The gold flecks in Lilly's eyes sparkled as her gaze met mine. "Down to the style and size of the La Perla lingerie the dolls were wearing."
"Well, she is in lingerie sales," I said, hiding my astonishment that the dolls were wearing the luxury brand. A La Perla bra and panty set cost the equivalent of a car payment, which made me think that maybe Ivy had been behind the sleigh sabotage. It also made me wonder what Donatello had done with those dolls.
On second thought, it was better not to know.
"I still get goose bumps every time I think about her murder." She tossed the cloth on the bar. "I served Jade yesterday after we opened."
Surprise stole the spring from my knees, and I sunk onto a stool. I'd been under the impression that Jade had gone straight from the B&B to Styles and Spirits. "Did you tell the police?"
"I did." Lilly washed her hands in a bar sink. "There wasn't much to tell, though. She ordered a seared tuna sandwich to go and then realized she'd forgotten her wallet, so I gave her an early Christmas present and took care of her meal."
Jade's inability to pay was a recurring theme around town. And people didn't take vacations when they couldn't afford a hotel, much less a sandwich. "Did she say why she was in Danger Cove?"
"She didn't tell me anything." She dried her hands on a towel. "But she got a phone call while she was waiting, and I heard her say that she was here to see a half uncle she'd never met."
The timing of the family reunion was curious given Jade's need for cash. "Did she mention his name or anything?"
"No, but she was definitely angry at whoever called." Lily leaned on the counter. "She hung up on them when her food arrived, and then she left."
I popped some nuts into my mouth and pondered the mystery caller and the mystery uncle. I wasn't convinced the man was a real relative. If Bree had been right about Jade being a prostitute, then he could have been a john.
The door from the kitchen opened with a bang, and two women emerged. "Hey, we—" Clara started.
"Need your help," Tara finished with a shiver. "Crickets."
Lilly blanched and clasped her arms, her shiver making Tara's nothing more than a fading shake. "Wh-what do you want me to do?"
Tara put a hand on her aproned hip. "Unless you want me to roast them like almonds and serve them as bar snacks, you need to help us get rid of the little buggers."
I placed the bowl of nuts back on the bar.
Lilly went to the kitchen, and I returned to the table with a creepy-crawly sensation in my stomach that I hoped wasn't the likes of Jiminy Cricket.
Zac looked up from a book. "Clark called. He's on his way to help go through the books."
The creepy-crawlies stopped cold. Given the events of the last thirty or so hours, there was no way I was going to spend an evening with Clark Graham. "Listen, I have to run."
He blinked. "But you just got here."
I didn't want him to think I wasn't interested in finding Bart Coffyn's treasure, because I was. I desperately wanted him to find the money to buy back his father's business. Plus, there were precious jewels at play. "I promised Amy I'd stop by tonight."
"Okay." There was hurt in his eyes.
I needed to try to undo the damage. "Have you made any progress with the research?"
He exhaled and rubbed his hands on his thighs. "Well, the map that Coffyn scratched on the peso seems to indicate that the treasure is on Two Mile Beach, which means it could be in one of the hidden caves Harvey Wynters discovered when he was searching for that smugglers' ship Ocean's Revenge."
"If you think you know where the treasure is, why do you need these books?"
"Clark and I are hoping to find a description of the caves' layout. According to our research, the smugglers last used the caves in 1852. But remember, Coffyn hid the treasure in 1579, and we don't know if sailors were aware of the caves back then."
I glanced at the old English script on the page that Zac had been reading, but it looked impossible to decipher. "Why don't you go to the caves and find out for yourselves?"
"Harvey said they have a lot of chambers—some are hard to reach, and there may be others that haven't been discovered yet. Also, they flood during high tide."
I'd learned how to sail growing up in Texas, so I knew firsthand how treacherous the water could be. "I don't like the sound of that. Maybe you should hire professional cavers to help."
Zac slid an arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze. "Are you worried about me?"
"Obviously, I don't want you exploring dangerous caves." I left out the part about not trusting Clark, especially when thousands—maybe millions—of dollars in pirate booty were at stake.
