A Poison Manicure & Peach Liqueur

by Traci Andrighetti

  "Your blood'll git to boiling once we talk to them paper people." Magnolia slid hot pink lipstick across her lined lips. "Why, I'm so mad I'm spittin' hellfire."

  "Did someone say 'fire'?" Gia asked in a tone of mock hope from down below.

  With a sigh I shoved the car door open. The mood had taken a turn for the worse in Carlene, and meanwhile a crowd had gathered across the street on the pier to watch the scene.

  "Why don't you two wait here?" I stepped onto the sidewalk. "This is something I should handle myself."

  Magnolia's face fell like a wilted bluebonnet. "Are you sure, honey bee?"

  Oh, I most definitely was. If I knew my cousin, she was going to go all Godfather on Duncan. And as for my aunt, well, she carried a gun, and she looked for opportunities to use it. "Yes, ma'am. I am."

  "All right, but you be careful in there, you hear?" She shook a twiggy finger at me. "That reporter man's lower 'n a mole's belly on diggin' day."

  The image of Duncan's arrogant face on a mole's body was forefront in my mind as I hurried up the stairs to the second-floor office and I wondered whether moles were related to rats.

  Inside there were rows of cubicles decorated with colored lights and tinsel. Figuring that the festive holiday cheer was out of character for the dour Mr. Pickles, I scanned the desks for something along the lines of a lump of coal. Then I spotted it—a replica of the leg lamp from A Christmas Story. And Duncan sat beside it, staring out a window, more than likely at my aunt's colorful Caddy.

  With teeth and fists clenched, I marched to his desk.

  "What is all this, Miss Conti?" He pointed toward the street. "A showdown?" His lips curled. "Or a hoedown?"

  It took everything I had not to lay him out with the leg. "I've come to ask you to retract the story about my uncle Vinnie."

  He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his handsome blond head. "Your uncle was selling counterfeit prescription drugs. We don't know what was in those pills, so I had no choice but to warn the community."

  My confidence faltered. When he put it that way, the situation did seem serious. "But those pills were sold over a year ago."

  "He had over a hundred clients. Who knows how many of those pills are still out there?" He picked up a pen and held it between his index fingers. "Vinnie's Viagra ring should've been made public as soon as his client list came to light. But because no one did that, the responsibility fell to me."

  His self-importance grated on my brain. "If you really wanted to help the citizens of Danger Cove, you'd put your efforts into finding my uncle's murderer."

  "Vincent Conti got himself strangled in his own bed by sleeping with the wrong man's wife." His tone was matter-of-fact, as though the nature of the crime was undisputed. "And believe you me, if I knew who killed the likes of your uncle, I'd be happy to run that story."

  The "likes of" line left me cold. "You leave my family and my salon out of your sordid stories."

  He snorted and sat forward. "I'd love to. But the Contis and The Clip and Sip keep making news."

  I crossed my arms to keep them in check. "We wouldn't have made the news today if you hadn't put sex dolls in my Santa display so you could sneak into my house to steal the list."

  A wiry, gray-haired man stalked over to Duncan's desk, and "Charge" sounded from my aunt's car horn.

  Duncan's smile slid into a sneer. "You can call off the cavalry, Miss Conti. The list was slipped under the office door last night."

  "That's right." The man gave an angry nod. "I'm the editor, and I was here when the list came in. It was around midnight, and I emailed it to Duncan straight away for the article."

  I swallowed my surprise. "Did you see who left it?" No sooner had I asked the question than Ivy Li's Grinch grin came to mind. "Was it by any chance the woman who owns Styles and Spirits?"

  The editor slipped his hands into the pockets of his khakis and looked down.

  Duncan cleared his throat, but it sounded more like machismo than mucus. "She was with me at midnight. Until six o'clock this morning."

  I paused to let the news sink in—about the list and the tryst.

  "Face it, Miss Conti." Duncan rose to his feet. "Someone is sabotaging you and your salon, and it's not me or Ivy Li."

  CHAPTER THREE

  "If I find the scoundrel who's sabotaging my niece, I'll hogtie 'em and tan their hide," Magnolia bellowed over the Barry Manilow blaring from her custom car stereo. "And while we're talkin' hogtyin' and tannin'," she said as Carlene careened into The Clip and Sip parking lot, "I cain't believe you girls don't have a barbecue grill at the house. That's like havin' a bathroom without a commode."

