But it wasn't because of the drilling.
Gia had draped Arabic-arch-patterned fabric from ceiling to floor, and the walls were lined with red, pink, and gold cushions. "I was going to ask if you were drilling for treasure in your bedroom, but apparently you're in Morocco, so never mind."
She switched off the drill and pulled a pink veil from her face. "I'm putting the finishing touches on my I Dream of Jeannie bottle."
Given the evening's events, I rued her recent discovery of the 1960s series on Netflix because I much preferred wall holes to the harem theme. "I don't want to tell you what to do with your space, but I'm sensitive to anything that smacks of sex right now."
She put the drill on her purple velvet bedspread. "You going to let Ivy's antics get to you?"
I avoided her eyes and took a seat on a cushion beside her dresser. "Do you really think she was behind the sleigh sabotage?"
Gia put her hands on her harem-panted hips. "You saw her in the Devil Car outside the salon, and she certainly wasn't here for our open house."
I picked at headless Frosty's torso and pondered other possible culprits. "Maybe it was the client you made up like David Bowie on the day of her wedding."
"Don't be ridiculous. Thanks to me that bride-to-be left the salon looking like a woman." She picked up a bottle of peppermint vodka from her dresser and poured herself a shot. "Ivy's the one who dolled up our salon, and we've got to doll her up back."
"That's the worst thing we could do. We need to focus on getting our clients to return."
"Judging from the low turnout tonight," she said, stirring her vodka with a candy cane, "that's going to take a Christmas miracle." She raised her glass to me and swallowed her shot.
The enormity of the task was too much to contemplate at eleven forty-five on a Saturday night. "Let's brainstorm this tomorrow." I rose to my feet. "If I know you, you'll figure out a way to superhero-save the day."
"I'll try, but we might need a real genie to get us out of this mess." She flopped onto her bed and grabbed something from a box on her nightstand.
My eyes narrowed as I recognized one of the snowball cookies I'd ordered from Cinnamon Sugar Bakery. "Weren't we supposed to serve those at the open house tonight?"
She popped a cookie into her mouth and brushed powdered sugar from her hands. "We were, but like the majority of our clients, the cookies couldn't make it." She turned back toward the box and stared at her closet door, which was ajar. "Did you borrow something?"
It was common knowledge that Gia kept her clothes under lock and key. It was also widely known—and glaringly apparent—that her style was straight up Jersey Girl, whereas mine was more Girl Next Door. "When would that ever happen?"
"The day you finally get some fashion sense." Her tone was low, like the jab. Then she leapt off the bed and picked up the drill, aiming it like a gun at the closet, and opened the door with her foot.
No one was inside, not to my surprise. But I could see Gia wasn't satisfied. She had a photographic memory where her closet was concerned, and she could tell if so much as a moth had touched her stuff.
She scanned the rows of clothes and shoes. Next, she zeroed in on the shelves.
My stomach seized when she pulled out a three-ring binder I knew all too well.
Gia flipped open the cover, and her perky pout turned into a flat-out frown. "Someone ripped out some of the pages."
"Which ones?" I whispered, even though I already knew the answer.
Her eyes met mine. "The ones with Vinnie's clients' names, except for the last page."
When she mentioned my uncle's clients, she wasn't talking about his salon regulars. She was referring to local men who'd bought his counterfeit Viagra. "Why would someone want to steal that kind of information? Blackmail?"
She snapped the cover shut. "Well, it's because they wanted to invite the dudes to a party."
I took the binder and looked inside. Sure enough, only one of the six pages she'd photocopied from my uncle's little black book remained. "Do you think one of our guests did it?"
"No one left the salon that I saw." She sunk onto the side of the bed. "What about you?"
I shook my head. "It's not like we had a full house, and you know as well as I do that no one stayed more than twenty minutes."
She pinched her bottom lip. "Then it must've happened when we were outside looking at the display."
My stomach was no longer seizing. It was lurching—like I was riding in a one-horse open sleigh. Was that the reason for the adult dolls? Were they supposed to distract us while someone swiped the list? And if so, what in the name of jolly old Saint Nick did they plan to do with it?