He wrapped his other arm around me and kissed my cheek. "We'll figure something out. Now, come on. I'll walk you to your car."
We exited the tavern and stood beside my Ferrari to admire the bay from the cliff. The lighthouse was dark, but the moonlight was bright, casting a silvery, seductive glow over the ocean. The night was meant for making out—until the headlights of a car spoiled the mood.
Zac sighed and opened my door.
Since he'd said Clark was coming, I dived into my driver's seat in case it was him. "Call me tonight if you find anything—no matter how late."
"You got it." He bent over and gave me a long, luscious kiss before closing the door.
I backed from my space and drove toward the opposite side of the tavern to take the rear parking lot exit to Amy's. Oddly, I didn't see Clark's car anywhere. But when I rounded the building, I found it.
Only, it wasn't Clark's car. It was Robbie the pool boy's yellow Mustang, and it was parked by the woods behind the tavern.
I knew the Mustang was Robbie's because of the misspelled MUCSLE license plate (he wasn't the brightest bulb in the hot tub). What I didn't know was why it was in the parking lot on the one night of the week the tavern was closed. But because Robbie's name was on Uncle Vinnie's list, I was determined to find out.
Slowing to a crawl, I switched off my headlights and headed toward the back of the lot. When I reached the Mustang, I veered right toward the lot exit and peered into the passenger window.
My stomach did a belly flop.
Robbie the pool boy was kissing an older woman's neck.
And she was none other than Olivia Olcott, Randall's wife.
* * *
"Wow. Robbie the pool boy with Olivia Olcott." Amy placed a plate of "Go, Jesus! It's your birthday!" cookies on her living room coffee table. "That's an even sexier story than my dissertation."
I didn't know what her research was about, but because it was in library and information science, I seriously doubted it was more scintillating than a married society matron hooking up with a Viagra-popping pool cleaner. "I didn't realize you'd started writing that yet."
Amy's face shined like the star atop her Charlie Brownesque Christmas tree. "I'm still at the data-collecting stage, but get a load of this title—You CAN Judge a Book by Its Cover: A Critical Analysis of Contemporary Methods of Bookbinding."
"That's a hot topic, all right. Makes me want to curl up with a good read." Just not your dissertation. "Hey, do you have any other cookies?"
"I also made some Schwarz-Weiß-Gebäck."
The name sounded like a cat hacking up a fur ball, but anything was better than eating Jesus's birthday dessert, because I was pretty sure that was a sin. "I'll take some of those, please."
Amy entered the kitchen and returned with a tin of what looked like checkerboard shortbreads. "Don't eat too many, or you'll get kummerspeck. That's German for 'grief bacon.'"
I grabbed a cookie from the tin. "There's bacon in these?"
"No, 'grief bacon' is what they call weight you gain from emotional eating."
I'd heard the Germans excelled in scientific research, but I had no idea they knew so much about fat.
"Well, I'm due some stress eating." I rested my head against the patchwork sofa. "Detective Ohlsen said the article about my uncle's client list is caus
ing problems for the police, and my aunt and Gia are freaking out because toxicology confirmed the nail polish was poisoned."
Amy pushed the tin toward me. "A little kummerspeck never hurt a gal."
She didn't have to tell me twice—or even once. "The ridiculous thing is that Aunt Magnolia made us contact Barry with a Ouija board."
"O.M.G." She plopped into a rocking chair. "What did he say?"
"Amy, you're in science." Albeit of the library and information variety. "I can't believe you think those things work, much less that Barry Manilow would talk to my aunt through one."
She shrugged and opened a box of ornaments at her feet. "Scientists would be the first to tell you there are phenomena in the world we can't explain. However, it's widely known that the Ouija board is operated through the user's subconscious."
I crunched on a cookie. Gia and I had definitely had the LP watermark on our minds when we were Ouija-ing, so maybe we were the ones who'd pushed the planchette to the L and the P. But still, I wasn't ready to believe it could've been magic. "What did you find out about cyanide?"
She pulled a nutcracker of German Chancellor Angela Merkel from the box and placed it on the stone hearth next to one of a flying monkey holding Toto captive. "It's a respiration poison that destroys an enzyme essential to the transfer of oxygen from blood to cells and living tissue. So, the body suffocates."