  It seemed more like having a kitchen without a stove, but I didn't say that to my aunt. I was too busy wondering whether Duncan had been telling the truth about me having another enemy besides Ivy.

  "What you need right now is a nice brisket. Yes siree, a little red meat always cures what ails ya." Magnolia eased the Caddy to a stop in front of the garage behind the salon. "Tell you what." She gave my knee a pat. "I'll go git us a grill at that screw store we saw, then I'll swing by the pier and fetch Gia."

  Gia had stayed behind after the Cove Chronicles visit, on the pretense of doing some Christmas shopping, precisely because she'd had enough of the Caddy—and its horns (the ones on the hood and the one underneath it). But I didn't say that to my aunt either. "She can take the trolley home." I climbed from the car and closed the door. "A grill would be great though. You could probably get a used one at Tucker Sloan's junk shop, One Man's Trash."

  "I saw that place on my way into town. I'll hop on over there now." She backed from the driveway. "After I git a grill, I'm gonna run by a grocery store and buy us some o' that mountain beef and Oberto's bacon jerky. Once I git to cookin', we'll work this mess out."

  Like a true Texan, my aunt had researched the local meat scene before venturing out of state, and I wasn't complaining. I hadn't had brisket, much less a breakfast taco, since moving to Danger Cove in January, and I needed some Southern comfort food given the "pickle" I was in. "Thanks, Aunt M," I shouted with a wave. "I'm feeling better already."

  As she sped away, I approached the house.

  Then I froze.

  The back door was ajar.

  Gia had been the last one to leave—after Magnolia had flushed her out of the building with several rounds of "Charge." Had she forgotten to lock up? Or…had the list thief come back?

  Biting my lip, I tiptoed into the break room and glanced around. I couldn't quite believe anyone was in the house, but based on recent events I decided to be safe rather than sorry. I turned to leave, and my purse knocked over the vodka bottle on the table with a thud.

  "Hello?" a grating voice called from the salon.

  A slow burn began in my belly, like the one from the habanero shot. I knew that voice, and it darn sure didn't belong in The Clip and Sip. My fingers curled into fists, and I stormed past the shampoo stations, stopping dead at the dryers.

  Ivy stood in the reception area in a slinky black suit and stiletto boots, perusing some of my mail.

  "Looking for more dirt on my uncle?" My tone was haughty—like her face.

  She threw the envelopes onto the reception desk and strutted up the aisle between the styling stations. "I'm glad you brought that up." She stopped a foot from my face and crossed her arms. "Because I came to deliver a verbal warning."

  I tossed my purse onto my styling station and mimicked her stance, steeling myself for the low blow to come. "Let's hear it."

  "You tell anyone else that BS about me breaking into your house…" She stopped and flipped her silky, shoulder-length black hair. "…and I'll slap a slander suit on you faster than you can say 'monetary damages.'"

  Clearly, Duncan hadn't wasted any time in informing his tryst interest of my accusation. "Since you're standing in my salon right now, I'd be willing to bet you'd lose that lawsuit."

  "What are you talking about?" She flailed her arm toward the
break room. "The door was wide open."

  Ivy's face was so flushed I was starting to think Gia had forgotten to lock the door. "Even if it was, you know salons are closed on Sundays. And yet you waltzed right in while I was out."

  Her almond-shaped eyes shrunk to slivers. "How do I know you weren't upstairs?"

  My eyes narrowed too—to slits. "Because I told you I was out."

  She snorted. "Your word means nothing to me. You'd do anything to save your sad little salon, including running me out of town on a rail, as you Southerners say."

  An image of Ivy tied to the tracks like a silent-screen damsel in distress flashed before my eyes—and I liked it. "That's ironic coming from you. We both know you've been using every trick in the book to run me out of town, starting with copying my business plan."

  "Oh, please." She sat in Gia's styling chair. "If this is about me serving limoncello martinis again—"

  "This isn't about my drink menu anymore." I took a step forward—not to scare her, but for emphasis. "It's about my uncle's memory."