CHAPTER TWO
The morning sun crept into the salon break room as though it were afraid to disturb me. But my computer had no such compunction. The harsh white light radiated from the screen like it was blaming me the page was blank. In all fairness, I had typed Marketing Ideas at the top. It wasn't my fault my mind kept wandering to Uncle Vinnie's copped client list.
And to his murder last December.
Gia entered in her genie jammies and made a beeline for the espresso machine. Her attire was appropriate since she was built like Barbara Eden but blew into a room like Genie from Aladdin. "Did you call Detective Ohlsen yet?"
"He was away from his desk, so I had the displeasure of talking to Detective Marshall." Based on some run-ins we'd had with him in the past, I didn't need to explain my bitterness.
"Let me guess." Her tone was as coarse as the coffee grounds she was loading into the filter. "The dubious detective thinks I lost the list."
"Basically, yes." I frowned at the memory of our curt conversation. "It took a lot of insisting, but he agreed to add a report of the theft to Vinnie's case file."
"You did your duty. Now we wait and see if the list surfaces somehow."
I grimaced and wondered whether the theft could possibly be connected to my uncle's unsolved death. And I took my anxiety out on Frosty, picking at his remains. "Hey, do you know where the polish remover is? I couldn't find any at the manicure station."
She put a cappuccino cup beneath the filter. "That's because I threw it out."
"But I bought it yesterday."
"And since I'm the manicurist, you should've checked with me first." Her scowl spread into a self-satisfied smirk. "We switched to the Mad Makeup brand."
It took me a moment to realize she was referring to her cosmetic line. She didn't have the capital for full-scale production, but she'd managed to scrape together the funds for some samples. "That's great. Where is it?"
"One sec." She slipped from the room and returned with a purple bottle.
I eyeballed the label. "Polish Purger? That sounds a little extreme."
"Precisely." She nodded like Jeannie granting a wish. "Besides polish, it can remove any kind of nail—acrylic, gel, even shellac."
Let's hope it doesn't remove real ones too.
"And we can use this for a promotion I've come up with." She handed me a bottle of bright red nail polish. "It's called Poison Poinsettia, and it's scented."
I unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. "Mm. It smells like mulling spices. But why is Poison in the name?"
Her brow raised in a triumphal arch. "It's part of my Intoxicating Colors line."
"Clever." I hid my concern. After the awful salon incident involving the murder of Margaret Appleby, I was sensitive about any implication that my products were poisonous.
"For the promotion, I'll offer a free makeover with every mani-pedi. Instead of my signature smoky eye, I'll do a seasonal variation."
"How does the smoky eye tie in with the holidays?" I put the polish on the table.
"You know." She gave me a shove. "Instead of blending green eye shadow with purple, I'll blend it with red."
I reminded myself that green and red made brown—with any luck.
"So, we'll see how Styles and Spirits stands up to good old Jersey glam." She flicked her black genie ponytail
. "What have you come up with?"
"Um…" I glanced at the blank computer screen. "A free blowout with every purchase?"
The corners of her pouty mouth took a dive—like our sales. "If that's all you've got, then you'd better hope I find Vinnie's Viagra money."
I rubbed my temple. "Please don't start."
"I can't help it, Cass." Her big brown eyes widened. "He was dealing to half the old men at the Coveside Retirement Resort, and you know they were popping those little blue pills like Tic Tacs. So he had to be making bank, and he wouldn't have been dumb enough to deposit drug money into one."
"Just because he told Aunt Carla he was set for retirement doesn't make it true." Even as I said it, I hoped I was wrong. "We need to make money, not search for it."
"Can't argue with that." She turned on the steam arm and began frothing a pitcher of milk. "What's on the calendar this month?"
I opened our scheduling software. "A few appointments here and there. And we'll be doing hair and makeup for the cast of the living nativity every day for the week leading up to Christmas."
"I guess it's a good thing Joseph and Mary have to look old school." She shot me a pointed look over her shoulder. "Otherwise, Reverend Vickers might've gone with Styles and Spirits."
"You make us sound so out of style."
"Compared to Miss Cutting-Edge California, we are." She poured steamed milk into her cup. "It's time to crank it up a notch and reclaim our client base."