I took another bite and tugged at the collar of my fuzzy pink turtleneck, remembering Jade struggling to breathe. "How much does it take to kill someone?"
"About .01 ounces." She dusted off a clown nutcracker.
I gathered Amy's gingerbread quilt around me. Her nutcrackers were unnerving. "That doesn't sound like very much. I guess that's why the killer was able to put it in a bottle of nail polish."
"Actually, cyanide doesn't soak in well on fingernails or even on the hands." She pressed the pads of her fingers. "The skin is less receptive there because it's tougher."
My ears pricked up, as did my pulse. "Are you saying Jade couldn't have died from a manicure?"
"It's not likely, no."
Relief rocketed through my limbs along with all the sugar I'd ingested. Even though I thought the threatening note was proof Gia hadn't poisoned her polish, I had to agree with my cousin when she'd said Detective Marshall would see it differently.
"Unless…" Amy pressed a finger to her chin.
"Unless what?"
"Unless Jade had a condition that thinned her nails or skin." She produced a Darth Vader nutcracker. "And then Gia's screwed."
Amy's nasty nutcrackers suddenly made a lot more sense. "What could cause that kind of thinning?"
"Any number of conditions. But the first thing that comes to mind is diabetes."
I started coughing so hard I thought I was going to hack up a fur ball cookie. Because if Bree was right about Jade being diabetic, then Gia was going to the joint.
And I could be joining her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"You know what Robbie and Olivia are perfect for?" Gia stood at the break room espresso machine, frothing milk for her morning cappuccino. "Reality TV."
My cousin would know. In a fuzzy purple coat, black lace camisole, and sparkly silver stilettos at nine a.m. on a Tuesday, she was the embodiment of reality.
She poured the milk into her mug. "I mean, it doesn't get more real than a poor pool boy who's prone to bouncing the check of love, so to speak, and a rich society lady who can keep his Viagra account in the black."
I bit into my brisket breakfast taco with gusto. Not even Gia's impotence joke could ruin my appetite for down-home Texas cooking.
"Sweet tea for my Sweet Pea." Magnolia placed a glass beside my plate.
"Ugh. Barbecue tacos and tea?" Gia dropped a dollop of Nutella into her cappuccino and pulled a blue raspberry Pop-Tart from the toaster. "How can you eat that crap?"
My aunt fluffed her hive in a huff. "It's called breakfast, young lady." She removed her apron and pulled up a chair. "While we're talkin' grub, we've got to discuss Christmas dinner. How does a ham and tamales sound?"
"Like a Tex-Mex picnic." Gia joined us at the table. "I vote for Italian-American—the Feast of the Seven Fishes."
Aunt Magnolia looked at her like she'd suggested serving the baby Jesus. "Why would anyone eat a dadgum fish on Christmas day, much less seven of the slimy suckers?"
East Texans weren't known for their fish consumption, but I was pretty sure my aunt had sampled almost all eight hundred breeds of cattle. "You should see Filly Filipuzzi's fish market next door. He's got a huge selection."
"A whole market for fish?" She grabbed her hive like she was holding on to a hat. "Whoever heard o' such a thing?"
"Hang on." Gia placed her hands on the table, displaying ten red fingernails that spelled out the word guccissima, Italian for "extremely Gucci." "You haven't noticed the fish smell?"
"That's not fish," a venomous voice proclaimed. "It's rats."
Ivy stood in the doorway with a copy of the Cove Chronicles. The headline read POISON IVY, and judging from the look on her face, she truly was toxic.
Gia stood and stomped up to her. "What are you, a friggin' ninja?"
"Because all Asians are ninjas, right?" Ivy shot back.
I rose to defend my cousin. "She meant it as an expression, not a stereotype."
"But since we're on the subject of stereotypes…" Gia gave her the once-over. "An all-green outfit and red nails? Have you never seen Poison Ivy, the comic book character?"
Ivy gave a septic smile. "I'm not into low-brow reading."
Gia's brow lowered as though it were ready to charge.