  Her lips slid into a smirk as she met my gaze. "I hate to rub salt in the wound, but it was an interesting article. One could even say stimulating." She gave me a knowing look before selecting an eyeliner pen from Gia's makeup kit. "But I had nothing to do with it."

  "Really?" I scrutinized her face as she lined her lid. "Then what were you doing in front of my house last night?"

  "Uh," she paused in midline, "the Christmas lights tour? I had some time to kill before meeting Duncan for dinner."

  I let down my guard a little. After all, her story was plausible, and I had seen her in the Lexus.

  "And let me say," she said, lining the opposite eye, "those sex doll decorations didn't exactly capture the spirit of the season, but they nailed the spirit of the salon."

  My shoulders shot to my ears. "This is a respectable establishment," I huffed. "Everyone in town knows that."

  "You don't get it, do you?" She eyed me in the mirror as she screwed the lid onto the liner. "The Clip and Sip's going down—like that doll. And it has as much to do with your backwoods business practices as it does with your uncle's dirty dealings."

  It was a good thing the vodka bottle was in the break room because I would have gladly hit her upside the head with it. Instead, I took a Zen breath. "My salon's not going anywhere but up, Ivy."

  She stood and headed for the reception area. "It's time to get real, princess. By January, you and Gia will be looking for jobs. And when that happens, you'll only have yourself and your lame ideas to blame." She walked to the couch and retrieved a silver Birkin. "Take this." She pulled a business card from the bag and tossed it onto the desk. "At the rate I'm acquiring your clients, I could use a few more shampoo girls."

  Before I could react, she slammed the door behind her and pranced down the porch steps.

  I was so mad I could spit, but my mouth was too dry.

  Because I was scared.

  I wasn't afraid of Ivy or some other saboteur—I was frightened to death of the future. I hadn't wanted to admit it to myself, but Ivy was right. If business didn't turn around somehow, I was going to lose the salon. And sooner rather than later.

  * * *

  Gia dropped the presents she'd purchased at the pier and lunged at the foot of my bed. "That facciabrutt' sat at my makeup station?"

  Amy, who'd been recruited to give her a ride home, began backing toward the door, and I pulled my pink quilt to my chin. With Gia's black hair, smoky green eye shadow, and black faux fur coat, she looked like a panther about to pounce.

  "Ivy didn't do anything to your station, okay?" I fibbed, not daring to mention that she'd used her makeup too. "And I know she's spiteful, but you can hardly call her an 'ugly face.' Compared to her, Lucy Liu looks plain."

  "Cassidi's right." Amy stepped forward. "What Ivy has is a backpfeifengesicht."

  Gia blinked. "Bless you."

  I sighed and tossed my copy of #Girlboss on the nightstand. Those two couldn't understand each other in English, much less in the foreign languages they spoke. "She didn't sneeze, Gia. It's a German word."

  Amy pulled her light-up Christmas tree sweater over her plaid skirt. "It means 'a face in dire need of a fist.'"

  My cousin studied Amy's face, and Amy's quasi-unibrow rose above the rim of her glasses.

  "Right," Gia boomed. "In need of my fist."

  As she rushed from the room, I kicked off my quilt and ran after her. The last thing I needed was an assault charge against a family member and employee of the salon. "Cuz, wait." I hurried downstairs with Amy on my heels. "You've got to get a hold of yourself."

  "Not until I get a hold of Ivy first." She grabbed my car keys from a hook beside the back door and stormed outside.

  Amy and I exchanged an alarmed look and followed her to the garage, where the Ferrari California that my Uncle Vinnie had left me was parked.

  "Gia, stop." Amy pointed to her Volkswagen. "We can take the Rabbit."

  "A-my," I shouted.

  "Huh-uh. No." Gia waved her finger like a flag at a Formula One race. "This is a game of strategy. We're going to see Ivy's red Lexus and raise her a black Ferrari."

  "You guys should drag race like in Grease," Amy gushed as they flung open the car doors. "The winner gets the pink slip to the loser's salon."

  On that note, I hotfooted it to the Ferrari. As I climbed inside, the only thing I could think was if you can't beat 'em, get into the back seat. Because with those two taking the lead, I stood to lose a lot more than the salon.