I closed my laptop. "What do you suggest?"
Her smile told me I was in for trouble. "A reverse 'Christmas in July.'"
"A what?"
"A beach party in December." She kneeled on a chair and placed her forearms on the table. "We could do a beach bunny look for hair and makeup and offer extras like spray tanning and bikini waxing."
I wrinkled my nose. "Unless your event is at the Playboy mansion, women aren't going to want to look like beach bunnies for Christmas."
"Are you kidding? Think Brigitte Bardot's cat eye." She gave me a sexy side-eye demonstration. "That's nothing if not hot. And when does anyone not want a tan and a trimmed tree?"
Between the sex dolls and that trimmed tree remark, Christmas was really starting to lose its magic. "If we do this—and keep that if in mind—what kind of staffing would we need?"
"It depends." She picked up her cup and gripped it with both hands. "You said you'd replace Lucy, and she left for Sweden to marry Sven a month ago. Is that still in the plans?"
"We don't have the money. The salon's in serious trouble."
"It sure as shootin' is," a female drawled from the doorway.
My eyes darted to Gia, who'd lowered her cappuccino cup—along with her lower lip.
And I couldn't blame her. My aunt was an awesome sight, or maybe "arboreal" was a better description. Her name was Magnolia, and like the tree, she had feet as long as roots, an elongated trunk, and skin with lines so deep it looked like bark. Adding to the plant picture, her beehive hair was the same shade of pink as a magnolia flower.
"Aunt M." My voice was somewhere between a sigh and a scream. "What are you—"
"Your mama told me you were in trouble. And judgin' from what this reporter man says"—she held up the Cove Chronicles and poked at the front page—"it's a heap more than we'd bargained for."
I stared speechless at the paper. Not even twenty-four hours had passed, and I already knew why my uncle's client list had been stolen. The huge headline said it all.
"VINNIE'S VIAGRA VICTIMS."
* * *
"How could Duncan Pickles release Uncle Vinnie's client list?" I threw the paper on the break room table. "And where does he get off calling the Viagra clients victims?" Then it occurred to me that get off might not have been the best choice of verb phrases.
"Now don't you pay that hack no mind." Magnolia patted my hand. "We all know Vincent was only tryin' to help those men with their less-than-Magic Johnsons."
I suddenly became self-conscious about my limp wrist and withdrew my hand from her grasp. "But how did he know about the list in the first place? Gia and I turned it over to the police when we found it back in April, and we didn't tell anyone we'd kept a copy."
"Reporters have a sixth sense for smut." Magnolia pulled her pink fuzzy cardigan tight, as though Duncan were still around, angling to ogle her goods. "And I'll bet he put those dirty dolls in the sleigh to lure you girls outside while he rifled through the house."
"Duncan will sink pretty low to get a story, but I never thought he'd climb to my roof for one, much less burglarize Gia's room." I turned to my cousin, who'd been unusually silent. "What do you think about this, cuz?"
She was rigid in her chair like she was in a trance.
"Hey." I shook her arm. "You okay?"
"Poor thing's in shock." Magnolia rose from the table and pressed the back of her hand to Gia's forehead. "She could use a skosh o' scotch."
"She only drinks vodka, and it has to be the right flavor for the occasion." I stood to get my aunt a glass. "There's a bar in the living room on the second floor. Would you get her a spicy one, like the horseradish or the habanero?"
"A beauty parlor and a bar." Magnolia headed for the stairs. "I have half a mind to stay till spring."
I flinched at the thought of three months with Magnolia. Then I glanced at Gia. And although I hadn't seen her move, she'd somehow fluffed her hair.
"I know you're in there, genie." My tone was as arid as a Texas summer. "Come out of your bottle before I break it."
She glanced over her shoulder. "How is that whack woman related to you, and what in the name of hairstyles has she done to her head?"
I gave an epic eye roll. "Magnolia is my mother's oldest sister, and she's from Italy—"
"That big pink Q-tip hails from my motherland?" Her volume was as loud as my aunt's hair.
"Shh." I waved my arms. "Not the country, the town in East Texas." I paused and added, "Only they say It'ly."
