxes of old records, and after hours to boot." She rubbed her stubbly chin. "Free cut-and-dye appointments for life should do it."

  I grimaced, and Gia approached the counter with a wad of thongs. "Yo, I'll gladly throw in free mustache and beard waxes too."

  I pushed her toward the push-up bra rack and glared at Donna. "Deal, but finding that order had better be your priority."

  "Don't worry, Cassidi. I'm as eager as you for answers."

  Because it would make a killer story.

  A bell sounded, and my client Santiago Beltrán entered in a white suit. His chocolate eyes bulged at a boobless baby doll on display at the entrance. As a Cesar Romero look-alike, he flashed us a smile reminiscent of the Joker. "¡Hola, chichis!"

  I took it he meant chicas. After all, he was pushing eighty.

  Donna stepped from behind the counter. "Can I help you, Santiago?"

  "No, gracias. I have orders from a lady friend."

  "And the Coveside Retirement Resort continues to swing." Gia spoke above her breath.

  We'd been to the resort before, and the place got pretty wild.

  Donna scanned Gia's purchases. "I read in the paper that you two are mixed up in Jesse Rothman's murder."

  We said nothing, because she was fishing.

  "If he were my husband, he wouldn't have lasted as long as he did."

  I took the bait. "Why? What was he doing?"

  "Every woman he met. That counterfeit Viagra he was buying from your uncle definitely wasn't for Elise."

  I regretted the day Duncan Pickles had published my uncle's client list in the Cove Chronicles for many reasons, but Donna's revelation wasn't one of them because it could have been relevant to Jesse's murder.

  Santiago held up his hands—along with some crotchless panties. "Women are like a fine ron," he said, using his native Cuban for rum. "There are so many varieties, an hombre must sample them all."

  Donna aimed her scan gun at him. "After he's married, Santiago, an hombre had best stick to one variety—his wife. Is it true you were at Jesse's vow renewal bachelor party the night before he died?"

  That sounded like an oxymoron.

  "It was a fabulous fiesta. There was—"

  "Let me guess," Gia interrupted. "Ron, women, and song?"

  His smile was as wide as the missing crotch on that underwear. "Like a night in Habana."

  "From what I've heard, it was more like a night in Las Vegas." Donna shot us a scowl. "It's appalling that Jesse got out of jail and went right back to chasing women. If I were Elise, I would've killed him myself."

  She made a valid point. Jealousy and humiliation could drive an unbalanced person to drastic action. But, if Katrina was seeing Jesse, and waiting for his release, she could've killed him for cheating as well. "Did Elise have a vow renewal bachelorette party?"

  "She and Katrina went to eat at Ching's Chinese. Those two aren't thick as thieves— they're thicker." She glanced at the total on the register. "That'll be 29.95."

  Gia handed Donna her credit card. "Why anyone would want that muscled monster as their BFF is baffling."

  Santiago approached the counter with a red vinyl teddy. "My BEH-EFE-EFE es Rhys Ingall."

  The snobby Brit wasn't his type. "Why's that?"

  "He gave the fiesta for Jesse. ¡Qué chico!"

  What a guy, indeed. Not every man would encourage his brother-in-law to cheat on his sister—even a sister he didn't like. Rhys wanted something from Jesse, and it was probably the location of the casino money he'd stolen from Sonny Torlone.

  The sound of a slot machine jackpot pinged in my ears.

  Jesse invested the casino money in that landscape painting.

  * * *

  From the passenger seat of the Ferrari, Gia cast a horror-flick-chick look at the two-story strip mall on Main Street. "What are we doing at Sunny Patches? You know I have quiltophobia."

  I gave her a blank stare. There was no such thing as a phobia of quilts. Her issue with the blankets was that they were "old and unsexy." "I'm going upstairs to the Cove Chronicles office. I need to talk to Duncan Pickles."

  "If I go in there, I'll rip that rat's eyes out."

  "That's why you're staying here."

  The stricken-by-a-slasher look returned. "In the car?"

  I exited and leaned in the drivers' side. "Your attachment to the Ferrari is what got us into this situation, so now you two can spend some quality time together."

  "You could've at least parked up the street. Those quilts in the window look like they came out of someone's psychotic great-grandma's haunted attic."

  "Fix your gaze on your new thongs. I won't be long." I slammed the door.

  The air still smelled of rain. Even though the sto
rm was over, I had a bad feeling that a tsunami was coming—one that would engulf and wash away the salon and all of us in it.