"But now that you've brought up my nail polish…" Ivy flexed her fingers like she was about to shoot deadly spores. "I'm lucky it isn't Poison Poinsettia." She looked from Gia to me. "What I don't get is why you didn't use cement shoes to kill Jade. Isn't that what mobsters do?"
Magnolia's hive began to vibrate. "Now you listen here, missy—"
"I can handle this, Aunt Magnolia."
A sneer spread across Ivy's lips like a bad bacteria. "The same way you handled me with this article? Tell me, what did you do to convince Duncan to publish this trash? The same thing that upside-down doll was doing in Santa's sleigh?"
I refused to let her poison penetrate my skin. "In case you hadn't noticed, he's known for yellow journalism. I had nothing to do with it."
"But you did." She pointed a coffin nail at my chest. "You planted the poisoned polish to destroy me. So, you killed my client, and that's what I plan to tell the press."
I wanted to push her hand away but held back for fear of a trumped-up assault charge. "How could I have known you'd come into my salon and steal that nail polish?"
"Oh, I didn't steal anything," she said in a that's-my-story-and-I'm-sticking-to-it tone. "People share products all the time in the salon industry."
Ivy wasn't delusional—she was diabolical. And I was going to have to fight her lies with logic. "Sharing involves asking before you take something. Otherwise, it's stealing."
She gestured behind her at the salon. "I get that times are tight at The Clip and Sip, but what was your cost for the polish? A quarter?"
Gia gasped like she'd been slapped. "I created Mad Makeup, and it's a high-end product."
Ivy snorted. "Not if your prostitute pajama wear is any indication."
"Time to fight this poison ivy rash." Gia wrestled out of her coat and raised her fists.
And Ivy—despite her distaste for stereotypes—assumed a kung fu fight stance.
Before I could intervene, a brawl broke out. Black hair whipped this way and that, and red fingernails flashed like lightning. There was shrieking and slapping, scratching and swearing. Then came an awful sound—fabric tearing.
The scuffling ceased, and they checked their outfits.
"You tore my blouse," Ivy seethed.
"You stretched my cami," Gia breathed.
They went back at it.
"Stop it,
y'all." I stepped toward the fray. "You're acting like spoiled brats."
Someone got a hold of my hair. I presumed it was Ivy, but I wouldn't have put it past Gia. The pulling worsened, and pain seared my brain. For a moment, all I saw was white.
It was Santiago Beltràn's dentures.
"Chicas, chicas." He freed my hair and separated Gia and Ivy, clutching them against his Caribbean-style suit. "We should make amor, not war."
"Oh Dios mio," I said in an oh-brother tone. Santiago was a Cesar Romero look-alike and—even though he was closing in on eighty—a Don Juan act-alike, so I was sure he meant that cliché literally.
Ivy spun from his grip. "Cassidi started this war, but I guarantee you I'm going to win it." She stalked to the door. "And by any means necessary."
Santiago rubbed his hands on his chest, watching her storm to her Lexus. "The señorita is a Sichuan pepper."
"You mean, a she-bear in satin," Magnolia said.
"More like a she-snake in silk," Gia corrected.
Although I agreed with their assessments, I couldn't allow unprofessional talk in the salon, at least, not in front of a client. "Were you wanting an appointment, Mr. Beltràn?"
He rubbed the stubble on his chin. "I would like a shave."
"My pleasure." And it was. Since his name was one of the six on my uncle's list, this was the perfect opportunity to find out whether he knew Jade.
He climbed into my styling chair, and I placed a towel in the warmer. I started to ask Gia to get him a drink, but she was at her station doing damage control to her do. "Aunt Magnolia, would you get Mr. Beltràn some tea or coffee?"
"There is no need." He was looking in my station mirror, but his eyes were locked on my aunt. "Your tìa has quenched my thirst. She is, as you americanos say, a tall drink of water."
Gia's comb fell to the floor with a clatter, and I dropped his chair to a reclining position, trying to shake some sex out of him.
My aunt, whose face was as pink as her hair, headed for the break room. "I'd best git on over to the grocery store. As we say in Texas, it's time to swap spit and hit the road." She stopped in the doorway like a cow in the headlights. "On second thought, skip the spit."
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