Gia grimaced like she'd eaten a bad anchovy. "Of course they do."
"Anyway, Aunt Magnolia used to cut hair in Fredericksburg at my grandpa's barber shop, but when my mom was born, she moved to Dallas and started selling Mary Kay."
Her lips slid into a leer. "Is that an East Texas euphemism for sex?"
I gave her a you-know-better-than-that glare. "I'm talking about the cosmetics company, Miss Mad Makeup."
"So that's why her hair is pink and puffy."
"Would you forget about that?" I whisper-huffed. "We need to talk about Duncan's article."
"We sure 'nough do." My aunt walked into the break room. "But first…" She stopped and placed a vodka bottle and a full glass in front of Gia. "Drink up, missy."
One look at my aunt's hair and Gia drained the glass.
Magnolia returned to her seat. "True to his name, that Pickles man has put us in a pickle. Now let's join hands and seek his guidance."
Gia eyes widened like my aunt had pulled a pistol. "Could I get another vodka first?"
"Alcohol is the devil's drink," Magnolia chided as though she hadn't served her a shot. She took our hands and closed her eyes.
Gia gave an oh-God glower, and then we bowed our heads.
We waited for the prayer to start, and Magnolia began to hum. But it was unlike any hymn I'd ever heard. It was more like a ballad, or a pop song. The next thing I knew, she was jerking my arm, which made me jerk Gia's, so I snuck a peek from beneath my lashes. And I wasn't prepared for what I saw.
My aunt was shimmying, backward and forward, side to side, like a wanton woman at a wake.
Gia's eyes opened, as did her mouth. "A du zi pazz."
Magnolia stopped shimmying and gave me a sideways stare. "Is she speakin' in tongues?"
"In a way," I said. "It's New Jersey Italian."
"I've always liked foreign languages." Magnolia nodded at Gia. "What does it mean?"
"Um…" I squeezed Gia's hand to stop her from blurting out that she'd called my aunt crazy. "It's one o
f those things they say in the Catholic Church." I lied, hoping I wouldn't go to hell. "Like an affirmation."
Magnolia put a hand to her chest. "Well, I love Barry Manilow as much as the next woman, but I don't pray to the man."
"Hold on." I tried to figure out what Barry Manilow had to do with the theft of my uncle's client list. "If we're not praying, then what are we doing?"
She looked at me as though I were the one who'd gone "Copacabana." "We're talking to Barry. Any time I have a problem I cain't solve myself, I channel him by humming a few bars of 'Could It Be Magic.'"
I picked up the vodka bottle and took a swig. Unfortunately, the burn from the habanero didn't take away the sting of what my aunt had said.
"And what does Barry do?" Gia sounded half fascinated and half fearful.
Magnolia gave her beehive a bump. "Most of the time he answers me with a song title. Other times it's an album. But if it's a particularly vexin' problem," she said, her Texas accent as thick as tree sap, "we take it to the Ouija board and talk it out."
Gia dropped our hands and dived for the vodka.
"No, ma'am." Magnolia smacked Gia's hand. "We ain't got time for another toot. Mr. Manilow has spoken."
"He has?" My voice came out a whisper.
"And?" Gia leaned forward.
Magnolia's face turned wooden. "We're gonna hightail it on down to the headquarters of that rag and do the 'Jump Shout Boogie.'"
* * *
Magnolia skidded her 1975 pink Cadillac convertible to a stop in front of the two-story strip mall that housed the Cove Chronicles and hit the horn. Instead of the expected honk, it played "The Eyes of Texas."
"That oughta let everyone know we're ready to rodeo." She fumbled with the scarf bolstering her beehive.
I gave a reassuring wave to Sunny Kunik, who frowned from the window of the Sunny Patches Quilt Shop at the longhorns on the hood of my aunt's car. To be honest, I was sorry that Carlene—the name my aunt had christened her Caddy—wasn't the plain Mary Kay issue too.
Magnolia spun around to the back seat. "Let's git to gittin', Miss Gia."
"I would, but I'm frozen to the floorboard." Gia's voice was frosty, much like the weather, because my aunt had insisted on driving with the top down.
A Poison Manicure & Peach Liqueur Page 2