  I shuddered and climbed the stairs to the second-floor office. The reception desk was unmanned, so I walked through the rows of cubicles until I arrived at the one with the leg lamp from A Christmas Story. Duncan was a schmuck, but not a scrooge. At his desk, it was the holiday season year around.

  He looked up from his late-afternoon lunch of a hamburger and fries and leaned back in his chair. "I don't suppose you're here to give me the scoop on what went down in the Rothman mansion?"

  "You suppose wrong."

  "If this is about your uncle, I don't have any new information. At this point, he's just another cold case file."

  My lead on the stocking murder weapon said otherwise, but I kept that detail to myself. A solution was within my grasp, and there was no way I was going to let Duncan break the news to the killer with one of his sensational stories. "This is about Jesse's death. You were wrong to suspect Sonny Torlone's people for murdering him as payback."

  "You sound pretty sure."

  "I've been doing my homework. There's no evidence Sonny was connected to a Mafia family."

  Duncan wiped his fingers on a napkin but never took his gaze from my face. "If I were in your position—that is, a primary suspect—I'd be arguing the opposite."

  "You've been covering my cousin and me since we moved here. You know we're not murderers, so stop with the suspect crap and tell me what you know about Rhys Ingall."

  His wide-eyed look relaxed into a grudging smile. "He has connections to organized crime in London, but I wouldn't call him a member."

  I pulled up a chair. "Why not?"

  "He's done some odd jobs for them, but he mostly operates on his own doing small-time cons."

  "Did he ever have a profession?"

  "Before he blew his share of the family money, he owned an art gallery."

  A light switched on in my head—like a spotlight. The gallery had to be his connection to George Fontaine. Alex said George was an art appraiser in Europe, so he could have done work for Rhys or at least met him through the London art scene.

  "But if it's not Sonny's people, then I'd have to suspect Fontaine."

  I gave an impatient exhale. Apart from Amy, Duncan was the only person in town who could get me information, and I needed him on the trail of the right suspects. "On what basis?"

  "I've been digging into his background since he moved to town, and I can't find a thing on the guy. Not here or in Europe. It's like he doesn't exist, which is a sure indicator of a false identity."

  Was that why I hadn't been able to find George and his family on the Internet? If so, it wasn't surprising since Alex had said some undesirable characters were after him. I just hoped that was the only reason he would use an assumed name.

  A shrill ring from Duncan's desk phone shook me from my thoughts.

  "One sec." He grabbed the receiver. "Duncan."

  I leaned closer, but I couldn't hear the voice on the receiver.

  "Complete anonymity, yes." He reached for a pen and touched the tip to a sticky note, prepared to write.

  Whatever the caller was saying must have been riveting because Duncan literally sat at attention. I knew he wouldn't share the tip with me, and in a desperate move, I pressed the speaker button.

  "The poison was definitely taxine," the male caller whispered.

  I sat back, adrenaline surging in my chest.

  "I won't forget this." Duncan replaced the receiver, his face purple with rage. "Pray that you didn't just cost me my best informant."

  "I'm sorry, but everything I have is on the line, including my life."

  He lowered his head. "Just keep your mouth shut until tomorrow, because if you blow my lead, you and your cousin will be the focus of the next paper."

  "Don't worry. Tell me what you know about taxine. It sounds like a tobacco nicotine thing."

  "My informant says it comes from the yew tree." He swiveled his chair to face me. "Which bodes badly for you."

  "Why? I've never heard of that tree."

  "But you have seen one of its seeds." He pressed his fingertips together and locked me in a hard stare. "According to my sources, it was under the vanity. So it points right at you, your cousin, and her makeup."

  Once again, he was off base. If anyone, the seed pointed to George and his flowers.

  CHAPTER NINE

  George Fontaine poked his well-coiffed head out from the backroom of Some Enchanted Florist. "A delivery truck just arrived out back." He gave a mock salute. "I'll be with you shortly."

  "Oh, that's fine."

  And it was. I'd come at seven a.m. when he opened because I knew that was when he received his flower deliveries. I needed him to be occupied while I searched the shop for the yew tree. I didn't really expect to find it, but I had to check before Duncan's article on the poison came out.