  Gia put the car in reverse, did a 180, and peeled out of the parking lot. "I'll bet she's at her salon right now, scheming." She gunned the gas. "And by the way, I know I locked the door before we left for the Cove Chronicles because I remember sticking the key into the lock and considering making a break for it."

  Amy straightened her glasses, which had been dislodged during the dodgy driving. "What stopped you?"

  "Cassidi's crazy aunt, Magnolia." She waved her hands like a witness at a revival meeting. "That whacko would've run me down in her cow Cadillac and roped me like a calf at a rodeo."

  "Oh, is she in town?" Amy turned toward the back seat. "I've been wanting to meet her."

  "Trust me—you don't." Gia hooked a hard right.

  "Um, speaking of stopping you," I interjected, grateful Styles and Spirits was only a block away, "would you please pull over? Ivy is awful to deal with, but we do have something in common with her."

  Gia's powdered brow popped into the rearview mirror. "I can't think of a single thing—unless you're talking about female chromosomes, and even that's debatable."

  "I know something." Amy raised her hand as though she were in a classroom. "You and Ivy have the same black hair and eyes."

  "I'll give you black eyes." Gia shook a fist in her face.

  "Calm down, would you?" I batted her hand away. "What I meant was that she's a businesswoman trying to protect her interests, like us."

  Her smoky eyes flashed fire. "Except she's stealing our interests to do it."

  "I know, I know." I remembered Ivy's comment about my countrified ideas. "But I've been thinking about something she said about the salon—"

  "Are you kidding me?" Gia interrupted. "You're going to listen to that…that…bachagaloop?"

  "Bless you," Amy said.

  I didn't bother to explain that Gia had called Ivy an "idiot," because I was busy bracing myself for the left turn onto Main Street. "Yes, I am. She made the same point you did about the salon being old-fashioned."

  "I only said that to fire up your competitive spirit." Gia's tone was defensive, unlike her driving. "The Clip and Sip was doing fine before she came to town."

  We'd arrived at Styles and Spirits, so I took one last stab at defusing my cousin. "I am fired up. But to compete with Ivy, we need to take care of our own business, starting by turning this car around."

  She pulled in front of the Danger Cove Savings & Loan next door to Ivy's salon. "Are you sure
you're from Texas? Because a real Texan would come out shooting like Yosemite Sam."

  "Actually," Amy said side-of-mouth style, "he was named after the national park, so technically he's from California."

  Gia hit the brakes and laid a Yosemite Sam stare on Amy, who flattened herself against the passenger door.

  "Stop it, you two." I leaned into the front seat. "Now, let's go home and spend the day strategizing."

  "Not. Gonna. Happen." Gia threw open the car door. "What would your aunt say if she heard you were backing down from a fight?"

  "I know." Amy's hand shot into the air. "Remember the Alamo!'"

  I rolled my eyes. "Don't tell Aunt Magnolia about this, okay? I don't want to have to hear what Barry Manilow has to say."

  "Your aunt knows Barry Manilow?" Amy stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

  "She doesn't know him. She…listens to him." That was true on two counts.

  Amy shot me the side-eye. "My mother forbids me from listening to his music. She says you can tell from his songs that he's a sex maniac."

  My lids dropped low. Sometimes I had serious questions about Amy's mother.

  "Told you Ivy'd be at the salon." Gia pointed to Ivy's red Lexus parked on the street. "Let's spy on her and see what kind of no good she's up to."

  Amy's jaw hardened, and she took a determined step forward, but Gia blocked her with her arm.

  "You're not going anywhere until you turn off the terrible tree." Gia scowled at her sweater. "You're like a walking lighthouse."

  Someone's a Scrooge, Amy mouthed as she reached into the pocket of her skirt and turned off the battery pack.

  Satisfied, Gia stooped low and ran to the gold breast-plated statue of the warrior goddess Athena that stood guard at the door. She crouched behind its pedestal, and Amy and I took our positions behind two of the Doric marble columns that lined the façade.

  It was the first time I'd seen Styles and Spirits up close, and it was a sight to behold, especially in a small seaside town like Danger Cove. Apart from the glass storefront, the exterior resembled the Parthenon—but the interior was classic Donald Trump's penthouse. There were marble floors and walls, painted ceilings, gold crown molding, and crystal chandeliers.