  He disappeared, and I pulled up an image of the tree on my phone so I could identify its green fronds. I hadn't had time to drink my usual triple espresso, but the floral scent in the small space was just as eye-opening. And that was good because I'd lost sleep over a nightmare about the British firms and the Terminator. They'd come to the salon to steal Hope, Faith, and Charity, which I was ecstatic about. But then they left an ominous warning on the porch—a concrete-shoed picnic table. Of course, it had seemed a lot scarier in the middle of the night.

  But who was Jesse talking to when he'd said "the two of them have to be dealt with—a permanent solution"? Was it Rhys or Katrina? Or was it someone I didn't know about?

  I shuddered and inspected the plants. I counted eleven different types of greenery scattered among the flowers, and none of them looked like the yew.

  After I completed my round of the shop, I slipped behind the old-fashioned glass case with a Formica countertop to peek inside a floral refrigerator. Orchids and roses, but no greenery. An elegant black address book on a computer desk caught my attention. I didn't know any man who kept one, apart from Uncle Vinnie. And he'd used his little black book to keep track of clients for his illicit dealings.

  I paused.

  Did George do the same?

  I glanced at the door marked Private. The muffled voices of George and the deliveryman were audible. I chewed my lip and decided to go for it. I opened the book and went to the F section. No Fontaines were listed, but I assumed he would know his parents' contact information. I checked the I section for Ingall. The page was blank. I started over at the beginning and stopped when I reached L.

  Leach Gallery.

  Was that where George worked in London? Or was it the gallery that Rhys used to own?

  "What are you doing, Cassidi?"

  I spun around and dropped the book, which slid beneath the desk.

  George's tone had been flat, and his eyes were hard. The sheen on his hair almost villainous.

  Avoiding his question, and his gaze, I knelt to pick up the book. I looked under the desk, and the squeezing sensation in my abdomen moved to my lungs.

  Taped to the underside was a holstered gun.

  I flashed to Duncan Pickles and the others who'd questioned George's past. Who was he really?

  I stood and tossed the book onto the desk. And I inched backwards toward the shop.

  George held up his hands. His eyes had gone soft. "The gun is for protection, I swear."

  There could be no doubt that I'd been snooping, so I decided to confront the situation. "I would ask why you need protection, but I think I know. Did Rhys Ingall own the Leach Gallery?"

  His hands dropped to his sides. "It belonged to my parents."

  "Is that how you know Rhys? Did he do an art deal with them?"

  He scrutinized my face but stayed silent.

  "Look, George. I think of you as a friend. But if you can't tell me what's going on…" I swallowed hard. "…then I'll have to go to Detective Marshall."

  He bowed his head. "The gallery was in bankruptcy p
roceedings. Rhys put them in touch with the black market so they could try to salvage the family home."

  "When you say 'black market,' do you mean the British firms?"

  He nodded.

  "Why are they after you?"

  "Money. Because of my work as an art appraiser, I was able to figure out that my parents were selling their stolen paintings to private collectors. The first thing I did was confiscate the ones they hadn't sold and leave them at the galleries they'd been stolen from—anonymously, of course."

  He paused and stubbed the toe of his wing tips against a flowerpot, and I waited for him to continue.

  "But there was one painting I couldn't identify, and it wasn't listed on any of the stolen art databases. By that point it was obvious I had to leave London…" He took a deep breath and raised his eyes to the ceiling. "…so I sold it to finance my new life." He looked down at his shoes. "I couldn't tell anyone, and especially not Alexandra. I was afraid she would avoid me if she knew."

  If I were her, I would have steered clear of George, but not because of the painting. The fact that organized crime was after him was more than a little off-putting. "Is that why you hid in the bushes when Rhys and Jesse were walking to the man cave?"

  "Yes, on the off chance Rhys would recognize me. This all happened ten years ago, and I've matured since then and changed my look." He gave a wan smile. "I wasn't nearly as stylish in my early twenties."

  I couldn't muster a wan smile of my own. I still had questions I needed answered. "But then he recognized you in the Rothmans' living room when he saw the landscape painting. Why? Does that have something to do with your parents?"

  "It was one of the paintings they were supposed to sell for Rhys. I found a picture of it in their office, but they told me they'd already sold it. Evidently, they lied so I wouldn't confiscate it."

  "Then why did Rhys seem as surprised as you when he saw it on the wall? He must've arranged the sale between your parents and his sister, or at least with Jesse."

  "I met with Rhys the other night, and he thought I'd brokered the sale. My parents aren't returning my calls, so we're both trying to figure out how Jesse got the painting."